Page 8 of Nothing More

He’d formed a theory a couple weeks ago, and begun paying even closer attention – not merely to the fit of her clothes, but to her little tics. The behaviors she was trying to hide; the small things she did in the quiet moments between performances. She was drinking far too much coffee, which made them both hypocrites, and her hands shook, sometimes. Last Tuesday, Melanie had dropped a glass, and when it shattered, Raven’s eyes had gone wide and wild; he’d seen her pulse leaping in the hollow of her throat.

Earlier, when he’d spoken to her and she’d spilled coffee all over herself, she hadn’t merely been startled. In that first instant, her expression had been one of fear. He saw it more and more, glimpses of it when someone dropped something, or when the elevator dinged, or even when she was sipping yet another coffee, staring out the windows at her splendid view, one arm clamped protectively across her middle.

She was scared. Good luck getting her to admit it.

He saw that fear in her now, just before she squared her shoulders and opened her eyes.

The intercom beeped. “Mr. Smith is here,” Melanie called through.

Raven glanced toward Toly, as he stood up straight and moved to the edge of the conversation space – the sofa, and the table, and the two chairs – standing in his designated spot in everyone’s periphery. “Ready?” she asked.

Are you?he wondered, but didn’t say. Asking would be speaking, and speaking would be caring, and care was something he didn’t really know how to do.

He nodded.

Raven nodded back.

The door opened and two men entered. Smith he recognized from the dossier, medium in every regard, his iron-gray hair coiffed with gel, college ring heavy on his pinky finger.

The second was younger, taller, more muscular. His suit was tailored in a way that highlighted thick biceps, and his face was all aggressive angles. His pale hair was swept back off his forehead, and his smile, as Raven stepped forward to shake both their hands, was blindingly white and almost pushy in its friendliness.

Toly hated them both, instantly. But that wasn’t unusual for him.

“Miss Blake,” Smith said, drawing her hand into both of his, so his grip surrounded her (Toly’s hackles went up at that; he wanted to step forward and smack the man across the wrists until he let go). “So good of you to squeeze us in. I hear you’re a very busy woman.”

No trace of fear remained now in Raven’s face or posture. She’d drawn a cloak of professional coolness around herself, beautiful but deadly, charming as a black widow and enchanting as a poisoned butterfly. Toly always found it difficult to look away from her when she wasonlike this, and her two guests didn’t appear to fare any better.

“Well, aren’t we all?” Raven said, and with a smooth twist of her wrist, pulled out of his grasp. Then turned to proffer her hand, French-style, to Smith’s counterpart. “And you’ve brought a friend, I see.” Her tone was inviting, the words an accusation.

“Allow me to introduce my newest associate, Greg Ingles.”

The blond – Greg – dimpled slyly, eyes twinkling, as he took Raven’s hand and kissed the back of it. Dashingly. The asshole. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Blake,” he said, and his accent was that bland, studied blend of Nowhere Specific and Boardroom Forceful that always set Toly’s teeth on edge.

“Greg here is trying to decide between industries,” Smith said, hands going in his trouser pockets, rocking back on his heels in a pleased way, like a proud uncle. “He’s shadowing several businesses right now, bouncing around a little until he can tell the others to stick it without offending them too much, huh?” He laughed, and clapped the younger man on the shoulder.

“Oh, well, I want to make sure I examine all my options,” Greg said, cheeks coloring.

Smith gave an exaggerated wink. “Uh-huh. Sure thing.”

If all civilians talked like this, Toly was glad he’d never been one.

“Please.” Raven gestured to the chairs and smoothed the back of her dress as she seated herself on the sofa. “Won’t you have a seat?”

The men settled with lots of jacket unbuttoning, shuffling, and a deep exhale and hitch and grunt from Smith, as if his back pained him.

Raven sat forward to pour water into glasses, and Toly had the thought he should have been the one to do that, in his role as assistant; that Raven, in her black dress, and pearl studs, should have sat regal as a queen while a servant performed the menial tasks. The thought disgusted him no sooner than it had formed, and so he stayed rooted, and Raven was no less queenly for the pouring.

After, she picked up a glass for herself, sat back, and crossed her legs in a prim way that was an instant visual freeze-out. Her smile was small and inviting, but her posture was anything but.Stay back, it said, undercut by a thread of that ever-present fear he kept noticing.

“Well then, gentlemen. I’m afraid I haven’t the slightest idea what Intemporelle might be able to do for you. I trust you reviewed the packet I left for you with my secretary?”

“Oh yes, of course,” Smith lied. Smoothly, but Toly could tell. “I’m quite impressed with the progress you’ve been able to make since moving your agency to the States. The clothing line, the menswear, the advertising partnerships.”

Raven’s smile was close-lipped. “Actually, I’ve not moved the agency to New York – I’ve expanded here. We’re still very much based in London.”

“Oh. Yes. Right.” He leaned forward to pluck a chocolate from the dish. “May I?”

She nodded. “The women’s line was already on offer, as well. That’s expanded: more retail sellers, more affordable designs for different markets – under a different label, of course. I want the Intemporelle brand to remain deluxe.”

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