23

THE SOCIALITE

The next week is a blur of social activity and trying to figure out what I’m going to do about the Peep-Toe Prowler—in other words, business as usual.

Tea parties give way to cocktail hours, which soon transform into brunches where the women drink copious amounts of gin and complain about their husbands. Every time I turn around, my grandmother is admonishing me to make an effort, for heaven’s sake or at least put on an interested face. Which is why, at one such brunch hosted by Millie Ralph, I find myself discussing my married life with virtual strangers.

“That makes three times he’s stood me up for our anniversary,” says the statuesque woman from the tea party—her name, I’ve since learned, is Olivia Newton, absolutely no John. “Each year, he promises to make it up to me, and each year, I get the same tennis bracelet two days later.”

I pray she’s not wearing one of those tennis bracelets now, because the flash of those rocks is one hundred percent cubic zirconia. Her husband sounds worse with each passing day.

“You’re married, right?” she asks me earnestly.

“Ye-es,” I reply.

Olivia and the nonstatuesque woman, whose name I still haven’t learned, look down at my plain band in clear judgment. I immediately bristle.

I might not wear flashy jewels or have a private jet, but I could tell them all about how Grant woke me up this morning. His method was slow and careful and included a lot of tongue—so much of it, in fact, that I’m still struggling to stand on solid ground.

I don’t mention it, though. No one likes a show-off.

Besides, there’s that minor problem where I have yet to tell him that I’m pretty sure I know who the Peep-Toe Prowler is. He spent his entire day yesterday at Otisville Federal Correctional Institution, interviewing the criminals Christopher Leon put away in hopes they might admit to working in league with him.

It was a waste of twelve hours and of Grant’s talents as a federal agent, and he has no one to blame for it but me.

“What’s your husband like?” Olivia asks.

I doubt she’s asking about his weight and height, but my grandmother gives me another one of those steely try-to-fit-in looks, so I offer a tentative, “Um, he can be overprotective sometimes?”

“Overprotective?”

“Yeah, he’s an FBI agent, so he gets really worried about the things he can’t control. Including me.” Especially me. “Like, I know he loves me and everything, but I can’t help thinking he’d rather have a different version sometimes. A quieter, softer one, you know?”

“A quiet one?” the nonstatuesque woman echoes.

“I know, right?” I grab a crab-filled pastry from a passing tray and shove it in my mouth. “You might as well bury me in a box for the rest of my life as ask me to be quiet, but he won’t listen. He just wants me to be safe and happy.”

From the look on Olivia’s face, it’s obvious she finds the box part alarming, but the nonstatuesque woman nods. “Safe and happy sounds nice, if you ask me,” she says.

I turn to her eagerly. Pouring out my heart and soul to a woman whose name I don’t know reeks of desperation, but that’s what I am—desperate. I can’t talk to my friends, and talking to Grant is obviously not an option, but I need to get this out to someone. The only alternative is to call Simon and get his thoughts on the subject, but I doubt that’s what he meant when he said I could turn to him for help.

“That’s the problem,” I say. “Safe and happy sounds nice to ninety-nine percent of the population. I know it’s what I’m supposed to want, but it feels like a death sentence. Oh, not the sharing my life with him part—he’s pretty great, actually.”

More than great, but that right there is a big part of the problem. He’s everything I’m not. He always will be.

“It’s all the stuff that comes with being safe that freaks me out,” I explain. “Following rules and obeying, um, traffic laws and playing nice… If that’s the kind of person my husband expects me to be, if that’s what he wants out of our relationship, then I’m starting to wonder if we’re doomed. How can two people be so different and still be so much in love?”

“Are you sure you’re all that different?” the nonstatuesque woman asks. “There must be a common ground somewhere.”

“Not a very big one,” I say. “Sometimes it feels like we’re killing time until one of us is willing to admit we made a mistake.”

“Honey, you just described every marriage in this room,” Olivia says.

“Get a counselor or get a lawyer, that’s what I always say,” puts in another woman lingering at the edge of our group. “I’m on my third husband already.”

Although I get a sympathetic smile from the nonstatuesque woman, she also shrugs and holds up two fingers, indicating her own marital status. In other words, I’m screwed.

There’s not much to hold my interest in the gathering after that. I wouldn’t have come at all except I need to pretend to be investigating this case for a while longer. How much longer, I can’t say, but I hope my part ends soon. I like my grandmother, I really do, but it’s possible to have too much of a good thing—especially when that good thing is as strong and willful as her. I’m starting to see why she and my mother might not have always gotten along.

In an effort to curtail some of that togetherness while I can, I approach the corner where my grandmother and Jane stand politely chatting. “If you don’t mind my leaving early, I think I’m going to head out,” I say.

“Uh-oh.” Jane gives a maternal cluck. “So soon?”

“Yeah, I’m not feeling well.”

She reaches out and presses her palm against my forehead, her fingers cool on my skin. It’s silly, this time-honored test of illness being conducted between grown women, but it’s nice, too. I don’t think anyone has checked my temperature before.

