Page 37 of Lair

Goosebumps break out on my arms; I already know who it is before I turn. Onto the aft deck flows Adrian Voper in a black gala tux, his hair slicked back in a gleaming wave. He looks impossibly handsome.

And he’s staring at me as if he’s never seen a woman before.

Mrs. Colding, mouth twitching, smoothly excuses herself.

All eyes are on us as he comes up to me. But I tune out everything. The looks, the whispers, Jason’s sullen expression as he reappears on the aft deck. I lift my chin. “Hi,” I say as Adrian steps close. Like a dolt, I’m furiously blushing.

“Hi.” His eyes rove over me, and I feel ransacked with happiness. The memory of our kiss hovers between us like a tangible thing. “How is it that you look even more amazing than you did last night?”

Jesus, compliments look good on him.

I scramble for a reply, but am spared by everyone’s attention shifting to the water. Limousine tenders are gliding out from the Vespertine and Lazaret, ferrying over tonight’s guests. I take the opportunity to change the subject. “Who are your friends?”

Adrian’s jaw tenses at the question. He grits out with an airy coolness, “Business associates.”

“So you’re entertaining tonight.”

He snorts, hands in pockets now. “Something like that.” He turns to me, his eyes all glittery black. “I want you to know, I’m going to have to be... a little different tonight. In front of them.”

“You mean a brooding asshole?”

He laughs, a sudden, unguarded bark of happiness, and my heart glows like a thousand-watt lightbulb. “Yes. That.”

“Is that so different from what you usually are?”

“It is,” he says, nodding, very serious. “It does feel different since I met you.”

It’s suddenly hard to breathe. I don’t know what to say to that.

Adrian looks out at the tender boats coasting up to the swim platform. Their occupants: two men in elegant suits, the Lair’s lights shining on pale foreheads, pale skin. On their arms, women in shimmery club dresses.

Adrian swallows, great packs of muscle clenched hard under his coat, and the penny drops: He’s nervous.

I do it before I’ve even thought about it—I take his hand. “Hey. It’ll be okay.”

He looks down at the hand, at me, and his expression eases into something like gratitude. He smiles. “Okay.”

TWENTY

When both of the limousine tenders have glided up alongside the swim platform, one of the men calls out with mock formality. “May we come aboard?”

He’s staring, right past Captain Redfearn, at Adrian.

The captain scowls. Adrian forces a smile and gestures. “Please.”

The businessmen are, in a word, strange. The owner of the Lazaret is an Italian, chic and cadaverous-looking, with a dainty mien. The owner of the Vespertine is a hollow-cheeked Easterner with a broad forehead and the kind of probing humor that’s edged with malice. I’ve known men like him before. The first time he looks at me, I get a chill.

“Aurora, this is Signore Spalatro and Anatoly Anatolovich,” Adrian says. “Very old friends.”

It happens before I know it: Anatoly bends and with stiff courtliness bestows a kiss on the back of my hand. “Charmed.”

My hand is trembling when he lets it go.

Adrian clenches his jaw and turns to the women, who are studying me head to toe with contemptuous sloe eyes like glittering, predatory creatures, but neither of the businessmen move to introduce them. “Well?” Anatoly prompts, raising his eyebrows.

Wow.

Mrs. Colding steps forward with a smile. “This way, gentlemen.”

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