The princess deception, p.15
The Princess Deception, page 15
“Why hello, stranger.” The words were accompanied by a warm hand on her shoulder.
Viola turned and looked into Maria’s eyes. She noted their constricted pupils and wondered whether Maria was already high. Anger rose in her at the thought, but she tamped it down and summoned the smile she had practiced in the mirror: uncertain, but with a tinge of eagerness that should mollify Maria’s ego.
“Maria,” she said, taking in her appearance. “You look beautiful.”
That much was true. Her hair was plaited in two elaborate braids that met behind her head, merging like two rivers above a dark blond waterfall. The style accentuated the angles of her face and collarbones, the pale expanse of her neck and throat.
“Words are cheap,” she said coyly. “Show me.” She wrapped her arms around Viola’s neck and drew her down. “I’ve missed you, baby,” she added in a throaty whisper before joining their lips.
Viola had tried to prepare for this moment, but how could she? She had no idea—and negative desire to know—how her brother’s kissing technique compared to her own. The only possible course of action was to be herself and be ready to explain away any differences Maria chanced to remark upon.
Her pliant mouth tasted like overripe strawberries. Viola had assumed that, public as it was, the kiss would be brief, but Maria held her close and parted her lips, clearly wanting to send a message to any onlookers. Viola slipped her tongue just inside to tangle with Maria’s, hoping she would be distracted enough to ease her grip. The ploy worked, and Viola promptly ended the kiss, stepping away before Maria could regroup. Her mouth framed a pout.
“That’s all I get after so long?”
“Sebastian?”
Her mother’s voice reached out with the promise of rescue, and Viola turned to her gratefully. Her mother’s face betrayed no hint of her deception—she looked every inch the confident queen, at her ease in polite society. Upon noticing Maria, she feigned surprise so well that for an instant, Viola thought she must truly not have seen her. But of course she had: she was following through on the plan.
“Oh, Maria, my apologies,” her mother said with perfect civility. “But I’m afraid I must abscond with Sebastian.” She looked to Viola. “The Japanese ambassador would like a word before we announce dinner.”
“Of course.” Viola did her best to affect disappointment, and as she kissed Maria’s cheek, she murmured an apology.
She linked arms with her mother, and once they were several paces away, thanked her in a barely audible whisper.
“It was the least I could do. How are you bearing up?”
“That was uncomfortable,” Viola admitted. “But I don’t think I raised any red flags.”
Her mother paused to pluck two fresh glasses of champagne from a proffered tray and handed one to Viola. “You are an extraordinary person, Vi. And you are doing an amazing job. Sometimes, when I look at you, I forget it is you, and—” Her eyes filled with tears and she closed her hand convulsively on Viola’s arm.
Viola thought she knew what had prompted the display of emotion. When her mother saw “Sebastian” across the room, she momentarily forgot that her son was in fact hundreds of kilometers away in a rehabilitation facility.
“He’s safe,” she said, bending her head to ensure the words weren’t overheard, “and so far, he seems to be doing well. We’re going to get through this—all of us, together.”
“Yes.” Her mother cleared her throat delicately, then managed a smile. “You should know that the Japanese ambassador does wish to speak with you, though the urgency was fabricated.”
“There’s no time like the present,” Viola said, surreptitiously watching the crowd around them. From what she could tell, no one appeared to have picked up on her mother’s distress.
Fatigue pressed against the backs of her eyes as they crossed the room, but Viola tried to ignore it. She still had to make it through dinner, the auction, and the after-party. As difficult as this performance might be, she reminded herself, it couldn’t hold a candle to the battle her brother was fighting. She would do her part. She could be that strong.
Chapter Eleven
Brussels, Belgium
“Ready?” Thijs asked as the car pulled to the curb in front of Zonde. The word meant “sin,” in Dutch, and the club played up all the relevant associations by dubbing itself “The Hottest Spot in Brussels.” It had been open for a year, but Viola had only patronized it once, near the end of her relationship with Dahlia. They had argued that night—Viola had wanted to spend a quiet evening at home, but Dahlia had pressured her into going out—and the sour memory hadn’t made Viola eager to return.
