At the Brink (20 page)

If Antoine only knew what Josh really liked about me.

“Josh suggested an updo.” Antoine’s huge hands moved gracefully to gather the hair at the base of my nape, not the clumsy stump I usually did, but rather an intricate twist framed by the curve of my side-swept bangs.

Amman returned, delivering an expensive looking garment bag to Antoine. It occurred to me that there was a dress in that bag. For me.

“Francois!” Antoine was done with my hair. “Makeup, please.”

A small, skinny waif of a man sporting a long, bleached-blond mane detached himself from the makeup counter and strutted over.

“You have less than fifteen minutes,” Antoine said, consulting his glitzy watch.

“But I can’t.” Francoise twisted the dog tags around his neck. “I’m fully booked with the gala tonight. I have a line of VIPs waiting for me. I don’t have a minute to spare.”

“My dear, please,” Antoine said. “This is Josh Lane’s date.”

It was as if all of Francois’s VIPs had evaporated from the world. Without another word, he snapped his fingers, summoning his attendant, who brought over the makeup cart. While Antoine hovered, Francois’s brushes powered my face, contoured my cheeks and shaded my brows and eyes. When he was done, I was a much improved version of myself.

Antoine led me to a dressing room, preceded by Francois, who held the curtain open for me. A dress hung on a peg on the wall, an exquisite confection, conceived in champagne tones and embroidered in gold. Cut above the knees, the dress featured a plunging back, a modest neckline and three-quarter sleeves. Totally decent. I couldn’t help my sigh of relief.

I spent my brief time in the dressing room trying to shield my privates from Antoine and Francois, who didn’t give a hoot, and couldn’t be dissuaded from helping me to put on the dress, the high heels and the thin sparkling belt.

“Come on.” Antoine wiggled his fingers. “Give them up.”

“Give what up?”

“The skivvies, darling. No panty lines, please. That dress is screaming commando.”

“But—”

“High fashion requires great sacrifices.” Francois stuffed his hands up my skirt and slid my panties down my legs.

“Yep,” Antoine said, checking out my ass and ignoring my blush. “Now we’re ready for the runway.”

An evening jacket completed the outfit, matching the dress’s champagne tones. When they were done, the three of us stood in the tiny dressing room, contemplating the results of Antoine and Francois’s efforts in the trifold mirror.

“Perfect,” they said in unison.

“Josh has impeccable taste.” Francois touched up my lipstick.

“Lovely Lily.” Antoine handed me the little gold clutch that came with the dress. “Go make our Josh proud.”

I tested the high heels. They felt very comfortable to my feet. I turned around and waved at Antoine, AKA Anthony Chiarelli, and his partner Francois, also known as Frank Johnson. They waved back at me, and at that moment, I had a vision of the two of them dressed in their combat gear, scouting an advanced position and signaling the rest of the team forward.

“Thank you.” I blew them a kiss. “And thank you especially for your service.”

Amman waited for me by the car. “Miss Lily, if I may say so, you look ravishing.”

“Credit the heroes in there.” I negotiated the skirt’s tight fit as I climbed into the car. No sense in flashing poor Amman.

I felt pretty outside but iffy inside. Caught in the flurry of preparations, I’d forgotten my apprehensions. But now they returned, evolving into a full-blown bout of social anxiety. Dear God. I wanted to throw up and I wasn’t even at the party yet.

The car stopped before a distinguished four-story townhouse in Back Bay, a Boston beauty with copper dormers and iron rod details. Amman jumped out of the car and held the door open for Josh, who marched down the stairs with his usual swagger.

My heartbeat accelerated way past the speed limit. My palms began to sweat. He looked like a model out of
Esquire
, sporting a traditional black tie. God. Why did he have to have this liquefying effect on my body?

Graceful as a panther, he took his seat next to me. “Are you still mad at me?”

“I’m trying,” I said.

He flashed his best grin, took my hand, and kissed my knuckles. “You look amazing.”

The car sped up and so did my heart, although I didn’t think it was possible for it to beat any faster. My stomach, on the other hand, churned ominously.

I grumbled. “I don’t understand why you’re making me go to this.”

“And I don’t understand why you’re making such a big fuss,” he said.

“I don’t want to go.”

