“Nice girl,” I say, watching Sade leave. “Do you know her well?”
Paul nods. “Fairly well. We’re thrown together a lot at private parties. And Caroline of course. She’s a good singer. Carlos is interested in her.”
“Carlos?! He’s on a recruiting streak or something?” I had thought his feelings about my singing were the exception rather than the rule.
“Carlos is always looking for talent,” Paul says, lifting up one side of his headphones while he manually spins a track. “What’s up? Did he approach you too?”
I make a motion of zipping my lips. “Not saying one way or the other. I’m going to help Milo with the journalists.”
From what Milo’s told me, they’re an international bunch, mostly from Paris. But I could swear I spot Vanessa Sinclair from theNew York Herald.
Milo confirms this when I ask. “Watch what you say,” he tells me. “She has a sharp tongue.”
The journalists board the yacht and set about enjoying Champagne, canapés, and the sound of Paul’s beats.
I mingle with them, answer casual questions, and smile for the cameras. Soon Slayer appears by my side, playing nice for the press.
“You’ve met my lovely girlfriend,” the Dark Prince says. His arm slides around my waist, pulling me against his side.
The heat of his body sends a jolt through me, and for a moment, I forget this is all for show. His fingers press into my hip possessively, drawing me closer until I can feel his breath warm against my temple.
The journalists go wild for him, peppering him with questions. After a few minutes, Milo cuts it short, asking everyone to take a seat for the official press conference.
I take my place beside Slayer at a long table facing the journalists. Milo snaps a picture of us and calls out for me to look his way.
We’re perfectly framed in the shot, and well-coordinated too—me in Antoine’s soft white dress with a delicate strand of real pearls and Slayer in his signature black and silver.
Saint and sinner. Side by side.
If only I felt as comfortable as we must look together.
A French journalist kicks things off. “Slayer, I’ve read in some of your US interviews that your forthcoming album won’t be as dark as your previous work. Should we thank Ms. Bismark for the shift in tone?”
Slayer’s voice is molasses-laced velvet. “You’ll have to wait and see.”
His hand finds mine under the table, entwining our fingers in full view of the front-row photographers.
The gesture is perfect. Intimate, tender, exactly what a real girlfriend would experience. But his eyes remain distant, focused on the press.
Then an American reporter with sunglasses perched on his head leans forward.
“Slayer, let’s address what everyone’s dancing around: the satanic-orgy rumors. You’ve never denied them. Are they true? Should Ms. Bismark be worried?”
Slayer smiles slowly. “Depends on who you ask. Some say the real scandal is that I haven’t invited them to the party.”
Laughter explodes. Even I can’t help but smile.
As the journalists ask more questions, each one going further than the last, I’m impressed at the way Slayer handles them. No question stumps or fazes him.
His thumb traces circles on my palm, an intimate caress that makes my pulse quicken.For the cameras, I remind myself.This is all for the cameras.
Laughter crescendos. And for the first time all day, I feel warmth in Slayer’s glance. Just a touch. But it’s there.
The press conference winds down over more Champagne and applause, and gossip reporter Vanessa Sinclair rises first when the proceedings have finished, walking over to air-kiss someone across the room.
Slayer’s hand slips from mine, and he turns immediately to speak with someone who’s approached our table.
The absence of his touch leaves me cold.
