White Hot (Hidden Legacy #2)(67)

True to his word, we drifted. People looked at us. I glanced at Augustine. Somewhere between the front door and ballroom, he’d become stunning. He was usually handsome—his illusion affording him an icy perfection—but now he’d transformed into a Greek demigod. A living, breathing work of art, superhuman in its beauty. Women looked at him, then invariably at me, their gazes snagging on the bruise on my neck.

Augustine led me to the left. A waiter ghosted over to us, offering champagne. Augustine took a flute, but I waved mine off. The last thing I needed was to get drunk. We kept strolling, bits of conversation floating to us.

“You look divine . . .”

“Lie,” I murmured under my breath.

“. . . so lovely to see you . . .”

“Lie.”

“. . . would have never thought her capable of such a direct action . . .”

“Lie.”

“I hate these gatherings.”

“Lie, lie, lie.”

Augustine laughed quietly.

A woman thrust herself into our way. In her forties, with a carefully structured blond hairdo, she wore a turquoise dress. A man who had to be either her son or a lover half her age accompanied her. Dark-haired and handsome, he was overgroomed and slightly effeminate. Too much eyebrow tweezing. I didn’t recognize either face, so they probably wouldn’t murder me.

“Augustine, my dear, what a delight.”

Lie.

“Likewise, Cheyenne,” Augustine said.

Lie. Clearly this wasn’t a close friend.

“We’ve been admiring your lovely companion,” Cheyenne said. Both she and her boy toy looked at me and for some reason I was reminded of hyenas baring their fangs.

“So interesting,” the boy toy said. “Perhaps she can settle our dispute. See, Cheyenne here contends that a woman should retain some hint of her natural state, while I firmly believe that a female body should be bald from the eyebrows down. Care to opine?”

Aha. Clearly he was some kind of idiot. I had no time for that nonsense. I looked directly at him, holding his stare for a full five seconds, then deliberately turned my back to him. Augustine and I walked away.

“Well done,” Augustine whispered.

“Who were they?”

“Nobody important.”

An elegant African American woman was making her way toward us. She wore a pink dress, not the overwhelming bright pink of Pepto-Bismol, but the gentle pastel pink a mere shade redder than white. The dress, slightly looser than a mermaid shape, hugged her statuesque frame. A half cape spilled from her shoulder, giving her a regal air. From the distance she looked ageless, but now, close up, I could see she was probably twice my age.

Augustine bowed his head. “Lady Azora.”

“May I borrow you for a moment, Augustine?” She glanced at me.

Augustine also glanced at me.

“Of course,” I said.

“Thank you, my dear,” Lady Azora told me.

They strolled away.

I turned so I could keep them in my view without staring at Augustine’s back. A man emerged from behind a group of people. African American, in his midthirties, he moved with an athletic grace, walking until he stopped next to me. Or rather loomed. He had to be three or four inches over six feet tall. Every tuxedo and suit in this place was custom-made, but his must’ve taken a couple of extra yards to accommodate his height and broad shoulders. His hair was cropped very short, and an equally short goatee beard and mustache traced his jaw, cut with razor-sharp precision. Our stares met. An agile intellect shone from his dark eyes. One look and you knew that he wasn’t just intelligent, he was sharp and shrewd. He wouldn’t mow down his opposition. He would disassemble it.

The man bent his head slightly toward me. His voice was deep and quiet. “Do you need help?”

I had no idea what he was talking about.

“Do you need help?” he repeated quietly. “One word, and I’ll take you out of here and none of them can stop me. I’ll make sure you have access to a doctor, a safe place to stay, and a therapist to talk to. Someone who understands what it’s like and will help. ”

The pieces clicked in my head. The bruise. Of course. “Thank you, but I’m okay.”

“You don’t know me. It’s difficult to trust me because I’m a man and a stranger. The woman speaking with Augustine is my aunt. The woman across the floor in the white-and-purple gown is my sister. Either of them will vouch for me. Let me help you.”

“Thank you,” I told him. “On behalf of every woman here. But I’m a private investigator. I’m not a victim of domestic abuse. This is a work-related injury and the man who put his hands on me is dead.”

The man studied me for a long moment and slid a card into my hand. “If you decide that the injury isn’t work related, call me.”

Augustine turned toward us.

The man gave him a hard stare and walked away. I glanced at the card. It was solid black, with the initials ML embossed on one side in silver and a phone number on the other.

“Do you know who that was?” Augustine asked.

“No.”

“Michael Latimer. Very powerful, very dangerous.”

“He wasn’t on my list.”

“He was supposed to be in France for the next month. What did he want?”