Exiled (A Madame X Novel) (7 page)

And then he stops.

Lets my dress fall down around my ankles, and crouches behind me. He’s fetched a pair of my shoes to match the dress, black Blahniks with a three-inch stiletto heel. He circles my ankle with his strong
fingers, lifts my foot, slides the shoe on. I transfer my weight, let him ease the other shoe on, next. I’m out of breath, aching, a little angry that he stopped.

“Logan . . .” I start.

He stands up in front of me, brushes the pad of his thumb over my cheekbone. “Isabel?”

“You stopped.”

There’s a knock at the door. Logan leans in, kisses me. A brief, scorching scouring of his lips against mine. Too short, but intense. “Time to go.”

“I haven’t done my makeup.”

“Don’t need any. You’re fucking sexy just like that. And I guarantee you’ll be the most beautiful woman there, makeup or no.”

“I can’t go to the Met without makeup on, Logan. It isn’t done.”

“Dinner is in forty, and we’ll be pushing it with traffic like it is.”

“I can be quick.”

Another knock.

“Grab some stuff and bring it with. Do it in the car.”

“I’m not ready, Logan. I—a quiet dinner, maybe. But the opera? The Met? People will be watching. You can’t just—just spring this on me.”

He moves past me, into the bathroom. I hear makeup cases and tubes clattering, a zipper closing. And then he’s hustling me out the door, a black leather case in his hands. I glance behind me as he’s closing the door. The last thing I see are my panties on the floor of his living room, a pile of gray cotton, abandoned.

My core aches. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to sit through a dinner and an opera. I want Logan. I want him to finish what he started.

There’s a long black limousine waiting, a driver at the open passenger door.

Logan waits while I lower myself in, and then he’s beside me.

I lean close, whisper in his ear. “Logan. I’m not wearing any panties.”

He nips at my earlobe. “I know.”

“I don’t like it.”

“You will.”

“I haven’t done my hair.”

“Don’t need to.”

“I don’t have any makeup.”

He hands me the case, unzips it. My makeup, all of it, including my compact mirror. “Gotcha covered. Anything else?”

I take a moment. Breathe. Focus on applying makeup, just a little. Lipstick, blush, mascara. Check it in the mirror, and then close the leather case, set it aside. Breathe in silence for—I don’t know how long, trying to gather myself.

“You stopped,” I say, at last.

He checks that the privacy glass is in place, and then turns to me. Faces me. Leans against me. Presses his face into my cleavage and inhales. Tugs the straps of the dress off my shoulder, pulls the bodice down to bare my breasts.

“Logan!”

“Keep quiet, Isabel.”

His fingers slide into the slit of the dress at my thigh, steal inward.

God, here?

Oh God.

I slide lower in the seat, spread my legs. I want it. I don’t care. I can’t think of anything but the orgasm I almost had, of getting there.

There’s no toying, no hesitation. He slides his finger into me, and I gasp.

“Hush, baby.” His breath is warm on my nipple. “No sounds.”

I bite down on my lip until it hurts.

He nibbles at my nipple with sharp teeth. Slides his lips over it. Tugs. Licks. It’s already hard and standing tall, but every lick and touch of his teeth and tongue make my nipple harder, more erect. Until it aches. And then he moves to the other, and works it the same way. And all the while, his fingers are busy. Sliding in and out, pressing against my clit, circling, pinching, sliding in.

Lips, fingers, breath.

They are my world, Logan’s lips, Logan’s fingers, Logan’s breath.

When I come, I bite down on my lip so hard I taste blood, and Logan kisses me, swallows my whimper and licks at my lip, soothing the hurt. But his fingers continue to circle my clit as I come, working me harder, faster, bringing my climax higher, pushing me to heights of wildness that leave me breathless, that leave me aching and limp.

And then he withdraws his fingers from my core, lifts them, dripping my essence, to his mouth. Licks them clean.

“Better?” he asks.

I can only gasp against his tuxedo coat, smelling his cologne and the faint acridity of cigarettes, the tang of cinnamon gum.

Logan scent.

But I am still afraid of this night. Being out, with Logan, in public. Not just to a movie or a little diner. Something . . .
public
.

On his arm. There will be pictures, probably.

