Page 31 of Tamed

Her eyes gleamed suddenly from the depths of her hood, and I couldn’t tell if it was excitement or something else. “Probably.”

“Zara, what if you—”

“I need the money, Izzy.”

Her voice held an edge that hadn’t been there before, and instantly, I felt bad. Putting my champagne down, I gave her a very level look. “I know I said this before, but I’ll help, you know I will. Dad’s fucking loaded and I—”

“No,” Zara interrupted, gentle but very firm. “No. Again, thanks for the offer and I mean that. But I’m not taking money from anyone. That won’t help me.”

I wanted to ask why, but something in her expression warned me off. Which was fine. If she didn’t want to talk about it, she didn’t want to talk about it, and it wasn’t my place to push anyway. Not when we’d only known each other a few months.

Still, I didn’t like that she felt she had to do this. It seemed wrong, and no matter how calm about it she was herself, I still worried.

“Okay,” I said. “I hear you. But can I go into the room with you?”

Zara shook her head. “Only registered buyers alas, no support people. But we can have a drink now and you can tell me what red flags I need to watch out for.”

“Right, from my wide experience of men?” My tone was as dry as dust. “The only thing I know is if some guy turns up in a dark charcoal suit looking like the devil himself, run in the opposite direction.”

Zara took another meditative sip of her champagne. “You’ve really got it bad for him, haven’t you?”

“He’s fine.” I couldn’t pretend I didn’t know who she was talking about, not when the blush I could feel staining my cheeks gave it away and not when I was the one who’d brought him up. “Could take or leave, to be honest.”

“Uh huh. Sounds more like take to me.”

I busied myself by picking up my glass again and fussing with it before taking a sip, all the while trying to pay no attention to the way my pulse always accelerated whenever the subject of Caleb came up. “Um, no. There are a whole lot of reasons whythatis a bad idea. Anyway, apart from anything else, he’s not even interested in me. I’m still just a kid to him.”

Oh really? He wasn’t looking at you like that last night.

Caleb’s gaze reflected in the window, staring at me. Eyes darker than the night sky outside and blazing with all the force of his considerable will. I’d felt almost crushed by that will and yet there had also been something exhilarating about holding it. Something exciting. And all that electricity in the air…

“Something tells me that’s a lie,” Zara murmured.

“It isn’t.” I firmly shoved the thoughts away. “So come on. Whatareyou wearing under that cloak?”

As a subject change it wasn’t very subtle, but Zara let me have it.

She grinned them mouthed ‘nothing.’

I shrieked and demanded to know what she was thinking, and we had a rousing discussion about what a power move it was going to be for her to go into that room of no doubt elderly billionaires or whoever was going to bid on her, drop that cloak and shock the pants off all of them with the glory of her naked female form.

After that, we had another round of champagne, courtesy of the handsome guy who’d greeted us at the door — perks of being a seller with an upcoming auction apparently.

The champagne sanded the edges off my anxiety and by the time the guy came back, told Zara it was showtime, and held out an arm to escort her, I wished her good luck and to slay queen, and also to tell meallabout it in the morning.

I was even feeling fine enough to get my phone out and check my messages, ignoring the approximately three thousand texts and calls from my security detail. I wondered abruptly if I’d been silly to have kept my phone since it was trackable. But Dad had promised he wouldn’t do that to me, and he’d always been a man of his word. Besides, I needed it in case I got another message from the Hamiltons.

The bar meanwhile had filled up. Lots of men in expensive suits and women in beautiful gowns, a few actors, a politician or two, and I was sure one of the guys by the bar was the lead singer of some famous band. The age range was all sorts, from my age up to an elderly couple sitting on one of the couches and enjoying some cocktails. I liked the vibe. There was nothing seedy about it, nothing that felt wrong or dirty, and everyone looked like they were having a good time. There was also none of that freneticism you sometimes got on a Friday night, when everyone had just been let out of work and were desperate to forget their week by drinking as much as possible, as quickly as possible.

I’d drained the last of my second champagne and was contemplating a cocktail — the handsome guy had left me a drinks menu when he’d escorted Zara away — when a ripple went through the crowd in the bar. A kind of whispering and rustling, people turning to give discreet glances over their shoulders. As if a major celebrity had come into the room.

I was about to look myself, but then got distracted by the vibration of my phone. I glanced at it, expecting another text from my no doubt increasingly worried minders, but it wasn’t. The number was blocked.

Excitement fluttered inside me, along with a healthy dose of nervousness. I picked up my phone and hit the message notification.

11pm. Carousel. Come alone.

I stared down at the text, my heart beating uncomfortably fast. This was the invitation I’d been waiting for, and I couldn’t believe they’d responded to my earlier ballsy text.

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