Madame X - Wilder Jasinda (книги хорошем качестве бесплатно без регистрации .txt) 📗

I cannot breathe.

Your hand squeezes my thigh. “X? You okay?”

I force air into my lungs. Blink, curl my fingers into fists and force myself to breathe. In . . . and out. In . . . and out. I cannot answer you, and I am not, clearly, so it seems an inane question to me. Release my fists. Flatten my palms on my thighs, nudge your hand away. I cannot bear touch, not from you, not now.

Eyes open. Look out the window. The buildings are dizzying, rocketing hundreds of feet in the air, rising all around like a tribe of clustered titans. I am drowning at the bottom of a thousand glass canyons. Horns blare, loud even within the acoustically hushed interior of the car. The Maybach Landaulet 62, as you named this vehicle. Some sort of luxury automobile, I assume. I know nothing of such things and care even less. You seem impressed, which I suppose is the purpose.

The people. So many, many people. Crowds of them, an endless river of heads, hair, hats, and shoulders, swinging arms, blots of color, a black umbrella despite the clear, warm weather of the evening. A roar of an engine from a long, high truck with oversized wheels and vertical exhaust pipes spouting black smoke. A man in a suit darting between moving vehicles, running across the street, briefcase clutched under one arm. So much. It is too much.

“X. Look at me, babe.” You touch me. Fingers to chin, bring my face around.

I jerk my face away from your touch, but I look at you. And I breathe. A little, at least.

You smile. “Hey. There you are. It’s okay, X. It’s just Manhattan.” You frown, a subtle lowering of your brows, mouth corners flattening, lips thinning. “You really don’t get out much, do you?”

I shake my head. “No. I don’t.”

“Well . . . if you’re overwhelmed, why don’t you focus on me, huh? Look at me. Talk to me.” You take my hand, hold it palm to palm, fingers wrapped around the edge, as children hold hands. It is platonic, and strangely soothing. “This event, there’s gonna be a lot of famous people there. Except for that, though, it’s gonna be boring as fuck. Just so you know. Lots of standing around with fancy champagne and cheap scotch, talking about how rich everyone else is. Yachts and private planes, who owns which island and which estate where.” You take on an arch, pretentious tone of voice. “Have you tried the Lafite sixty-six? Positively divine, old boy. I have a bottle, you’ll have to come to my estate in the Hamptons.” You wave a hand in disgust. “Rich old windbags. The famous people are worse, I think. Just stand around and expect everyone to come to them, pay attention to them. Like anyone fucking cares. They do care, though, you know? That’s what has me in such a pissy mood about it. They all do care. Been to one of these, you’ve been to ’em all. There’ll be dancing, though. Proper waltzes and shit like that. Good thing I learned, right?”

“Good thing, yes,” I say, faint.

“Can you dance, X?”

I blink. “Dance?”

You laugh. “Yeah. Dance. Like the waltz or the cha-cha or whatever.”

I finally crack a smile, and feel a little better. “Cha-cha? I think not. I can waltz, however.”

You arch an eyebrow suggestively. “You’d probably cause a few heart attacks if you were to cha-cha, I think. Those old goats and their pacemakers wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

“Handle what?” I ask.

You glance at me, look me over blatantly. “You, X. Doing the cha-cha in that dress. All their blood would rush south, and they’d all keel over dead.” You clutch your shoulder and mime a heart attack, then erupt in laughter.

“Not appropriate, Jonathan.”

You wave a hand dismissively. “Oh, lighten up, X. It’s a joke.”

I see Len glance at you in the rearview mirror, and catch a glimpse of Thomas in the mirror as well. They are both either amused or disapproving. I’m not sure how to interpret the look you are getting from them. You’ve been successful in distracting me from my nerves, however, and for that I am grateful.

Silence descends for several minutes, and then Len brings the car to a smooth halt outside a building. It is just like all the others, it seems to me, although there is an awning extending from the doorway to the street, and when Len stops the car, Thomas exits and holds open the door for me, and then you. You slide easily across the interior rather than exiting street-side. You’ve done this before. I have to focus on making each movement graceful as I rise from the low vehicle, adjust my dress, and wait for you. As soon as you’re beside me, you button the middle button of your tuxedo coat and offer me your elbow. Two uniformed doormen with long, tailed frock coats and bellman caps haul open two huge wooden doors with steel handles running from top to bottom, bowing deeply as Jonathan and I enter the foyer, Thomas striding behind us.

I feel a huge weight on my shoulder and turn to see Thomas staring down at me, broad face impassive, holding up a single finger. Wait, the gesture says. Within moments Len is entering as well, moving to stand behind Jonathan while Thomas is behind me.

“All right, gang. Time to go.” Len catches my eye. “Once we’re in there, I’m going to mingle. Keep an eye on you from out of sight. Thomas will be with you the whole time, though.” A glance at you. “And Jonathan? The only thing I’m going to say to you is remember clause three of the contract you signed, yeah?”

Your face tightens. “Yeah, I remember.”

“Good. That’s all. Let’s go have fun.” Len rolls his shoulder, fastens the middle button of his suit coat, and nods at the door.

Another pair of uniformed doormen bow as they pull the doors open, and we step through. A short, dark wood-paneled hallway leads to a lectern, behind which is a tall, elderly gentleman in a tuxedo with a red rose at his lapel.

“Sir, madam. Welcome. The name?”

“Jonathan Cartwright the Third, and guest.”

“Might I see some identification, sir? For security purposes, of course.” The host extends a wrinkled hand, and you hand him a card, take it back. “Very well, Mr. Cartwright, madam. This way, please.” A gesture to a third and final set of doors, manned yet again by two uniformed doormen.

As they open the doors, a low hum greets you and me—I do not say us, Jonathan, because there is no us. Merely two individuals sharing the same space for a short time.

I must remind myself of this.

A low hum of voices, quiet murmurs, polite laughter. A string quartet and a pianist play classical music in some corner, a microphone stand off to one side against the wall, waiting for a special musical guest, I imagine. The crowd is clustered in groups of four and six, sometimes as many as eight in a circle, all in tuxedos and gowns, expensive watches glittering, diamonds glinting. Eyes shift, heads swivel, subtly scanning for familiar faces.

I know precisely three people here, and they are all making this entrance with me.

No one remarks on our arrival. They notice, see that we are clearly not famous, and their eyes skip over us. Return to conversations and beverages. We are two steps into the room when a young woman in a tasteful but short black dress with an apron at her waist approaches us, tray in hand, bearing flutes of champagne. You take a flute, hand it to me, take another for yourself.

Len has vanished. Thomas looms behind us, close, but not suffocatingly so. A precisely measured distance, I think.

“To you, Madame X. And to being outside that condo.”

I blink at your unexpected toast. “Yes. As you say.” I clink my flute against yours.

“Don’t like my toast, X?” You sip, your eyes twinkling with humor.

“It was . . . not what I was expecting you to toast to.”

“What were you expecting, then?”

I take a demure sip. It is sweet, bubbly, with a crisp bite. I like it, but not as much as the wine I had with—I shake my head, refusing to let my mind wander from this experience. Refusing to let thoughts of Caleb Indigo sully my enjoyment. If it is enjoyment I’m feeling; it is a foreign emotion, a flutter in my belly, a quickening of the pulse, shortness of breath, anticipation of . . . something.