The Pawn (Endgame #1)(42)
After my phone call with Harper, I leave my room and wander the large hallways, peeking into empty rooms as if one of them will hold the key to unlock Gabriel Miller. As if he’s storing all his secrets in some kind of trophy room, ideally with neon arrows and handy signage to point me in the right direction.
All I find are endless corridors of comfortable, expensive rooms—sitting rooms, bedrooms. How many people can this place actually hold? There’s also a movie room with three small rows of leather chairs and a screen that takes up an entire wall. A large gym with a sauna attached. There’s even a small art gallery on the top floor featuring some estate pieces, some local artists, and a particularly gorgeous Sargent painting of a woman by a piano.
I manage to avoid his office, the open door allowing his voice to carry as he speaks on the phone.
Only one room is a mystery. Locked.
The brass knob doesn’t turn. The rooms were filled with antique furniture and sculptures. Even the priceless paintings in the art gallery hadn’t been locked.
At the end of my exploration I don’t know that much more about Gabriel than when I started. And my feet are aching. It takes me another fifteen minutes before I can even find my room.
When I get there, I see a tray with lunch and another note scrawled in his square, careless script.
We’re going out at seven. Your clothes are in the closet.
I feel like I’m on a scavenger hunt as I peek into the closet. Hanging in front of my clothes is a black vinyl bag, floor-length. I zip it open and gasp. A stunning Oscar de la Renta dress made of some kind of white sheer fabric, layered to produce a wide skirt that ends midcalf. Flecks of gold center around the waist, making the whole thing look like a sculpture. And that’s when it’s still flat in the bag. I can only imagine how it will look when it’s on.
On a little island in the closet there’s a black box that contains champagne-gold peep-toe Jimmy Choos. A small velvet box contains a delicate gold bangle inlaid with pearl.
Mercy.
Daddy was always generous with my allowance. And I realized from a young age that my appearance reflected on him. If I showed up at a society event in a clearance-rack dress, everyone would whisper that he must be struggling. Until six months ago I was able to walk into any store and pull out my American Express.
This dress, though. It isn’t the kind of dress that you can buy off the rack. This is a dress that you need a connection to get. A connection and very large sums of money.
This is a red-carpet dress.
Where the hell is he taking me?
At seven o’clock sharp he knocks on my bedroom door. I spent the past hour putting makeup on and taking it off, thinking it’s too much or too little. I need Candy to prepare me for this, but she was only my fairy godmother for the ball. I have to figure this out for myself.
I settled on thick loose curls for my hair and a classic red lipstick.
When I open the door, he does this little shake of his head as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing. It’s the dress of course: subtle yet stunning, intricate yet simple. Even knowing that, I can’t help the blush that colors my cheeks.
He pauses, taking me in from head to toe. “The dress suits you.”
“Thank you.” Of course he looks ridiculously handsome in a tux that was no doubt tailored to him, but I’m not going to admit that. “You’re looking sharp.”
He gives me the barest of smiles. “I try.”
“Where are we going?”
It’s wrong to be excited about this. It isn’t a date! I have to keep reminding myself of that, because it feels like one. Especially when he says, “We could go downstairs and play a match.”
Chess. Leverage. There’s a strange longing to play with him, to wear the prettiest dress I’ve ever worn while I play my favorite game in a beautiful library. That would be the perfect date. With the wrong man.
I’d give anything to play another game with my daddy.
Gabriel made sure that would never happen again. No, he’s not getting my mind. He paid for my body. I shake my head.
“Ah,” he says as if that was expected. “In that case, we’ll go to the theater.”
Oh, I love the theater. I manage not to bounce on my heels. “What are we seeing?”
“My Fair Lady.”
The story is based on Pygmalion, the myth of a sculptor who fell in love with his art. The gods granted him his wish, turning marble into flesh. “I didn’t realize it was touring.”
His expression seems brooding. Does he see the symmetry between us? The man with all the power. The woman made real by his love for her? Of course he doesn’t love me. And more importantly, he isn’t changing me in any way. Except sexually.
“Opening night,” he says.
My stomach drops. Opening night. A regular theater night, it would be easy to get lost in the crowd of people. We would find our seats, the lights would lower. We’d watch the show side by side in the dark. But opening night is another beast entirely. Usually the seats are claimed by season pass holders, if there are any left after the high level donors have claimed theirs. Or they make them available for a higher price, invite only, with the proceeds going to charity. However it’s done, a few things hold true: only the most rich and powerful people will be attending. And there will most definitely be drinks and mingling before the show starts.