She didn’t feel anything close to ready, but she nodded to Thijs and stepped outside before her courage failed. Flashbulbs filled the night with bursts of incandescence that illuminated the club’s entrance. Its double doors were framed by an alcove painted in shades of crimson, and a projector created the illusion of orange flames flickering against the walls. To her left, a line of people wrapped around the side of the building, awaiting their chance to rub shoulders with royalty, celebrity, and wealth. Their cover charge was five hundred euro, and every cent of profit would be split between the gala’s featured charities. Despite the weight of her exhaustion and the prick of anxiety, Viola felt her mood lift at the thought of how much more money would be raised to supplement the proceeds of the gala.
“Welcome, Your Royal Highness.” The man who greeted them wore a white tuxedo, accentuating his mahogany skin. His bald head gleamed in the faux firelight as he made a bow. “It is an honor to host you this evening.”
Viola shook his hand firmly, thankful for André’s preparation. Sebastian and Henri had met with Raoul Lejeune, the club owner, several weeks ago. “Raoul, the honor is mine. I hope you know how much I appreciate your generous support.”
“I’m glad we could partner in this. Allow me to show you to your table.” When Raoul signaled, two of his guards led them inside.
The heavy fragrance of incense greeted Viola as she crossed the threshold, and as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw two bouquets smoldering in sconces flanking the door. The bouncers turned sharply, leading them to a spiraling staircase designated “VIP,” illuminated by red light lanterns hanging overhead. They emerged onto a landing that telescoped into a narrow hallway leading deeper into the building, lit by torches set into the stone walls at regular intervals. The music was faint here, its prominent bass line thumping like a heartbeat.
“Your grotto has all the amenities you requested,” Raoul said, “and if there is anything else you require, you need only speak with Claire, who will be serving you tonight.”
The corridor curved back and forth on itself sinuously before opening onto the upper level of the arena, a narrow ring looking out over the dance floor. It was called the Pit, and Viola took a moment to lean over the wrought iron railing and look down onto the mass of writhing bodies below. The first of the night’s DJs was spinning on a raised dais in the center of the floor. The club’s ceiling was a massive domed screen. Patterns of light flickered across its surface in synchrony with the music.
As Viola looked over the crowd, her gaze was caught by a woman, her chiseled arms raised over her head as she danced, her golden hair glittering in the rapid pulse of the strobe. She turned just enough for Viola to glimpse her profile.
It was Duke.
Of course it was. With difficulty, Viola held back the hysterical laugh threatening to bubble up from her chest. Even when she didn’t immediately recognize Duke, she was somehow drawn to her. At the moment, she was dancing with a broad-shouldered man Viola didn’t recognize. When he reached out to clasp Duke’s waist, she allowed it for only a few seconds before sliding out of his grasp. Viola felt her teeth clenching and relaxed her jaw. She didn’t need to get angry on Duke’s behalf. Clearly, she could handle herself.
“If you would like to dance,” Raoul said at her elbow, shouting now to be heard over both the thundering beat and the roar of the crowd, “I will be glad to provide an escort to the designated VIP area.”
“No, thank you. I’d like to sit for the moment.”
Viola turned her back on the spectacle below, wrenching her thoughts away from Duke as she was approached by Henri. As he had in Amsterdam, Henri was coordinating the entertainment at this event, and thankfully, there had been no last-minute crises. Viola thanked him for all he’d done and prepared to move on, but Henri stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.
“Maria is looking for you.” He leaned closer. “In case you hadn’t heard, there’s a Lorelei party tonight.” His brows rose in a gesture clearly meant to convey some kind of meaning, but without any more information about this mysterious Lorelei, Viola remained in the dark.
