Page 67 of The Devil Wears Orange
“I do enjoy George Clooney.The Descendants. Up in the Air. O Brother Where Art Thou,” offers Rashid.
“Out of Sightwith Jennifer Lopez and her gun. She should carry a gun in all her films. No one would mess withThe Wedding Plannerwith a gun.”
“You seem nervous.”
“I’m not,” I lie.
“Charlotte, I’m counting on you for this to work. Mr. Banning–”
“–Needs baiting. We all have a role to play. Frankly, I see mine ending with an Oscar for Margot Robbie playing me.”
“My happy ending is a little different. Charlotte…” He leans into me, but his voice trails off.
Now would be the perfect moment to kiss, I think. Perhaps nottheideal moment but certainlyaperfect one. Would I kiss him back? Over the past two weeks, I’ve spent so much time with Jack and Rashid that it felt like we had always been this group of friends. Then, when Jack left to fulfill his part in our scheme, something shifted between me and Rashid. He became more attentive. Rashid’s confession has settled me and moved things forward on that front.
“Sometimes,” he picks up again with a strange urgency in his voice, “I wonder about the decisions I made. What if I hadn’tdone that little thing of stealing a painting and bringing you along for the ride? What if I hadn’t ruined your reputation?”
“But you did.”
His face winces.
“What if we met on a friend’s yacht in the south of France?” His hand reaches for mine, his thumb caresses my skin. “And we weren’t us. I was a–”
“–Playboy,” I interject.
“Racecar driver.”
“Of course.”
“And you were a Nobel Prize-winning scientist.”
“Who cured cancer.”
He smiles. “Who cured cancer.”
“Hmmm, that works for a meet-cute.”
“We’d be two ordinary people free to get to know one another.”
Since when are a race car driver and a scientist who cures cancer considered “ordinary?” I’d like to ask him but keep silent. We can never bethosepeople because Rashid did this little thing of destroying the life I had built.
“What If?is a fantasy,” I sputter. “Are you doing George Clooney inOut of Sightor Tom Hanks inYou’ve Got Mail? I suppose next you’ll tell me it wasn’t personal.” My voice cracks, and I’m relieved when the vehicle comes to a complete stop, and someone opens the door.
Rashid removes his hand from mine. “I’m sorry, Charlotte. I will make this right.”
Outside, a chaotic crowd has formed. The Heart Diamond, up for auction at this charity event, has brought a star-studded crowd. Hard, repetitive music blasts. Strobes light up the sky. Bulbs flash in my face, but I know it has less to do with me and more of a burning desire to get the photo of the glamorous woman with the Prince. At least I hope the photo editors use the word “glamorous” when describing me.
The entourage of body-guards trails behind us as we enter the warehouse space converted into the party venue. Inside, the atmosphere differs from the madness outside. Mundane, classical music infiltrates the room as reams of people – women in designer dresses and men in tuxedos – gather into cloistered groups.
Arm entwined with Rashid’s, we seem to make a noticeable entrance. An attendant approaches to personally register Rashid and provides him with a numbered paddle.
“Oh, how cute. May I?” I say, already reaching for the paddle. I catch his slight hesitation before he agrees.
“Prince Rashid,” a man’s voice calls. Within moments, Hector Banning weaves through a crowd toward us until he’s stopped by one of Rashid’s bodyguards. Banning seems to take this as an affront. “Step aside,” he tells the bodyguard. Then, from beyond the guard, he says, “Prince Rashid, I am Hector Banning. We met about two years ago at one of your father’s races.”
Rashid looks him up then down. Recognition doesn’t settle on his face, and I see how this unnerves Banning beyond the bodyguard’s actions. Stand-offish behavior is what we agreed would be what challenges our mark. Finally, Banning relaxes when Rashid waves away his bodyguard.
“Mr. Bal...”