He entwined his fingers with mine. “You can’t go through life avoiding everything you’re afraid of. You’ve got to confront your fears and get over them.”

“Who are you now, Doctor Phil?”

He laughed, a rich and smooth sound. “Bear with me, Lily. I wasn’t planning on going tonight, but there’s a man that I’ve got to see about a billion dollars.”

“In that case, what’s a few gallons of lost bile?” I gagged. “Amman, please, could you pull over?”

“Keep going, Amman.” Josh squeezed my hand. “You’re not going to wretch, or go into a panic attack, or anything like that. You are going to walk into that room like the princess you are. You are going to show those sons of bitches that you’re not afraid.”

“I don’t want to ruin your very nice dress.” I grappled for a way to open the windows, pressing every button and succeeding only at blasting on the air conditioning.

“It’s
your
dress.” He switched off the frigid air. “And you are not going to ruin it. Look here.” He pulled out a rectangular box from his breast pocket. “I have a gift for you.”

“For me?” I said. “But...why?”

“Because I wanted to give you a gift.”

“I told you, you don’t need to buy me gifts and clothes and all that.”

“Don’t you like the clothes I buy for you?”

“How could I not?” I said. “For a guy who went from uniforms to designer suits in a blink, you’ve got an eye for fashion and excellent taste.”

“Then what’s the problem?” he said. “Would you prefer to buy your own clothes?”

“Heck no,” I said. “I hate shopping.”

He gave me one of his looks. “Why?”

“Do you know how hard is to find something that you like and fits when you’re counting pennies?” I said. “I’d rather eat nails than go shopping.”

“PTSD,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re suffering from post-traumatic shopping disorder.” He grinned. “We’ll have to cure you of that. It’s a good thing I love shopping for you. Now open your gift.”

I pulled on the ribbon and opened the box. Cushioned in blue silk was a pair of stunning earrings, yellow garnets, cut to dazzle and dangling from long, delicate stems. Beneath the earrings, cradled in its own plush compartment, there was another piece of custom jewelry, a pair of gorgeous glass spheres swirling with gold and silver streaks.

What kind of jewelry was this?

Something pricy and fashionable, I was sure, if only because Josh was gifting it to me. A bracelet maybe? But it had no clasp. On close inspection, I found the initials “JL” finely engraved at the poles.

“These are beautiful,” I said, even if I had no clue what they were. “But I can’t accept them.”

The look he gave me could have incinerated me on the spot. “Why not?”

“They’re very expensive, I’m sure, and I couldn’t afford them on my own.”

“But I want you to have them.”

“You shouldn’t waste your hard-earned money like this.”

He rolled his eyes. “What I do with my money is for me to decide. I want you to have these and you
will
wear them tonight.”

I sighed. How could I feel flattered and offended at the same time?

I put on the earrings and took in my reflection on the window. The garnets’ smart cut would have favored any woman, lending beauty and elegance even to someone as plain as I was.

“They look just as I imagined they would,” Josh said. “Now this.”

He handed me the other piece of jewelry, but I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. The glass spheres were connected together by a thin, sparkling little cord. I fumbled with the gold ring dangling from one end and still I couldn’t figure out what it was or how to put it on. I felt like a provincial simpleton.

“Do you want me to do it?” he said.

“Sure.” I handed the piece back to him.

“Just relax,” he said, pulling up my skirt, parting my legs and pressing the first sphere against my sex.

“Josh!”

It happened in an instant. I winced, he pushed, and just like that, the ball sank into my body.

“Hush now,” he murmured. “Just one more...”

I opened my mouth to protest, but the reflection of Amman’s face in the rear view mirror silenced me. I didn’t want to attract his attention. My body accepted the second sphere with a silent gulp, leaving only the little ring hanging from the silky string dangling between my legs.

I forced out the words. “What have you done?”

Josh kissed the back of my hand. “Give it a few moments. You’ll get used to the sensation and you’ll enjoy it. Here we are.”

Indeed, the Audi pulled up to an underground entrance. Amman got out and the car door opened.

“I... I can’t get out like this.” I panicked. “Please, don’t ask me to do this. It’s obscene!”

