Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance(85)

“Oh my lord,” Bridget whispered behind me as they both drank me in for a long, long, far too long time.

Declan held out a velvet box. I stared at it like it might go off.

“It’s from both of us, as you requested,” he said wryly.

“I didn’t, um… Oh OK--”

I took it with trembling fingers, snapping it open and trying to bite back a gasp. It was a stylized M in diamonds and white gold. The M hung from a tiny loop at the top of each peak of the letter as though suspended evenly between the arms of the chain.

“It’s… gorgeous,” I breathed.

“It’s pretty good,” Jackson murmured, taking the necklace from the box and stepping behind me. I held my hair off the back of my neck as he worked the clasp.

“You’re gorgeous,” he whispered, his breath brushing the back of my ear.

“So, care to tour us around this event?” Declan winked one sky-blue eye at me and held out his elbow. I reached for it automatically and then spun around to look at Bridget. Her face was a mask of awe and disbelief.

“Bridget, did you want to… Ohhhh, pooh! Your dress,” I reminded her with a dramatic lower-lip pout.

“No, no, you go!” she said gaily, then leaned from her heels to deliver a couple air kisses near my cheeks.

“I hate you so hard!” she muttered, just above hearing.

“You’re the one who said to do whatever it takes!” I gloated.

Turning back toward the Burkes, I took the elbows they offered me and steered them toward the front of the gallery. We walked the entire circuit with me chatting convivially about the artworks and the artists themselves.

Every time another pair of eyes drank us in, I swear I got smarter and funnier. The other artists and the collectors looked at us like we were part of the exhibit. Everywhere I turned there was another slack-jawed patron, silently staring our trio up and down as though not quite understanding what they saw.

I pretended not to notice the gawkers, but it was sort of delicious to be escorted by two beautiful men. As the interest accumulated, I got to really enjoy it.

Live it up, girlfriend, I reminded myself. Those nursery rhymes aren’t going to sell themselves.

After the main gallery, we headed back to the warehouse which had been set up as a sort of carnival. I had avoided it all afternoon. It stank like art school: a dizzying melange of desperation and pretension. But Declan appeared intrigued by the “rides” and “games.”

A barker dressed like Salvador Dali greeted us with a grand sweep of his striped arms as we entered, handing us a fistful of glittering mylar tickets.

“Enter the Night Carnivale, if you dare!” he sang. “Nothing is what it seems! Everything is what it is!”

Declan chuckled and I held my tongue as we passed him, trying not to roll my eyes too hard. The spectacle was impressive, but as I had told Bridget: it was a ridiculously expensive waste of space. What collector would buy a giant pile of candy? A duck shoot with real stuffed ducks? A Tilt-A-Whirl where the cars were all repainted as giant, spinning skulls?

“Woo! Skulls!” Declan said admiringly as we strolled past it, accepting fluffy balls of breast-shaped cotton candy from a strolling troubadour.

“What do you know about the artist?” Jackson asked politely as we walked.

“Well… not much, honestly. I didn’t see this part of the installation going in, but I think it’s actually a group of artists.”

“I could totally see that Tilt-A-Whirl in Edna’s garden, can’t you?” Declan asked Jackson, leaning ahead of me to catch his eye.

Jackson chuckled and shrugged. “Send her a picture. See what she says.”

Declan pulled his arm away from me to retrieve his cell phone, holding it aloft and snapping a few photos while grinning happily.

“You’re serious?” I said, unable to contain my petty disbelief any longer.

“I never say--”

“Things you don’t mean, right. Gotcha.”

Clenching my jaw tightly closed, I tried to convince myself not to think about it.

You’re letting your situation make you petty, I warned myself. You’re better than this. Don’t let it get to you.

“So you mentioned Edna?” I said brightly, pasting an interested smile across my mouth.

“Just a family friend,” Jackson replied as he palmed a softball at the milk-bottle toss. Instead of milk bottles, though, they had pyramids of Hummel figurines to smash. Shards of porcelain and assorted clown and cherub heads littered the floor.

Jackson noticed my expression and replaced the softball in the divot.

“But I could win a defaced AOL cd if I knock over the pyramid,” he observed.