I’m not wearing any underwear.

I’ve just had an orgasm, so I’m flushed and breathless and feeling on edge, wild, rife with lust.

I’m scared witless.

But I feel beautiful, because Logan’s touch always does that. Makes me feel needed. Wanted. Beautiful. Even when he doesn’t say a word.

He adjusts my dress so I’m covered.

There is silence, then, in which I attempt to quiet my nerves.

The limo pulls to a stop, and there is a moment of waiting as the driver exits and circles, opens the door. Logan rises up out of the limousine elegantly, easily. Extends a hand to me, lifts me out. A black awning, doormen in uniforms with brass buttons on their coats stand to either side of the doorway. I adjust the drape of my dress, feeling the soft swish of the fabric against my backside, against my bare, still-tingling core. I feel as if everyone who sees me will know I’m not wearing anything under the dress. I even glance down at myself, but . . . it isn’t as obvious as it feels to me.

Logan threads his fingers through mine, pulls me closer to his body, so I’m flush against him. Held up by him. His arm goes around my waist, almost inappropriately low. Claiming me as his.

“You are exquisite, Isabel,” he murmurs in my ear. “The loveliest woman in any room. And you’re on
my
arm. Makes me the luckiest man in any room.”

“Thank you, Logan.”

“I love that you can take a compliment with grace,” he remarks.

I’m unsure how I should respond, so I don’t.

A maître d’ greets Logan by name, guides us to a booth in a shadowed corner of the back of the restaurant. A single candle provides some illumination, but not much. All the other tables are similarly cloaked in shadow, providing privacy for each booth.

I am uneasy. Off balance. This feels right, but . . . something is off. Within me.

I ignore it.

Peruse the menu.

Logan does not suggest anything, and when the server appears to take our orders, Logan allows me to speak for myself. I like that. Deciding what I want, making my own decisions.

Dinner is long, broken into several courses. I refuse wine, which
perplexes Logan, but he doesn’t push it, and also does not order anything for himself.

And he doesn’t ask why.

I wonder if he will begin to suspect what I fear.

When dinner is over, we return to the limo, which drives only a couple of blocks and then slides to a halt in front of a grand building, soaring arched windows gleaming with blazing light in the night. Red ropes, red carpet laid over the stairs. Someone opens the door, and Logan emerges. Camera flashes sparkle blindingly. He waves, smiles, and then assists me out of the limo. I try to smile, cling to his arm, and tell myself to breathe.

Logan, Logan, who’s your date?

What’s your name, sweetheart?

Who is she?

Are you two an item?

What are you wearing?

Questions come hard and fast, and Logan ignores them all, nudges me into a walk.

Who is she?

What’s your name, sweetheart?

I do not have a real, legal identity. I have no ID card. No social security number. I suppose that information exists somewhere, but I don’t know where. Or how to get hold of it. Some research online told me these are the basic ways to establish one’s identity. And I do not possess that information.

Who is she?

How would he answer that?

Am I his girlfriend? Are we an item?

This is utter foolishness. Appearing in public, with Logan, where there is media, press. Cameras. Questions.

Former clients, even, perhaps.

In the theater lobby itself, there are more cameras. More posing.

I barely put on makeup.

I’m not wearing panties.

I did my hair hours and hours ago, and I only ran some light mousse through it, finger-styled it. Not expecting to go anywhere, to meet anyone, much less appear at a very public event where I would have my photograph taken a hundred and fifty times per second.

I’m panicking.

Grip Logan’s arm with all the strength in my hand, and force breath into my lungs. Force myself to breathe. Expand chest, contract. Breathe in, breathe out.

“You’re okay.”

“What the
fuck
were you thinking, Logan?” I hiss this, nearly sotto voce.

“Fake it, Is. You’re gorgeous. Flawless.”

“I am utterly unprepared for this. What if someone recognizes me as Madame X?”

“We’re together now, Isabel. Your name is Isabel de la Vega. That’s all that matters now. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

I feel the back of my neck prickle. Turn, and there is Jonathan. A former client, and sort of friend. Tall, handsome, in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, with a stunning blonde clinging possessively.

A shocked expression mars Jonathan’s handsome face.

Moves to stand in front of Logan and me. Mouth works, but no sound comes out.

