Now it’s Daemon who sits a little straighter. He smiles at Asha, his eyes impertinent, his gaze a little insulting. Asha turns redder still. I wrinkle my nose. I went too far and now the scent of this revenge is more sour than sweet.
“We’re done here,” I say quickly. “Daemon, I’ll have someone from Maned Wolf call you with more details about the project.”
“Of course, Miss. Fitzgerald.” His voice is deep with respect. I can tell he still wants me but he’s also a little afraid of me. He would never make a move unless I told him to.
He doesn’t feel that way about Asha. She’ll have problems with him. I could help her with that . . . if I felt like it.
I watch as they all file out of my office and wonder how it’s possible.
How is it possible that I never fully appreciated the symbiotic relationship between fear and power? Not just the fear of those who have to follow me but my own fear that inspires me to lead?
Fear motivates and encourages me like an admiring lover.
Like Robert Dade.
CHAPTER 9
I DON’T GO HOME. There’s no point, not when I can stay with him, in his home that is bigger than mine, in his bed that offers me pleasures and satisfaction. When I arrive, he’s wearing a dark suit and a thick white dress shirt with no tie. Formality and accessibility in one look. A beguiling contrast.
But the rest of his preparations give me pause. His dining room table is covered in white linen. There’s a place setting for two and candles in the center of the table. It’s clichéd romance more appropriate for love marked with rose petals and midnight walks than one defined by power plays and sexual deviance.
He reads the skepticism in my eyes and laughs it away. “We can have quiet moments of traditionalism on occasion. We can have anything we want.”
This makes me laugh, too, as I pull nervously at the sleeve of my blazer. My confidence falters when it’s just the two of us.
“Not that it’s necessary,” he says, “but would you like to change for dinner?”
I look down at my white suit. Images of red wine and olive oil dance through my head. “Yes,” I say definitively, “I believe I would.”
“I assumed as much,” he says, his laughter subsiding to a teasing smile. “I bought you something else today. A dress. It’s on my bed waiting for you.”
I’m about to say something when I hear someone in the kitchen.
“We’re not alone?” Even my question makes me tremble a bit. Memories of being ravished in that bar . . . it had been so intense, frightening, exhilarating. . . . I don’t know if I can do that two nights in a row. I don’t think I want to.
But if he asked me to, would I? Is that what’s needed to maintain the balance? Must I submit every night?
Yet when Robert reaches for my hand his touch is reassuring, not demanding. “It’s the chef and his assistant. I hired them for the night. They’ll cook for us; that’s all.”
The relief is stronger than I thought it could be. I grab his shoulders and kiss his lips gently with only a touch of passion. “Thank you.”
“Thank me for the dress,” he says quietly. “The night’s events are set by your moods as much as my ambitions. I’m just better at recognizing them than you are.”
I’m not sure I understand his meaning but that’s okay. At the moment everything is okay.
Downstairs the dress is red. Red like the words painted on the door of the speakeasy, red as Genevieve’s hair, red as a ruby.
The last thought disturbs me. I haven’t thought of Dave for a while now. He’s fading further and further into my past. How much of what I remember of my relationship with him is real and how much only reflects the reality that works best for me? Memories evolve quickly, more like a virus than an animal. This year’s flu bears little resemblance to the flu that killed so many only a few years back. The virus evolves, we’ve taken our shots, and now it can’t hurt us the way it once could . . . back when it looked different, back before we were prepared.
I slide into the dress. It’s made of velvet, a fabric I usually think of as tacky and outdated, like something you would see in a 1970s rendition of the Nutcracker, although even that wouldn’t work since the dancers would sweat too much.
But this dress is different. It’s higher quality, the fabric mixed with layers of silk that hang in a cowl neckline and adorn the very low back. The designer is Antonio Berardi. He’s redefined the fabric, given it a fierce modern edge, made it sensual and daring.
For a brief moment I wonder if Robert Dade has redesigned me.
I quickly discard the idea and go upstairs.