Predatory (Immortal Guardians #3.5)(105)

The energy in the restaurant was low, most people not knowing whether they should mourn or celebrate. Half a drink in, Jason Forbes took a makeshift stage and made a touching—if quick—toast to Reginald’s life and career then a muted introduction of the contest, Emerson, and me. Directly afterward, the heavy appetizers—and the murmured gossip—started. I carried around a canapé and a glass of champagne and flitted from group to group, head cocked, lips in a serene yet friendly smile, ears open.

I heard that Reginald had offed himself because Felipe was going home to a mystery wife he had back in Brazil. I heard the suicide was due to a fashion line Reginald was hired for that nosedived, taking the entire company with it. I heard that it was drugs, alcohol, carbohydrates. But when I heard that Reginald hadn’t committed suicide at all, I stopped walking.

A model I knew as Bea was talking, her greasy-plate lips stained a weird glossy orange as she held court.

I edged my way in, gushed appropriately, and Bea pulled me into the conversation.

“My boyfriend,” she said, flapping enormous baby-girl lashes. “He is interested in so many things, so he volunteers at the city morgue.”

The woman next to me nudged me in the ribs with a bony elbow and mouthed the words “community service.”

Bea shot her a death glance and kept going. “Adam had to stand by and watch the coroner start the autography.”

“Autopsy,” I corrected, taking a burning swallow of champagne.

“Right. They started the preliminary thing and the coroner talks into a tape recorder. Adam heard him say that the . . . the,” Bea said, and made a motion around her neck. “The rings on Reginald’s neck were not conducted to a death by hanging.”

“They weren’t conducive to a hanging?”

Bea turned her enormous eyes on me and nodded. “You heard that, too?”

I had to physically control myself from rolling my eyes.

“Anyway,” Bea went on, “he said that it looked like Reginald was dead before he could hang himself.”

The other women in the circle shivered appropriately but I stepped forward. “How did he die, then?”

Bea’s tiny bird shoulders rose. “And did he hang himself before or after?”

I handed Bea my champagne glass and beat a hasty retreat—at least I tried to, before coming face to face with Emerson.

“Someone’s in a hurry,” she said, her eyes raking over me. “Need to rush off and rip a few seams?”

My one-track mind went from checking out Reginald’s not-suicide to wishing Emerson was the one swinging from the rafters.

I stopped there.

“Hey, Em,” I said, closing the distance between us—and thankful my gag reflex had disappeared along with my soul. “What were you doing this morning?”

She cocked an anemic eyebrow that let me know she suspected something. “I was with you.”

“Before that.”

She whipped away from me. “Why do you ask?”

I sized Emerson up. If Bea was right—and I couldn’t put much stock in that, as she was boobs over brains—and Reginald’s death wasn’t a suicide, could someone like Emerson be responsible?

I shrugged. “Just curious.”

Emerson crossed her arms in front of her chest—or attempted to, as her horrid interpretation of sleeves swallowed her up—and flared her nostrils. “Nicolette and I were working at the apartment.”

I narrowed my eyes, trying to determine if there was something in her voice, her stare that would indicate absolute guilt. I like to think my super-vampire sense would make me particularly good at reading a breather’s emotions, but no.

“Stop staring at me.”

“Ms. LaShay!” I felt an arm snake through mine before I heard Jason Forbes’s deep voice—but not before I saw Emerson’s face tighten, her eyes sharp as naked swords.

“I was hoping to catch you. I see you and Ms. Hawk are getting acquainted.”

I put on my most dazzling smile and nodded. “We certainly are.”

Jason pitched his head toward mine, his lips just brushing my ear. “I’d like to talk to you about one of your designs.”

I kept grinning, enjoying Emerson’s pallor.

It was at the precise moment that Jason put his hand on my arm that I saw Emerson lurch forward, in the most melodramatic fall I’d seen in lifetimes. I watched the deep, red zinfandel swish from her bowl glass, up, up, up and out, and then I felt the liquid seeping through my dress, dripping over my collarbone, droplets slipping down through my décolletage.

And then all hell broke loose.

I forgot that Jason Forbes was within wetting distance and screamed, “You bitch! You did that on purpose!”

A slick grin rushed across Emerson’s lips before her expression snapped into one of mock apology and horror. “Oh, dear, oh! I’m such a klutz. Please, do send me the dry-cleaning bill.”

People had started to circle now, looking sadly at my spoiled dress—few things moved fashionistas like wounded couture.

“If you were worth anything as a designer, you’d know that you don’t dry-clean hand-dyed, vintage Versace.”

Emerson cocked her head, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. “Are you sure that’s Versace? I think you may have been taken, sweetie. I did the full Versace catalog when I was there,” she said, her voice rising on Versace. “And I really don’t recall seeing that particular number in their annals.”