“You do feel warm, poor thing. We’ve been trotting her too hard, Erica. Do you want to go upstairs and lie down for a spell?”

My grandmother’s eyes narrow in what feels to me like a much more normal reaction to feigned illness—doubt and suspicion. “Of course she doesn’t want to lie down. Duponts don’t get sick.”

It’s true. I can’t recall the last time I had a cold, but it’s too late for me to pretend I have a family emergency instead.

“Don’t forget I’m half Blue,” I say. “We’re a frail, sickly people.”

My grandmother sets her champagne glass aside. “I guess there’s no reason for us to linger on. Millie always overdoes these things. I’ve never known such a woman for showing off. Did you notice the entertainment she has planned for later? Belly dancers. How ghastly. I’d rather she bring out Richard’s clowns again.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” I say, struggling to hide my laugh. “You can stay. I’ll just take the subway to Grand Central and get home that way.”

“Are you sure?”

I’m sure. The last thing I need is to spend the next hour in my grandmother’s town car while she lectures me on my slovenliness. I am slovenly, even in this sequined jersey dress of Tara’s, but I’m not up to the task of hearing about it.

If Jane offered me a ride, however…

I look at her expectantly, but she only repeats her offer to find me a dark, quiet place to rest upstairs. “Millie has plenty of space. You won’t be interrupted up there, I promise.”

As much fun as crashing at a virtual stranger’s house for a postbrunch nap sounds, I pass. “That’s okay. You two have a good afternoon. I’ll be fine. And I’ll plan on seeing you both for the Black and White Ball this weekend.”

“Yes,” Jane agrees with a smile. “It promises to be a good time.”

“I only hope you found something appropriate to wear,” my grandmother adds.

I haven’t, but I assume Tara’s offer to try gowns on still stands, so I’m not too worried about it. With a polite murmur to a few familiar faces on the way out—I’m getting good at this—I make my grateful escape. Blue skies above and the pristine sidewalks of the Upper East Side below change my mind about the subway, so I head out in favor of a nice, long walk to clear my head.

I don’t get far.

Under normal circumstances, the sights and sounds of incessant New York traffic only interest me insofar as they can be used to help or hinder a quick getaway. That’s my excuse, anyway, for why I almost miss sight of the glossy black muscle car that veers sharply around the corner. I’m alone in the intersection when it does, my attention focused on my own whirling thoughts rather than the road around me. More out of instinct than reason, I leap toward the sidewalk and out of the path of danger, heedless of gravity. The gravel digging into my knees as I come to a stop a few feet away indicates my success at this maneuver.

For a dizzy second, my legs sprawled and my heart fluttering wildly, I think the car is going to ignore me and pull away. It’s an extremely rude thing to do—for all the driver knows, I could be dead down here—so I get to my feet and glare as best I can in a spangled dress and banged knees.

That’s when I catch sight of the driver. A full head of leonine hair. Dark, inscrutable eyes. A cleft chin to make Roman statuaries rise up in jealousy.

Christopher Leon.

Before I can react to the sight of him, the driver’s side door swings open, and his booming voice assails my ears. “Oh, God. Penelope Blue. Are you hurt? Did I hit you? Should I call an ambulance?”

“No, no, and no.” I answer his questions in the order they were received. “I’m fine, just startled. You were driving really fast.”

He winces. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to veer so far to the right—I saw you there and panicked. I’m not used to this car’s power yet. Did Grant tell you about it?”

About his car? We’ve spent quite a bit of time discussing Christopher lately, but his preferred mode of transportation has never come up.

“Uh, no,” I say, wondering if I should apologize for the oversight. “Was he supposed to?”

His crestfallen look is almost comical. “No, of course not. I thought he might have mentioned it, that’s all. Can I give you a lift somewhere?”

I hesitate. Grant’s worries about this man’s intentions toward me are difficult to silence, even in the broad light of day. I highly doubt he’s the Peep-Toe Prowler—especially now that I know who’s really behind things—but it’s hard to let the idea of extracted fingernails go once it’s gotten a firm grip on your subconscious.

“I’m not going to kidnap you or anything, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

He laughs, and his overloud voice carries over the honking of stalled traffic to the sidewalk behind me, where a few passersby halt and take note. Shouting the word kidnap has a tendency to do that, though none of them pause long enough to memorize our details. If my body washes up on the Jersey shore next week, I doubt any of them would be able to identify me.

“I was looking forward to the walk, actually,” I begin.

“Nonsense, I don’t mind. In fact, I’ve been hoping to get a chance to—” He cuts himself short and releases another one of those loud, nervous laughs. “To, ah, talk to you. I feel bad for how we left things last time.”

Seeing the look of eager anticipation on his face, I do a quick statistical calculation before agreeing to get in—and by statistical calculation, I mean I determine the odds of my body washing up on the Jersey shore next week. In the end, I decide the odds are pretty low.

