Gabrielle (9 page)

“Okay.” I headed toward my bedroom, only half surprised to find my grandmother close behind me. What really surprised me was the beautiful dress lying across my bed.

“You do not have to wear it,” she said softly.

But I knew it would hurt her if I didn't. Plus, it was the most beautiful dress I'd ever seen.

A dark blue silk sheath that clasped over one shoulder with a sparkling butterfly. Laid out next to the dress were a thin silver belt and the perfect shoes.

“Would you like me to do your hair?”

All my life I'd loved my grandmother combing, braiding, twisting my hair up into beautiful styles. But tonight it didn't seem right.

Nothing about this was right.

“Did you do this for my mother?” I whispered.

“I did. And when she found true love I knew I had been right to do it.”

There it was again:
True love.

As if that excused everything.

Needing to be alone, to try and figure out how I was going to deal with making it through the night, I said, “I'll meet you out in the living room when I'm ready.”

But she didn't leave. “If you are having second thoughts,
ma petite
, then I will cancel for us.”

I shook my head, telling myself again that there was nothing to be afraid of. I was going tonight to prove to my grandmother just how wrong this was. I knew without a doubt that I would see proof in every aspect of the event, in the faces of everyone who attended.

“This world was a big part of your life. Of my mother's life. I want to see what it's like. I need to see it for myself.”

I was surprised by my own words.

And by the fact that they were true.

Her fingertips brushed against my cheek as she left. Standing in the middle of my bedroom, I stared at the dress. The beautiful dress. With trembling fingers I undressed and put it on.

Slowly, I turned to the mirror. I knew before I even lifted my eyes that I had never looked so breathtaking.

A quick glance in the mirror confirmed it.

Bile rose in my throat at the thought of the picture I would present to the men at this party.

Innocent.

Beautiful.

Willing.

They'd be right about the first two.

And utterly, completely wrong about the third.

* * *

My grandmother and I were silent in the limousine she had hired as we drove through town. When she saw me in the dress her eyes had glittered and she clasped her hands together over her chest.

“You look so much like your mother.”

I wanted to cry for so many reasons. Instead, I walked past her and into the limo.

We pulled up in front of a beautiful old stone building that I had never been in before, but recognized. Again, it hit me that this world had been under my nose the entire time.

The ballroom was beautifully decorated and everyone was wonderfully dressed. Not one among them looked like they lived a sordid, devious lifestyle.

Frankly, it was a huge relief. Because as much as I'd wanted to prove to my grandmother how horrible it all was, I couldn't stand to think of my mother being a part of something dirty and dark. A setting like this made it easier to focus on all those things Missy had said about courtesans that were good. I hadn't yet opened any of the books she'd given me, and I wasn't planning to, but right now I needed some way to get through the night.

Which meant I was going to pretend as long as I could that this was just a normal society event.

But as much as I wanted to tell myself that nothing in here interested me—that all of it disgusted me—I couldn't help but notice one person. A guy with blond hair who had been watching the band intently ever since I walked into the room.

Something about him kept drawing my eyes. Not the fact that he was astonishingly good-looking, not that he reminded me of the paintings I'd studied in art history of angels falling back to earth, but the fact that he seemed more interested in the swinging jazz band than he did in any of us at the party.

And he was right to be so interested, I thought. The music was incredible.

Old-time Dixieland.

If I weren't so intent on having a bad time, I would have been right up there with him, tapping my feet and snapping my fingers. What fool couldn't like Dixieland? But when I looked around at the faces of the other people at the party who were my age and saw their lips curl as they looked at the stage, I knew I'd just met those very fools.

But, obviously, their distaste for the music didn't stop a couple of the girls from moving to the fallen angel's side. It was obvious to me that they were faking their enjoyment for his sake, but I figured he was a guy who would never know the difference. Probably wouldn't care. After all, if he was here, it meant he was in the market for a you-know-what.

It hadn't been too difficult for the past hour to make sure people gave me a wide berth.

The scowl, the disapproval I was wearing felt strange upon my face. But as far as I could tell, it was the only appropriate expression to make sure no one approached me with a proposition to become his mistress.

I had tried not to pay too much attention to my grandmother sitting over at a table in the corner with several other women, a couple of whom I knew quite well. In fact, one of the biggest shocks had been seeing Tante Marianne.

How naive could I be not to have thought the woman who had done so much to help my grandmother raise me would also be part of this world—this shadow world—until tonight?

But even though I was hellbent on ignoring them all, I couldn't miss the look of concern on their faces when my eyes flicked around the room.

My grandmother and her friends were worried about me. But whether it was because I would never accept this world—or that I would—I didn't know.

Lost in my thoughts, I barely noticed when the music stopped. But I would've had to be blind not to notice who was walking across the dance floor.

The fallen angel was coming straight for me.

Swallowing hard, caught up in a sudden urge to run, I firmly held my ground. These people couldn't hurt me. Because they would never own me. I would never agree to be a courtesan for one of these men.

I could feel my eyebrow rise, another uncharacteristically haughty expression planting itself on my face.

“Can I get you another drink?”

His voice was a shock to my system. His enunciation, his diction, his tone was so perfect it was almost old-fashioned. Like I was listening to a black-and-white film star speak. I couldn't help but notice how different it was from the slightly rough scratch of Dylan's voice. Reminding myself that I loved the raw tenor of Dylan's voice even as I was processing my reaction to six nothing words, he simply smiled and lifted my empty glass from my fingers.

Speaking to the bartender in that perfect voice, he said, “Two glasses of champagne, please.”

“I'm not old enough to drink.”

He nodded, but said, “I'm guessing you've been drinking wine at your grandmother's table your whole life.”

