Page 27 of The Bargain

“As my date,” she adds pointedly.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Julian says with a short, sharp laugh. “Noxie? At the Cyprian? He wouldn’t even have a fucking clue what to wear.”

Laughter ripples across the length of the table. And even though Desdemona doesn’t deign to respond, I can see the delicate flush of pink in her cheeks. She doesn’t have to say anything for me—and everybody else at this table—to know exactly what she’s feeling.

10

Big Man

Elias

The following evening, when it’s finally time to get ready, I smoke a cigarette, shower twice, tear through my closet, then finally give up. Fuck it, they’re going to judge me either way, right?

All day, I’ve been catching eyes on me: the people who aren’t invited to the Cyprian stare at me with disdain, as if to say, “Really? Him?” And the people who are invited look at me with hunger, anticipatory smiles, like they just can’t wait to see this dog walk on its hind legs.

No pressure, then.

In the end, I throw on the best of what I’ve got, comb my fingers through my hair, spray cologne and set off. Desdemona didn’t offer to share her fancy limo with me, and I didn’t expect her to. Her embarrassment at inviting me was plain for all to see—I wasn’t about to give her any reason to back out.

The ice queen, it turns out, is just as much a prisoner to public condemnation as the rest of us. Not something I’m going to forget in a hurry. But just because it’s going to complicate my plans to climb—doesn’t mean I’m giving up.

I’m more than half-surprised to find Desdemona waiting for me outside the Cyprian. Her arms are crossed, her back straight as a column of marble. In the gritty darkness, in the slashing rain and sleazy streetlights and howling noise of London, she looks a little like a goddess stumbled onto our world on some ineffable errand.

She’s wearing a white dress, like the first time I saw her.

This one is short, perfectly tailored, with shoulder straps so thin they look like white filaments. Her hair is swept up, and there are delicate pearl bracelets on her wrists, but no other jewels.

Her face is one deep frown.

She reaches out for me the moment I cross to her side of the street and pulls me under the club’s black-and-white marquee by the lapels of my jacket.

“What on earth are you wearing?” she hisses into my face.

I glance down at my shoes, which she’s looking at like they’re the murder weapons that killed her entire family.

“Uh—my best shoes?”

“Are you a forty-year-old investment banker?” she says. “Why aren’t you wearing normal shoes?”

“At your fancy club?”

“My cousin paid six thousand pounds for the booth. You can wear whatever you want.”

Then why were you so embarrassed by what Julian said yesterday?

Asking that question, though, would be like firing a loaded gun and expecting flowers to pop out.

“Isn’t this the kind of thing you should be teaching me?” I ask instead, mild enough. “You’re slacking, love.”

“You think I don’t have anything better to do with my time than telling you what to wear?” she snaps.

She suddenly spreads my jacket open.

I smirk. “Easy, girl.”

She ignores that blatant bit of provocation. I watch her closely as she busies herself removing my cufflinks, popping open the top buttons of my shirt, shoving my hair back from my face with her fingers. Her touch is impersonal and business-like, but there’s a sort of dark satisfaction brewing beneath my skin.

When she tries to step back, I grab her hand, keeping her close.