Page 22 of Lair

Emmie scoffs, studying me with undisguised malice. “Do you think I don’t know what you’re doing? Did you really think I’d let you win? Voper is mine. I have worked my ass off to get where I am. I have preened, and stripped, and debased myself to the masses to get on this boat with this man, and I won’t let some farmyard slut like you swoop in at the last minute and take him from me. He is my ticket to a better life. Mine.”

“How romantic,” I quip under my breath.

Emmie’s face colors. “What did you say?”

Shit. I’ve really gone and done it now, haven’t I? Why can’t I keep my stupid mouth shut?

But I can’t go back. The blood roars in my ears as I look her straight in the eyes. “He deserves better than you.”

We’re inches apart now. I can feel her panting breath on my face. Her pupils narrow, lips curling back from gritted teeth. And just like that, she composes herself. That glimpse of beastly womanhood? Gone. She saunters over to a plate, returns with something cradled in her palm. She brims with sympathy, commiseration, motherly concern. “You must be so hungry, working so hard for us silly guests with our tempers. Here.” She offers whatever it is to me like an eager flower child, enunciating the two words with chilling courtesy: “Eat this.”

A stinky, fishy funk wafts up at me. It’s an oyster, its meat cloudy and shriveled in the half-shell. I swallow. “Is that... from breakfast?”

“Just eat it.” I look at her and her expression changes, voice dangerously low. “You think the shoe thing got you in hot water? What do you think they’d do if they found out you were refusing a guest?”

But I shake my head, a wave of disgust washing over me, drowning out my fear. “I’m not eating that.”

A pulse tics in one of Emmie’s eyelids, giving her a slightly deranged look. A delicate spite creeps into her voice. “And what if I told them you were stealing my stuff?”

My jaw hangs in a silent, appalled gasp. “You wouldn’t...”

She grins all her perfect teeth, shining with vicious glee. “Oh, but I would.”

It’s suddenly hard to breathe. I bite my lip, thinking of Mrs. Colding, of the end of Mr. Voper’s patience.

Of never seeing Voper again.

I take the oyster.

Cold triumph snags Emmie’s lips as I weigh it in my hand. My stomach heaves at the rank smell, but I force it down. I tip my head and slurp the cold mollusk back, tentatively chew. It’s beyond awful. I gag, and Emmie points a finger. “Don’t you dare vomit on this carpet. Eat it.” I brace my hands on my knees, grinding through gritty, salty brininess. It exudes foulness into my head like alcohol vapor. “That’s right. All of it,” Emmie seethes into my ear. “Swallow that shit.” I gulp it down, gasping, and she smiles. “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

I look up at her, eyes tearing. I didn’t know. That evil could be so petty. Nothing grand about it at all.

Just a jealous little model in a pantsuit.

“Miss Strand?” The familiar, slightly surprised voice emanates behind us, and Emmie straightens, blazing an innocent smile over my shoulder. When I turn around, Voper is watching me with something that could almost be mistaken for concern, and I realize for the first time: He really is the most beautiful man I have ever seen.

He lifts a brow. “Is everything all right?”

Emmie’s fingers dig into my arm, and I dutifully smile. “Yeah. Just... girls bonding, you know.”

Voper glances between us, brow furrowed. Uh-huh. Then steps forward and holds out a sleek black credit card.

I stare.

“Oh, did I forget to tell you?” Emmie simpers innocently, touching my shoulder. “I asked for some clothes, and I thought you could be a dear and pick them up for me.”

There’s also a note. It’s an address: Hermès, La Piazza, 07021 Porto Cervo, Sardinia, Italy.

Emmie is glowing with barely restrained glee when I look up at Voper. “But—this is in Sardinia—”

“The helicopter will take you there,” Adrian explains. “It should only be”—he glances at a ridiculously expensive-looking watch—“about five hours round-trip.”

Emmie drapes herself on him like a cashmere sweater. “We’ll be here when you get back. Try not to dirty my clothes with your peasant fingers, will you?” And she smirks in smug triumph as she shuts the door in my face.

TWELVE

My first helicopter ride begins with me holding back tears.

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