“Thanks,” she said, hoping it was a safe reply. His eyes narrowed slightly, but he only nodded before continuing in his original direction.
Their group moved more slowly now as the guards worked to clear a path through the press of people. All attendees at the gala had been granted access to this level, and she paused to greet several of those she had not been able to speak with earlier in the evening. It was nearly impossible to conduct any kind of real conversation over the DJ, and that could only work in her favor. Still, it was a relief when they reached their “grotto,” a deep alcove in the wall that held several couches and tables, demarcated by a chain and a pair of crimson curtains.
Raoul introduced Claire, whose black dress barely came to mid thigh, its neckline plunging into her cleavage. The prevalence of the “magic” theme was much less pronounced here than it had been at the palace, and Claire’s single concession to it was a top hat, which she wore at a jaunty angle. When she assured Viola that she would be happy to meet her every need, Viola suspected she was quite serious.
“Would you prefer the curtains open or drawn?” she asked, somehow making the question sound like a proposition.
“Leave one drawn and the other open,” Viola said, wanting some shelter but also needing to be accessible. She settled herself in a corner of the nearest couch, at the back of the alcove but visible to passers-by. As soon as she was seated, a woman in a dress that matched the shade of the curtains—also wearing a top hat—stepped forward to open the magnum of Cristal chilling on the table before her, while another approached with a large platter of oysters.
“Maria is here.” Thijs’s voice in her ear drew her attention away from the lavish refreshments. “With a friend. Stephanie.”
This, too, was part of the plan—André stood at the chain separating the alcove from the rest of the club and refused entry to anyone unless she approved them. Thijs was his backup, and the one responsible for relaying the identity of each visitor. Viola looked up to the sight of a clearly frustrated Maria, who was gesticulating sharply in the face of an implacable André. Stephanie, an Italian supermodel, stood beside her looking bored. Viola mentally braced herself for her second round with Maria. This time there were no parents present to intervene. Instead, she was going to have to play the knight in shining armor herself. She rose and walked quickly toward the curtain.
“It’s fine, André. Let them pass.”
“Thank you,” Maria said acidly as he undid the chain.
Viola kissed her, ensuring it was only a quick peck this time, then nodded to Stephanie. “Please, sit. Allow me to get you some champagne. She turned to Claire. “Three glasses, please.”
“What the hell was that all about?” Maria said as she settled into the space Viola had vacated, while Stephanie took one of the chairs across the low table. Viola sat beside Maria and forced herself to rest one hand on the warm skin above her knee. It was disconcerting, and more than ironic, to have to overcome her desire not to touch a woman.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “My security is tight this evening.”
“That’s a drag,” Stephanie said, holding an e-cigarette to her lips and giggling at her own pun. “Though I suppose it’s hard to blame them. I’m glad to see you back on your feet, Prince Charming.” She turned to Maria with a pout. “How is your boyfriend becoming better looking over time?”
Viola caught the quick, warning glance Maria directed toward Stephanie, and her mind spun. Stephanie knew she hadn’t been well. Either she had been present when Sebastian overdosed, or Maria had told her what had happened.
When Maria perceived Viola’s attention, she flashed her teeth in a too-bright smile and linked their arms together. “It’s true, you know,” she said, reaching for her champagne. “You just keep getting hotter.”
“Lovebirds.” Stephanie drank deeply from her champagne. “This soirée is very cute, Sebastian, but how long do you have to stay? Lorelei has something big planned in Ixelles later. Doors open at midnight.”
“I already told him,” Maria said, a note of petulance creeping into her voice.
“I want to get out of here,” Viola said, making a show of craning her neck to look over Stephanie’s head. “But with my security this tight, I don’t know how I’ll manage without a miracle.”
Stephanie rolled her eyes. “They need to relax. For that matter, you need to relax.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “I have Ox in my bag, if you’d like to take the edge off. Consider it an amuse-bouche for the feast later.” Once again, she laughed at her own joke.