“Hello, Jonathan.” I smile. Pretend to be at ease. Fake it till I make it.

“Madame—”

“I go by Isabel now.” I speak over Jonathan.

More shocked silence. “Isabel.” Extends a hand, ingrained manners taking over.

I take the proffered hand, intending to shake it, but Jonathan turns my hand palm down and kisses the back. It is an archaic gesture, strange, and out of place. But the way Jonathan does it, it comes across gentlemanly, respectful. I am impressed.

“Pleased to meet you, Isabel.” This is said with a dash of irreverent humor.

Jonathan’s date is confused. “Jon? How do you know her?” Jealousy, barely restrained, a French accent.

“Isabel and I are . . . former business associates.”

“Oh.” The blonde relaxes, jealousy assuaged.

True enough, I suppose. Our true relationship to each other would be nearly impossible to explain, even if either of us were inclined to discuss Indigo Services.

Jonathan remembers his manners, once again. “Oh, sorry. Isabel, this is my girlfriend, Brigitte.” He says it
Brih-ZHEET
.

“Pleased to meet you, Brigitte.”

“You as well.” I am still receiving a cold stare from Brigitte, despite the gorgeous man at my side, arm around my waist, scanning the crowd.

Jonathan extends his hand to Logan. “I think we met, a while back. At the auction.”

Logan shakes, firmly, briefly. “Yeah. Logan Ryder.”

“Jon.” Just Jon. No last name, none of the pretense I saw when Jonathan was my client. He is at ease, confident. Well dressed, polite.

A success, then.

Jonathan and Logan are discussing something to do with business. I’ve tuned out, thinking about Jonathan when we last met, the arrogant posturing and callow shallow hubris, now turned into pride and confidence and an attractive charm. How
I
did that.
I
taught him that. Perhaps Comportment will be a success after all.
I vacillate often, sometimes thinking it will be the best thing I’ve ever done, and other times that I should just give it up as impossible.

I let Logan lead me to our seats.

The opera is not what I expected. It is beautiful, rapturous. Transporting. Logan, however, is impatient.

And even as much as I enjoy the music, the spectacle . . . seeing Jonathan shook me. Gave me pause. Reminded me.

So I am distracted.

It is over before I know it, and I am following Logan through the crowds, down the steps, to our limousine, which is waiting for us, door open, driver with a hand on the door.

The ride home is quiet. Silent.

Neither of us speaks.

Logan’s hand rests on my knee. The closer we get to home, the higher up my thigh his hand goes.

When the driver halts outside Logan’s home—
our
home—he is nearly touching my core.

And I am in a fit of confused, weltering emotion.

Aroused.

Aware that I am—that I might be—

I can’t even think it, can’t even think the word. Don’t. Won’t. Can’t.

I push that aside. I know I have to face it, but not now.

I’m thrown off by Jonathan. Seeing him with Brigitte, a stunning girlfriend who is clearly possessive of him. Not by Brigitte, but more just . . . Jonathan. By all he represents. The only one of my clients I’ve ever really cared about. I’m not even sure why Jonathan’s presence tonight has thrown me off as much as it has.

I feel dizzy.

As if life is whirling around me, as if the entire world is rushing
in crazed circles just beyond my reach, and I cannot quite find a way to join the frenzy, stuck somewhere in a silent, lonely bubble, at the eye of a hurricane.

Even Logan seems . . . distant.

As if our connection has faded, or changed.

Lessened, or vanished.

Been broken, perhaps.

We are inside now.

I don’t remember coming inside.

Logan is in front of me. Looking down at me. “Isabel?”

I blink. Look up at him.

I am afraid of losing him. I’m afraid I’ve ruined us. That my weakness for you, Caleb, has broken whatever potential Logan and I may have had. The thought of having to make my way without Logan is . . . impossible. Too painful to consider. I couldn’t do it.

And the way he’s looking down at me, as if I’m . . . delicate—it makes me panic.

Like he doesn’t know me.

And if Logan doesn’t know me, who does?

Who am I?

Isabel.

I’m Isabel.

Am I pregnant?

The thought strikes, just as Logan speaks again. “Talk to me, Isabel.”

“I—”

No thoughts come. No words.