He was right. Even as a young child my grandmother had served me red wine, watered down less and less over the years. Feeling sulky, I snatched the glass out of his hands hard enough to slosh some of the bubbly liquid over the rim.

“I'm Bradley. I'd love to know your name.”

Bradley. Even his name sounded perfect. Like a guy who should be at this party picking out a courtesan.

Snippily, I said, “If you know who my grandmother is, then you probably already know my name.”

He had the grace to smile, despite my complete lack of either grace or good humor. “Yes, but I'd like to hear it from your lips.”

A guy like this, with a voice like his, would make a girl's lips tingle just by speaking of them. But from me, that reaction would be inappropriate. Inexcusable.

Just plain wrong.

“Gabrielle,” I snapped. “And I'm only here tonight as a favor to my grandmother.”

So go away and pick up one of the many girls dying for your attention
, was my very clear subtext.

I looked away from him and stared at the wallpaper. Any second now he would catch on and move away.

Instead, I could feel his eyes on me. Not in a sketchy kind of way, not like he was imagining me without my clothes on, but interested nonetheless.

“You liked the band, didn't you?”

My eyes flicked back to him before I could stop myself. “Of course.”

“Not everybody appreciates Dixieland.”

“They're idiots.”

What was coming over me? I never talked like this. It must be that this guy—Bradley—was bringing out the worst in me.

He chuckled and the sound rushed over me, warm and comfortable. If anything, my shoulders tightened even more, the invisible armor I was wearing locking into place more tightly.

Fine. If he wanted to talk to me, I'd talk. About exactly how I felt about the fact that he was here.

As if he sensed the controversial nature of the words that were about to fly out of my mouth, he nodded to the doors that led outside.

“It's getting warm in here. How about we get outside for a little while?”

Without replying, I stiffly marched away from the bar and out the doors. I could feel not only Bradley's eyes on me, but also my grandmother's. I tried to send her a mental message:
I
am not, repeat, not actually considering having this guy become my “companion.” I'm going to
give him a piece of my mind instead.

And when I left the
soirée
tonight, I was going to give my grandmother one, too. Because as the minutes ticked down in that ballroom, I felt more and more as if she'd taken her concern for my welfare and used it to abuse my trust.

I wasn't surprised to find a really nice rooftop garden waiting for us up the small flight of stairs to the side of the balcony. This whole place had been created to present the image of a fairytale.

And to fool the people who came here into believing that what they were doing wasn't wrong.

When it was.

Not intending to spend any more time here with Bradley then I had to, I whirled around as he took the final step. “Why are you here?”

I knew, of course, precisely why he was here. But just as he'd wanted to hear me say my name, I wanted to hear the truth from his own lips.

He didn't smile, but he looked amused nonetheless. “For the same reason you are, I expect.”

Oh no. He wasn't going to get away with lumping us into the same group. He was here by choice. Whereas I...yes, it had been my choice to come, but I wasn't the least bit happy about it.

“You don't know anything about me.”

I suddenly remembered saying almost the exact same thing to Dylan that day when we kissed for the first time. I hated making any parallels between Dylan and Bradley, between their two worlds. I wouldn't let myself do it again.

“I'd like to.”

For a guy who looked like he did, and who obviously had piles of money based on the way he spoke and the way he dressed, he was remarkably easygoing. Where, I wondered, was the huge chip that should have been on his shoulder? Especially given the way I'd been acting?

Odds were, I could easily guess, that he wasn't used to girls rejecting him.

Which is when it occurred to me that maybe that's why he seemed to be pursuing me.

Because I was a complete shift from his usual interactions with girls.

A challenge.

A mystery.

Again, something in my head pinged, had me thinking about Dylan, about how he'd been, since the day I'd met him, a break from my usual. A mystery. How I never quite knew where I stood. Because although I knew that he was drawn to me, I never knew when whatever it was that pulled him to me would go away.

Angry with myself for making more comparisons that I shouldn't be making, I said,

“You'll just be wasting your time.”

Bradley had moved closer to me when I wasn't looking. I'd been so caught up in my conflicting thoughts that I hadn't noticed him closing the distance between us on the roof.

“I'm not so sure about that.”

“Look,” I said, my pointer finger coming out of its own volition to poke him in the chest.

“I am not going to become a courtesan. Ever.”

The look on his face, still slightly amused, but also more than a little intrigued, didn't change as he said, “But you're here tonight, aren't you?”

“I told you why I'm here. Because it would have broken my grandmother's heart if I hadn't come. Because now I can tell her for sure that I want nothing to do with this world.”

As I spoke, as I made it perfectly clear that I was not going to take up
the life
, I suddenly realized the strangest thing. We were talking about this courtesan/companion world and I didn't have to explain myself or make any excuses for my mother and grandmother for having been courtesans.

It was a bond that Bradley and I shared, whether I wanted to admit it or not.

He nodded again, and I actually believed he was hearing me. Glad that I'd made myself clear, I relaxed slightly.

“So why are you here?” I asked him.

He moved away from me, walking over to the edge of the roof where there was a bench tucked in between a grouping of orange, red, and yellow asters. I suppose I should have kept my distance and stayed where I was. But now that I had convinced myself he was no longer a threat, I went and sat next to him.

He didn't look at me as he finally answered the question. “I have to be.”

I was stunned enough by his answer to turn my head to look at him more closely. Now, instead of just the rich, privileged, entitled boy, I saw one that might be carrying burdens on his shoulders.

“Why?”

“It's complicated.”

Again, that clanging in my brain. Two very different guys, but the same answer from both of them. When Dylan had said it, I practically begged him to tell me more. With Bradley, I should have been happy to let it go. Because how could I be interested in learning more about him? He'd just admitted that he was here to choose a courtesan for himself.