Catwoman: Soulstealer (DC Icons #3)(38)

She instantly settled into Holly’s persona, tossing her hair over a shoulder. He was the portrait of casual, graceful money in his white fitted polo—immaculate above gray slacks. A pair of sunglasses shielded his eyes, but he politely lifted them atop his head as he surveyed the bags. “Coming in?”

Was that a note of hope she detected in his voice? To avoid riding in the elevator with her?

Selina gave him a simpering smile. “Going out,” she clarified, lifting the bags, the tissue paper covering the boxes rustling. “Need to return and exchange a few things.”

He gave her a look that said it seemed she had a lot of things to haul with her, not a few. But ever the gentleman, he asked, “Can I carry your bags to your car?”

She was tempted to say yes, because Holly certainly would, but if he was as smart as everyone claimed he was, then he’d no doubt realize that the weight of the bags didn’t add up to a few pairs of shoes. “I’ve got it, thank you.” She made a show of hefting the bags. “Good workout.”

He gave her a bland smile before striding for the elevator, pushing the button in silence.

She followed him, trailing at a casual pace. “Are you going to the Save the Bees Gala tomorrow?” Seats started at ten grand a plate.

Luke glanced sidelong at her as the elevator shot up the building. “Maybe.”

Oh, he really didn’t like her. She gave him what she called her Holly Smile: coy, aware, self-obsessed. “And will you turn me down again if I ask you to dance?”

“Maybe.”

“Is that the only word you know now? Maybe?”

Something close to humor danced in Luke’s eyes as he met her gaze head-on and drawled, “Maybe.”

Perhaps not as completely arrogant as she’d thought. Despite herself, Selina laughed quietly. Her fingers were starting to go numb from the weight of her bags, and she was grateful for the ding of the elevator as the doors opened and they strode in. She leaned against the railing, setting the bags down lightly—to avoid the clunk that was sure to sound if she dropped them.

“I heard about your painting being stolen,” she said, unable to resist. “I’m sorry.”

Luke slid his hands into his pockets. “It’s fine. Worse things happen to people in this city every day.”

She avoided the urge to blink. Definitely not the answer she’d expected.

“You were in the Army, right?” A vapid, light question, if only to get them back on equal footing.

And an entirely wrong question to ask, from the way his back stiffened. Sore subject, then.

But Luke said, “The Marines.”

She batted her eyelashes. “Is there a difference?”

His jaw clenched. “Yeah. There is.” She knew there was, and part of her writhed under the vapid, inane weight of being Holly.

They reached the basement, and Luke was truly enough of a gentleman to hold the elevator doors while she swept out, aiming for the black Mercedes her driver had left for the weekend. A click of her fob had the trunk opening, revealing a pristine interior.

Luke headed toward the gray Porsche beside her car. He paused as he opened the door, as if the manners drilled into him yanked on his leash. “Enjoy your shopping,” he said tersely.

Selina waved a manicured hand. “Enjoy your…whatever you’re doing.”

He slid into his car. “Brunch with my parents. A Sunday tradition.”

Another surprise: it didn’t sound like a chore when he said it.

For a moment, she debated telling him that he was lucky—luckier than he knew—that he had parents who loved him, wanted to see him.

She debated scratching her key deep into the side of what was surely his beloved car, just for the fact that he had parents who gave a shit.

She hadn’t bothered to look her mother up once. Didn’t want to know. Even with the League’s resources, she didn’t want to know what her mom was doing. Where she was. If she was even alive.

And her father was a dead end. She sometimes wondered if he knew that he had a daughter. And if he did, would he even care?

At least Maggie was safe, cared for, in her new home in the suburbs. Even if all of this, what Selina was doing in Gotham City, meant that she had to stay far, far away from her sister.

It didn’t make it any easier, though.

Pathetic. She was absolutely pathetic for thinking such things. For that quiet, distant ache that still lurked deep in her chest. For the rage that made her want to put on her League gloves, flick open those claws, and start shredding.

Luke turned on the car, its thunderous roar filling the garage. It sounded an awful lot like the bellowing in her head.

Selina kept her face neutral as she slid into her own front seat and found him waiting. Stalling.

It took her a moment to realize Luke was waiting for her to leave. To make sure she got out of the garage safely.

A bit of an arrogant rich kid, but still a gentleman. She gave him another inane wriggle of her manicured fingers before backing out of the spot. Carefully—like how a rich woman unused to driving herself might maneuver the vehicle.

Not the graceful swoop her muscles screamed at her to do. The driving lessons on the deadly S curves of Italian roads had been one of Selina’s favorite parts of training at the League.

She inched along, out of the garage, Luke finally pulling his Porsche out to follow. He rode on her tail, as if he could barely keep the car from containing its impatience.