He puts his palm on my lower back, propelling me forward. The dress is so flimsy it does nothing to protect me from the cold and his touch catapults warm sparks up my spine, making me shiver at the temperature change.
The floor ahead of me is fashioned from large marble blocks, each tile at least a metre square. Two large doors bar entry into the rest of the house. They’re double height and inlaid with gold accents that bring warmth to the reddish wood.
“This place is magnificent,” I whisper, afraid to talk too loudly in case I’m not meant to be speaking at all.
My eyes dart in all directions, trying to see all the fancy details at once. A task they don’t have capacity for, so they keep changing direction, picking at the small things and leaving the overall picture to form by itself.
“It’s the foyer,” Lachlan says, a small frown pinching his eyebrows together. “You should at least save your compliments until you see inside the house.”
“Oh, I don’t think I’m ready for the inside yet,” I lob back, only half joking. Not that it matters either way because he strides confidently forward, the hand just above my waist steering me ahead of him.
“Wait,” I say, panic rising at the thought of everyone who might be behind those impressive doors. “What’s this party for again?”
“It’s for me to endure and for you to smile, make pointless conversation, and nod your pretty head politely throughout. That’s all you need to know.”
As we step within a few feet of the internal entrance, a servant inside pulls the door open and holds it until we pass through. My steps falter while my head practically spins in a circle like the little girl out of the exorcist. Except, instead of spraying pea green vomit, it’s pure admiration that comes spilling out of my mouth.
“Are you serious?” I exclaim the moment we’re inside, openly gawking at the painting hanging to my right. “That’s a Vermeer. Is it real?”
“Probably a copy,” he answers dully, curbing my enthusiasm for a split second until I spy another treasure.
“Is that aFaberge egg?”
His hand moves to my side, its companion reaching for the opposite hip and turning me away from the things I so desperately want to look at. Instead, he aims me at an imposing figure with hair dyed as black as night, a beard using up most of his facial real estate, with bushy eyebrows making a solid claim for the rest.
The man’s eyes are so deep in shadow I can’t make out their colour—if they have any colour at all. With the way the rest of his face converts into an expression of distaste, they might just be blank holes poked into the fabric of the universe.
“This is my father, Creighton.”
I hold out my hand and the man stares at it for a second. Despite the thickness of growth around his mouth I can still clearly make out the curl of his lip.
“We’re not into touching in this household,” Lachlan says with a soft snort, the puff of his warm breath teasing the hairs on the back of my neck. “Just in case poverty is catching.”
“Oh, I…” As the glare continues, clearly expecting something, I try a curtsey instead. “Pleased to meet you, sir. Your house is beautiful, and I love the artwork. I’m hoping to—”
“Where’s Kari?”
“Fucked if I know,” Lachlan says, his grip momentarily increasing on my hip. “Out enjoying herself with a variety of other men? Curled up in bed alone? I’m not her gatekeeper.”
“We were expecting you to bring her.”
“So was I until she called this afternoon to cancel. Now, I have this delightful… Georgina? Georgette?”
“George. Just George.”
“Right.” He smiles and shakes his head, bending so his warmbreath sends tingles through my hair. “I have thisG-G-Georgeinstead.”
“Surname?”
“Yes,” Lachlan butts in before I can get my mouth to frame the answer. “She has one of those. Is Mum about?”
Creighton’s eyes finally move off me, leaving a charred trail in their wake. I rub above my eye, trying to budge it, and belatedly remember I’m wearing full makeup for the first time in forever.
Makeup, minus the eyebrow pencil currently smeared across my fingers.
Creighton raises his hand and jerks two fingers. From the far side of the room, a staff member scurries across, dressed in a ridiculous French Maid outfit that seems more fitting to a brothel dress-up collection than an actual working uniform.
“Yes, sir?”
