voice in her head. Kitty Afton, the Boston divorcée who had taken Bree in after her mother’s murder, had believed that cheerfulness was next to godliness. Even in the early days, when surely she knew Bree was heartbroken and traumatized, Kitty had scolded her new protégée for letting her lips lose their pleasant feminine curve. “No one likes a sad sack, Brianna. You’ll catch more flies with honey.”
The waiter-eunuch nodded uneasily, then moved on. Bree checked Townsend again. He hadn’t budged from the fountain. He was refilling his chalice, though his eyes glittered, and a sparkling trail of champagne already trickled from his chin like golden spit.
She couldn’t wait for Charlie or Iliana. She’d have to try to handle Townsend herself. Reluctantly, Bree merged into the melee of guests, somehow keeping the smile on her lips.
“Mr. Townsend?”
He turned, the chalice halfway to his mouth, and glared at her over the rim. As he took in her simple slate-blue sheath, his eyes narrowed. “What are you supposed to be? Didn’t you get the memo? This is a costume party. You’ve got to look like an idiot or you don’t get in.”
She deepened her smile, as if he’d meant it as a joke. But the bitterness in his voice was unmistakable. The drinking was a symptom of a deeper problem...not the cause. She really needed to find Iliana and get things patched up.
“I’m not actually a guest,” she explained. “I’m Brianna Wright. My company, Breelie’s, is the one you hired to—”
“You’re...” He lowered the golden vessel, spilling liquid precariously close to her shoes, but ignoring it. “You are Brianna Wright?”
“I am,” she said. She’d met him twice, during the initial negotiations, but she wasn’t surprised that he didn’t remember. He’d spent most of both meetings pacing the hall outside her office, barking at someone on his cell phone.
He shook his head for a minute, and then let out a loud, seal-like honk of laughter. Now, that did surprise her. She had traveled in a very uncomfortable, very dressy getup, complete with three-inch heels and panty hose, just so that she would look professional when she arrived. She’d even denied herself the luxury of a nap, so that she wouldn’t muss the sleek French knot of blond hair at the nape of her neck.
“You seem amused,” she observed coolly, irritated in spite of her determination to remain calm.
“Oh, I am definitely amused, sweetheart.” He grinned, showing six very white front teeth surrounded by neighbors far less brilliant. “I really, really am.”
She frowned and opened her mouth to respond, but then, without warning, his large hand flicked out and grabbed hers.
“Hey!” She recoiled instinctively from his damp, sticky clutch and the aroma of stale champagne that wafted from his skin. But he had clamped on tightly and didn’t let go.
“Come with me, Brianna Wright,” he said, turning away from the fountain, tugging her along without so much as glancing back to see if she was willing, or whether she would have to be dragged. “There’s something I want to show you.”
People were staring at her now, which was saying something, since surely she was the least outlandish spectacle at this particular party. “Mr. Townsend, I really don’t think—”
He looked back at her over his shoulder, his eyes suddenly clear and sober. “Your company is in charge of this party, right? Well, there’s a problem, and I think you should know about it.”
She didn’t have much recourse after that, though she did manage eventually to extricate her hand and follow him with a little more dignity and at least the appearance of free will.
The guests seemed to part before them, as if they were just props operated by stagehands pulling levers behind the scenes. Maybe the people smelled danger radiating from their host. Bree certainly did.
When Townsend reached the big central staircase and began to climb, her internal sirens started to go off wildly. Why would he need to show her anything on the second floor? Kitchen, her problem. Buffet table, her problem. Decorations, liquor, security and even valet parking...all Breelie’s problems. But her company’s responsibilities didn’t extend beyond the first floor.
She hesitated, her hand on the polished onyx railing. He hadn’t climbed more than four steps when his sixth sense obviously told him he’d lost her. He turned again, and laughed.
“Really, Ms. Wright,” he said, his eyes glittering with some secret, inexplicable mirth. The effect was decidedly unwholesome, and a shiver ran down her spine. “I have a houseful of half-dressed concubines. You think I have designs on your icy virtue?”
“No,” she said. His tone was so dismissive she found herself flushing, which was ridiculous. She’d worked hard to cultivate “icy” and had always considered it a compliment when people described her that way. Better “icy” than half-mad with uncontrolled passions, as so many in her dysfunctional family tended to be. “Of course not.”
“Well, then?” He gestured impatiently.
Still, she hesitated. Something about the moment felt profoundly off. Why was he furious one instant, sardonic the next? And why on earth did he want to take her upstairs? Only the bedrooms were up there....
He laughed again, shook his head as if despairing at her naiveté, then abruptly leaned over the banister.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” His voice rose over the chatter, over the bubbling champagne fountain, even over the string quartet in the corner alcove. “Follow me! I have a surprise for you!”
All the faces tilted up toward him, though half the crowd was clearly too drunk to fully process his words and didn’t stir. But at least a dozen laughing sultans and belly dancers churned toward the staircase, ready for anything that sounded different and amusing.
Bree wanted to be relieved. Whatever he had in mind, at least it didn’t require privacy. That ruled out the most unpleasant scenarios, surely. So why, as the costumed guests surged up the stairs, creating a tidal wave that swept her along, did she have a sudden instinctive desire to turn around and flee?
She didn’t do it, of course. That really would have set the gossips buzzing. Instead, she trailed along as Townsend made his way down the wide hall, turning occasionally to put his forefinger theatrically against his lips to shush his followers.
With every step, though, she felt herself retreating deeper into the numb bubble that had protected her from painful situations in the past. In the sixteen years since her mother’s murder, she’d perfected the art of plunging her emotions into a frozen state, much like a medically induced coma, even while, on the outside, she appeared utterly serene and confident.
Icy, as she was always being told.
Finally, in front of the last door on the left, Townsend paused. He made one more “shh” gesture to his guests, then crooked his finger invitingly toward Bree, offering her the place of honor beside him. Unseen hands prodded her from behind, urging her toward her host, and before she could react, she was close enough to see the unholy gleam in his eyes.
“Mr. Townsend,” she tried again uneasily. But he put his finger against her lips and grinned down at her, like an evil mime. She felt her heart accelerate. Whatever lay behind this door evoked a strong emotion in him. She wished she knew him well