“It’s delicious,” he said. “Or so I’ve been told, and you’ll like it too, if you give it a chance. Best of all, my little gifts will keep you grounded. You won’t be worrying about the rest. Come on, we’re late.”

I got out of the car carefully, only to feel the odd load of Josh’s gifts weighing me down. I was afraid that if I stepped too hard, the little balls would fall out of me. My sex—indeed my entire body—tightened, clutching them with stubborn resolve.

“You can do it,” Josh said as he guided me to the elevator. “They’re just right for you.”

I snapped. “If you like them so much why don’t you wear them?”

“Because I want
you
to wear them
for
me
.
It’ll be our secret. Just knowing that you’re carrying those little balls inside you makes me hard.” To prove his point, he took my hand and rubbed it against his erection.

Oh. My. God.

“Think of them as your friends,” he said. “We’ll make a short night of it and, if at any point you’re uncomfortable, just tell me. Easy in, easy out.”

The elevator doors opened into the plush lobby of the top floor at the Prudential Tower, the second tallest building in Boston, where a lavish private party was in full swing. The floor to ceiling glass windows displayed the city lights all around us.

An attendant took my coat, but I barely noticed. A horde of people surged to greet Josh. I swayed in place, dizzy, and not just because of the crowd swarming about me. I shook hands at every introduction, but I didn’t give a hoot about who I was talking to or why. All I could do was nod politely and cling to the weight defining my center.

Soon after we arrived, a strawberry blond woman dressed in a gorgeous emerald gown climbed on the podium and thanked everyone for coming. She was stunning, commanding, and well-spoken as she urged people to donate to Future Leaders of the World.

Josh offered me a glass of champagne.

“Is he here?” I whispered in his ear. “Mega million dollar man?”

Josh nodded. “He’s here. Over there, on the podium, about to give a speech.”

“Which one is he?”

“White hair, platinum rimmed glasses, mustache, double-breasted tux.”

“Got it.” I sipped on my champagne. “He looks like an older version of Rhett Butler.”

“Rhett Butler?”

“Yes, you know from
Gone with the Wind
?”

“I didn’t know you liked to watch old movies.”

“Well, now you know.” I considered the man in the podium. “What’s his name?”

“Paolo DaSilva,” Josh said. “He’s the richest man in Brazil.”

“Will he be a tough sell?”

“Tough as they come.”

“Who’s he with?”

“Ernest Chamberlain.”

“Friend?” I said when the man waved in Josh’s direction.

“He wants to buy my company.”

“Oh.” I was curious. “Do you want to sell it?”

“Why the hell would I want to do that?”

“Because you’re tired of it? Maybe you want to do something else?”

“Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “It seems to me that if you’ve got enough money to fund four extravagant lifetimes, you ought to be able to live one phenomenal life.”

He glanced at me. “What’s wrong with the life I live now?”

“You’re always working,” I said. “You’re always thinking, planning, plotting. Do you ever get tired of all of that?”

“No.”

“Well, I would.”

“I’m not you.”

“Obviously,” I said, “‘cause if you were me and you were hauling around some pesky ‘friends’ in your private pocket, you’d be hurrying along to talk to Mr. DaSilva, whose speech is now over.”

Josh laughed, took my hand and led me across the room. I wasn’t sure how long I could stand the sublime torture. The weight of the little balls kneaded me from the inside out, teasing my body, rolling against the most sensitive parts of me, twirling like skillful fingers deep inside.

“Josh Lane?” A striking, short-haired woman approached us, a Cate Blanchett look-alike wafting expensive perfume and exuding confidence. Her red lips contrasted with her white silk pantsuit, which might have been described as conservative except that she wore nothing beneath. The plunging, single-breasted jacket showcased the flat curves of her small breasts.

“Perhaps you remember me?” the woman said. “Susannah Phelps, with the
Business Journal
?”

“I remember.” Josh shook her hand.

“How about that interview we talked about?” she said.

Josh flashed his most charming and disarming smile. “You know I don’t do interviews.”

“A front page story about Phoenix Prime’s rise to the big leagues.”

“Pass,” Josh said. “But thanks for the pitch.”

“Oh, come on, Mr. Lane.” The woman pretended to pout. “What is it going to take for you to give me an interview? Dinner? Bribery? Extortion?”