Galilee Rising(22)

"Well, well, well. Isn't this cozy?" Liberty says behind me.

As if he were radioactive, I yank my arms away. Double fuck.

Nightingale and I spin around to see both Liberty and Tempest standing by the beach door smirking. "Do you want us to some back later?" Tempest asks.

"I-I-I had a crick in my neck," Nightingale says.

"Of course you did," Liberty says in an insinuating tone.

"Really, nothing is going on," I insist.

Liberty's about to open her mouth again, but Tempest waves his hand and says, "We believe you. We just came for an update on the robberies."

"Of-Of course," he sputters, moving as far from me as possible. All business, Nightingale reviews our progress.

"Good job you two," says Tempest. "Liberty and I will begin interrogating the people on the lists. See what intel, if any, the scumbags can give us. We'll take it from here. Nightingale, go home and get some rest. You look like hell. I'll be in contact."

Why do I get the sense I've been dismissed in my own house. If I didn't want to get the hell out of this fucking room I'd throw a hissy fit. Instead, I say, "Thank you," and start walking toward the ramp. "Good luck." Nightingale keeps his eyes on the floor as I walk out, but Liberty isn't as bashful. With a proud smile, she gives me a quick thumbs up. I cannot get out of here fast enough. I don't feel safe until I close my bedroom door, whacking my head against it in frustration.

Brilliant.

Wonderful.

Perfect.

I let out a long, deep sigh. Why can't anything ever just be fucking simple?





CHAPTER FIVE




Roaring Twenties



Ever since third-generation real estate mogul Danforth Mills married his considerably younger third wife Rachel, daughter of his old business partner, he became less known for his business savvy and more for his over-the-top parties. Millions wasted on fire breathers, a chocolate fountain as tall as a house and pop stars serenading his young bride. Don't know how they'll be able to top the circus themed soirée this summer with the entire troupe from Cirque de Marquee meandering around and contorting right in front of you. Ugh.

At least I get to wear classier clothes this time. The 1920s was an impressive era fashion wise. Lexie and I figured all the other women would be decked out as flappers, which my stylist Isolde confirmed, so we went different routes. Lexie's more dapper than her husband in a tuxedo a la Greta Garbo, complete with top hat. We do match in the make-up department with bright red lipstick and dramatic eyes. Even dressed as a man she's prettier than me.

I decided to go simple yet elegant with a sleeveless black satin couture dress with an asymmetrical, layered hemline. Lexie thought it was too plain and insisted crystals be added. She actually put my whole look together with great detail, including the peacock feather on my headband, even bossing her hairdresser around while he worked on me. Don't know why she cares so much, but I was happy to have her take over. Beauty rituals are not my wheelhouse.

"We're just making an appearance, right?" Brendan asks.

Lexie rolls her eyes. "You TiVo'ed the game. It'll be there." We, really Lexie, insisted we ride in the limo together. Built in excuse, blame the other person when we leave in half an hour. Devious mind, I like that in my friends.

"It's not just the game. I have practice early tomorrow, among other things."

"Sweetie darling, I love you to bits, but you really need to stop complaining. This is your debut into society. You don't want everyone to think you're some uncouth, ungrateful anti-social jerk do you?"

"Yeah, that position is filled, thank you very much," I say with a smirk.

Lexie playfully smacks my arm as Brendan and I chuckle. The limo door opens, and the flashbulbs begin popping outside. Brendan climbs out first, then helps Lexie and me out. There are about a dozen paparazzi and entertainment news outlets behind the barrier shouting questions and snapping pictures outside the Austen Castle entrance. They shout for us to pose, which Lexie does like the pro she is. Brendan holds his wife, smiling and kissing her cheek with pride. I walk on. The camera loves me about as much as I love it.

Austen Castle is an old mansion, even older than mine, with a turret, ten acres of gorgeous gardens and even a labyrinth. The city purchased it when the owner killed himself in the crash of 1929. I wonder if the Mills appreciate the irony of holding their twenties party here. Probably not. I've been here over a dozen times for parties through the years with Justin, so I don't dawdle awing over the paintings and sculptures. Seen one naked chick on a fainting couch, you've seen them all. I wait for the Darby's by one such painting, instead observing the high end party people. There are a few women dressed in my style, and even one or two dressed like Lexie--she's going to hate that--but most are in elaborate flapper dresses with cigarette holders sans cigarettes. The majority of men are dressed either as gangsters with fake Tommy guns or in seersucker with straw hats. Down the hall in the ballroom jazz music booms. It's damn catchy. A few flappers grin as they pass me, then whisper to their date when their backs are to me as if I've vanished into thin air. I pull up my wrap, making sure it covers the burn on my arm. Half an hour. I can do half an hour.