Wearing what some might describe as a thousand-yard stare, she looks straight ahead, her mind somewhere else.
“Luci,” I say, and her eyes snap to me. I ease closer, so I can keep my voice low. “I’m sorry.”
“Why?” Her forehead wrinkles as she frowns.
“I shouldn’t have asked you about Rose like that. Not in front of other people. I didn’t know.”
“Know what?” She lifts her chin, but sadness in her eyes give her away.
Rose’s post about doucebête—who I now know is Luci—had the ring of romantic love. If she and Luci were involved, that explains why Luci didn’t admit knowing her.
Appearances reign supreme with people in power, and the affair might have drawn disapproval from the Marteau family. Judgment. Anger. Possibly rejection.
“What didn’t you know?” Luci demands, crossing her arms. She’s trying to keep up a good front, but when her bottom lip quivers, I touch her arm.
“It’s okay,” I say gently. “I won’t tell.”
She blinks rapidly and sniffs, but her shoulders relax. “Thank you,” she whispers.
I feel for Luci, and I won’t betray her secret. But there’s still the question of where Rose has gone.
“Is that why Rose is avoiding her sister?” I ask, hoping family drama is the answer to her disappearance. “Did Alice not approve?”
“No. Alice knew. What has she told?—”
She cuts off and looks beyond me. I turn and spot Ric slinking around the dance floor, his gaze pinned on us.
A red-haired woman hangs on his arm. Judging by her hazy eyes and uncoordinated gait, she’s not holding on with affection. But for support.
As the pair draws near, I cringe, stepping closer to the wall to give them room to pass.
But Ric stops in front of us, wearing a lazy smirk. Towering over Luci and me, he blocks our view of the dancers.
“Brooke,” he says, smacking his lips after my name.
His date sets an empty wine glass on a nearby table, her body swaying slightly as she reaches out. When she stands upright again, she breathes deeply and blinks several times.
“Isn’t this place amazing?” She slurs in an American accent. She offers a smile, but it’s droopy and unstable, as if her lips were painted by Picasso. She’s highly intoxicated, by drink or drug or both.
“Like something out of a storybook,” I say, hoping her presence will at least rein in Ric’s lewd behavior.
She circles her fingers in the air, indicating the surroundings but barely able to keep her eyes open. “I’ve lived in Paris for . . . long time, but I never thought I’d get to come to this famous ball.”
“We’re happy to have you,” Luci says. She wears a charming expression, but a hint of irritation lies in her tone. Is she irritated by Ric’s presence? Or the condition of his date?
“Sorry we missed dinner,” the redhead says. “Ric was showing me a room upstairs.” She gives an exaggerated wink. “Showing me the ceiling.” She laughs at her own joke.
Scoffing, Ric jerks his arm, consequently pulling her off balance.
“Hey,” she protests as she loses her footing.
Ric clenches his jaw until the muscles bulge. He leans close to her face. “What did I tell you?” he says, voice sharp and cruel as a razor.
The exchange is uncomfortable to witness, and next to me, Luci clears her throat.
Huffing, Ric lifts his arm to dislodge his date. His upper lip curls in disgust. “Go clean yourself up.”
Eyes downcast, the redhead speaks to Luci. “Can you show me the restroom?”