It’s not that I don’t believe Grant when he says Christopher Leon is dangerous, of course, and it’s not that I don’t trust my husband’s judgment as a man of the law. But I know criminals, and I know my own value. I mean, I’m related to some ridiculously powerful people. If the threat of Grant’s vengeance isn’t enough to scare this man, then my father’s vast network of underworld criminals should be. My disappearance isn’t one that would go down easy—and if Christopher is as devious as Grant thinks he is, then he knows it.

“My dad is expecting me,” I say in clear warning.

“Perfect,” he says. “I’ll take you to him.”

The speed of his reply settles it. I get in.

The car is as nice on the inside as it is on the exterior, shiny and new in the way only refinished old classics can manage.

“He’s at the Lombardy, right?” Christopher asks as he pulls jerkily into the street, the engine revving much harder than it needs to. He seems nervous, though I can’t tell why. Of the two of us, I’m the one most likely to end up dead. “Does he like it there? I’ve only been inside the lobby and bar before, but it seems like the rooms must be nice.”

This is an odd line of questioning, but I go along with it, hoping he’ll lead us somewhere more interesting. “Yeah, he’s comfortable enough, or so I assume. My dad’s not one to stick around if he’s not happy.”

“But he wouldn’t go far, would he?” He flips on the blinker and turns left—two actions that put me at ease. For one, this is the correct way to get to the hotel. For another, I doubt a kidnapper would bother with turn signals. “If he wasn’t happy at the hotel, I mean. He wouldn’t leave New York. He’ll stay wherever you are.”

“Actually, I don’t know if that’s true. I mean, he loves me—and he’ll protect me no matter what—but as much as I wish I was the reason he’s sticking around, I don’t think I am. We don’t have that sort of relationship.”

He frowns. “Yeah. I know how you feel.”

“Oh? Is your father a highly capable jewel thief wanted in fifteen different countries, too?”

“Well, no.” He turns to me with a grin, his dark eyes flashing with laughter in a way that reminds me so much of Grant. “I don’t know much about my dad, to be honest. He left when I was really young.”

“That’s too bad,” I say, and I mean it. Grant isn’t one to dwell on his own childhood disappointments, but I know his story is a similar one. “Are you close to your mom?”

“I was.” His gaze returns to the road. “She passed away not too long ago.”

“I’m so sorry. That’s hard.” It’s not my best consolation, but I hope he can feel my sincerity. If anyone knows about surviving after the loss of both parents, it’s me. After my dad left, I wouldn’t have made it without Riker’s support. Sure, we were juvenile delinquents, and we stole most of the things we needed to survive, but we were juvenile delinquents stealing together.

The knife in my back twists a little deeper.

“At least you have your work to keep you busy,” I say. “You enjoy being an FBI agent, right?”

“Um. It’s okay, I guess.”

Only okay? So far, I’ve never met an agent who wasn’t willing to live and die for the job. “You don’t like it?” I venture. “Why not?”

“It’s hard to say.” He hunches his shoulders. “The work is interesting, and I like being part of something bigger than myself, but…”

“But?” I prompt.

He casts me a quick, rueful smile. “It’s not easy, fitting in with those guys. They’ve got their own brotherhood with their own set of rules to guide it. It’s pretty tight-knit. No matter how hard I try, I always seem to be on the outside looking in.”

Oh, man. I know how that feels, too.

“That’s part of why I wanted you to know you could reach out to me…for anything. Anything at all. I’m on your side, Penelope. I hope you know that.”

It’s a sweet offer, but I don’t even know what side I’m on anymore.

“And you could always put in a good word for me, too,” he adds. “You know, if you wanted. Grant trusts your opinion more than anyone’s. You could get him to do anything you want.”

Although I try to hide my sharp look of surprise, I don’t think I do a good job of it. Of course, I can’t get Grant to bend to my will—believe me, I’ve tried—and anyone who knows him the slightest bit would be aware of that fact. That Christopher Leon isn’t aware of it, and that he’d try to manipulate my husband by going through me…

Well. Let’s just say it’s a good thing I look out the car window to find the familiar facade of my father’s hotel rolling up. Part of me wants to find an excuse for Christopher to keep driving me around so I can pump him for information, but another part feels suddenly shaky.

Maybe getting in this man’s car wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had.

I slide out the passenger door before he can make a grab for my fingernails. “Thank you for the ride, Christopher,” I say, forcing a smile. “It was nice running into you today.”

“You too, Penelope. I’m sorry for almost hitting you earlier.”

“No problem. I bounce back pretty fast.” I pause, wondering if I should add something about how difficult I am to kill, but he speaks up before I get a chance.

“We’ll chat again soon, yeah?”

I nod, unsure how else to respond. He takes it as an assent and waves as he pulls away. I watch him go with mixed feelings, though I mostly feel grateful to have escaped the car. What a strange, confusing man. Whatever he’s up to, I definitely don’t want to be a part of it.

I guess this is what I get for interfering. A smart woman would bow out of this game while she still has a chance. A smarter woman would have never started playing in the first place.

And the smartest woman of all?

I sigh. If I find her, I’ll be sure to ask.