This was far from the first time that Viola had been offered drugs in a club, and she was accustomed to brushing away the offers without difficulty. Her single experience with Ecstasy several years ago had been intensely enjoyable in the moment, but in the days that followed, she had been dogged by irritability and a temporary depression worse than anything she’d ever felt at the wrong time of the month. The side effects had convinced her to swear off all drugs except the occasional marijuana joint.
But right now, she wasn’t herself. She was Sebastian—a heroin addict who should be craving any kind of opioid. She couldn’t just say no. She had to make it look difficult.
“Oh God, do you?” Maria said, looking around surreptitiously before holding out one hand. “Please, I’m dying here. I’ll owe you.”
“You already do,” Stephanie said pointedly, but she extracted a small prescription bottle from her purse and shook two blue pills into her palm. Maria tossed one back, draining her champagne in the process.
“I shouldn’t,” said Viola, staring down at the pill perched on the pale peach tip of Maria’s fingers, hoping her expression could be interpreted as desirous when she actually felt rather sick. She had to come up with an excuse, and fast.
“Oh, bullshit,” Stephanie said cheerfully. “Of course you should.”
“I want to.” Viola licked her lips out of necessity. Ironically, the strain was making her mouth as dry as the oxycodone would have done. “But I’ve agreed to random drug tests. I can’t.”
“You’ve what?” Maria hissed. “Why would you do that?”
“To keep the peace. It was that, or do the outpatient rehab.”
The crowd roared as the DJ began to play a new song, and Stephanie turned toward the curtain. “Lovebirds, that’s my cue,” she said, no doubt hoping to escape what was quickly becoming an uncomfortable situation. “I’ll be on the dance floor.”
Once she left, Maria plucked the pill from Viola’s fingertips and deftly stowed it beneath the rouge pad in her makeup kit. It was a practiced motion, and for a moment, Viola felt sorry for her. Then, Maria turned back to her with an accusatory look.
“Why are you letting your family bully you?” she said. “They can’t control you unless you allow them to.”
Viola’s charitable feelings subsided as quickly as they had come. She bent her head and rubbed her eyes in an attempt to gain control over her outrage, but in the end, her efforts were useless. She couldn’t possibly remain calm in the face of Maria’s callousness, and maybe that was all right. Appropriate, even.
“I could have died.” Viola raised her head, letting all the anguish she felt over Sebastian’s close call color her words.
The frustration drained from Maria’s face, and she reached out to squeeze Viola’s forearm lightly. It was the most human response Viola had seen from her tonight, and her anger softened just a little.
“When I woke up in the hospital, I had no idea how I’d gotten there or where I’d been the night before,” Viola said, hoping to capitalize on Maria’s willingness to actually listen. “The last thing I remember is leaving the fundraiser with you. Do you remember anything after that? Where we went next? Who else we were with?”
Maria’s hand remained on her arm, but as Viola spoke, her caresses stilled and her gaze dropped to the tabletop. “We got high in the car,” she said so quietly Viola had to strain to hear her. “The H must have been stronger than usual, because I don’t remember anything else, either.”
“What is your next memory?” Viola persisted.
When Maria looked up, Viola found herself momentarily enthralled by the vivid blue of her eyes, as alluring as the Mediterranean.
“Waking up in Stephanie’s suite. I was lying on the sofa with all my clothes on, all the lights on, and the television spouting an infomercial.”
Her sudden laugh sliced through Viola’s attraction, revealing it to be only a mirage. How could Maria be laughing right now, when her boyfriend had just asked for her help in reconstructing the night he’d nearly asphyxiated to death from an overdose? Her anger returned, even stronger than before, and for one terrifying, liberating moment, she thought the rage washing through her would overspill its bounds. A significant part of her wanted nothing more than to surrender to it. She would cause a terrible scene and blow her own cover, but at least the boiling pressure in her chest would have found a vent.
