Claim Me(88)

“He’s doing the host thing.” I look around for him and see that he’s left Charles, and is now at the center of a small cluster of guests.

“So who is she?” Jamie nods toward the group, and I see that the people have shifted, revealing a lithe brunette at Damien’s side.

The muscles in my face suddenly seem uncomfortably tight. “That’s Giselle,” I say. “She owns the gallery that sells Blaine’s work.”

“Ah. The hostess to Damien’s host. No wonder you’re in a pissy mood.”

“I am not in a pissy mood,” I say, but of course I am. And although the whole Hostess Giselle thing hadn’t occurred to me before, it is now at the top of my list of affronts and irritations. Gee, Jamie. Thanks so much.

“I know how to cure your not-pissy mood.” She grabs my hand and gives it a tug. “Rip and Lyle really are funny. You’re going to love meeting them. And if you don’t love it, then at least pretend like you do, okay?”

I stare her down, because she knows damn well that if there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s put on a good face at a party.

I don’t bother to remind her that I’ve met Rip and Lyle before and since all they speak is Hollywood, I couldn’t make sense of a thing they were saying. This time, though, I’m seeing them through Jamie’s eyes, and she’s right—it’s actually fun.




Armed with my best party girl facade, Jamie and I make the circuit. I am smiling and bubbly, and it’s easy to slide into conversations, easy to pull out my camera and tell people to smile or laugh or cluster closer together.

How simple to fall back into my old habits. To hear my mother’s instructions in my head. “A lady is always in control. Never let them see that they’ve wounded you. Because once you do, they’ll know your weaknesses.”

Mother’s words are calculating and cold, but I cling to them. As much as I’ve run from my mother and my pageant days and the hell of my life with her, I can’t deny that there is comfort in turning back to the familiar. Because my mother is right. They can’t hurt you if they don’t see you. And right now, all I’m willing to show is the mask.

Throughout all my mingling, though, I’ve felt Damien’s eyes on me. Watching me. Burning into me. Making me aware of every little movement. Of the brush of my dress against my skin. Of the feel of my shoes on the curve of my foot.

He’s frustrated with me—possibly even angry—but that doesn’t change the fact that his desire is palpable.

For that matter, so is mine.

My fears and frustrations can wait. All I want right then is Damien.

I’ve made up my mind to go join them at the canvas when Evelyn sidles up beside me. “I don’t know if I need to wring Damien’s neck or Giselle’s for only having wine and champagne,” she says to me. “Come on, Texas, you must know where the secret stash is.”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” I say. Probably not the best display of manners to lead Evelyn back into the kitchen area, but the truth is that I could use a shot of bourbon myself.

We maneuver around the hired staff that is now using the kitchen to refill drink and appetizer trays, and park ourselves at the small breakfast table.

“So spill it, Texas,” she demands once we’re seated and I’ve poured two neat shots. “Something’s on your mind.”

“I’m slipping,” I say. “I used to be able to hide my troubles better.”

“Or maybe it’s putting on a good face that gives you away.”