Page 12 of Fight for Me

Plus, he liked her.

“I’m at your service, Blanche.” He smiled and executed a small half-bow, which made her giggle. She was eighty if she was a day, but you’d never know it. She could pass for sixty without a blink and had enough energy to power a small town.

“You’ll sit with me, won’t you, dear?”

“I’d be delighted.”

Blane held out his arm for her and she tittered again as she took it, but he could tell she was enjoying the glances that came their way as he led her to the front row and their reserved seats.

“And what charity is benefiting tonight?” he asked as they took their seats.

“The Polaris Project,” she said. “It’s to help victims of human trafficking, poor things.” She tut-tutted as she arranged her skirt. “They’re auctioning off the dresses the ladies are wearing and the proceeds go to the charity.”

Blane stopped hearing anything after “human trafficking.” His blood ran cold, then hot.

Memory surged. Kathleen, being taken in front of his eyes by human traffickers. Him unable to do anything. Then searching for her, and finding her, drugged out of her mind. Her nearly drowning in the ocean before he reached her.

He felt as though he’d been dipped in ice. That was so long ago, but it felt like yesterday.

Looked like he’d be buying a dress tonight. Let the papers chew on that.

Blane retrieved a mint julep for Blanche (“A bit of whiskey never hurt anyone, dear. The Queen drinks it daily.”) and a Dewars and water for him, then settled back to watch the show. Again, there were worse ways to spend a Friday night, and he’d had some not very great ones in Afghanistan.

The show got started, with lots of music and lights and pomp. Each model (Blanche told him that these were volunteers, not actual models) was introduced with the designer’s name. Must give credit where credit is due.

Blane wondered to whom he was going to give whatever he bought. His first thought was Kathleen but, no. That’d be awkward. Linda? Also awkward. Ah wait! Kathleen and Kade’s daughter, Lana! She was a teen now. She’d appreciate a nice dress. Now to find one that a teen would wear.

So far, not a lot of contenders. Most were evening gowns or cocktail dresses with the occasional weird thing thrown in (trust fashion designers to make it weird).

Just when he was about to accept that he’d be buying something no one would wear, the last model came out. She was wearing a transparent dress made of hunter green lace over what looked like some kind of…bikini. Her hair was a rich, dark chestnut styled in a just-fucked look with some braids that made her look…wild and oozing sex. She was amazing, strutting down the runway as if daring anyone to cross her path. Her hips swung and her gaze was fierce. If she probably wasn’t a decade too young for him…

Blane perked up. Kathleen and Kade would kill him, but Lana would probably love that dress. Then he got a closer look at the model.

His jaw almost dropped. It was Anne. The waitress. How in the world was she modeling designer clothes at an exclusive charity event?

He leaned over to Blanche. “Who exactly are the volunteers that are modeling?”

“Oh, they’re daughters and nieces of polite D.C. society, dear.”

By “polite”, Blanche meant “wealthy.”

Anne was wealthy? Or the daughter of a wealthy family? Then why the hell was she working as a waitress?

* * *

Anne was pleasantly tipsy by the time it was her turn. Three glasses of champagne on an empty stomach will do that to you.

Her heels were Jimmy Choo and gorgeous but hurt like hell and had four-inch stiletto heels. Still, maybe she’d be able to sneak them out in her purse...

The music was throbbing as the line coordinator (that’s what Anne had decided to call him) motioned Anne forward with a frantic motion. He should relax. There was at least two women before Anne’s turn.

She waited patiently, feeling pretty good. Honestly, she should have champagne for dinner more often.

Finally, it was her turn. Anne was feeling confident. Yeah, the dress was see-through, but she totally rocked it. She tossed her hair, pulled her shoulders back, lifted her chin, and headed down the runway.

She sashayed her way down the red carpet, looking at no one, just straight ahead. That’s what real models did, right? And placing one foot right in front of the other in a straight line, which was actually kinda hard…

For some reason—maybe because the Model Walk was more difficult than she’d thought, especially after three champagnes on an empty stomach—she glanced into the audience…and saw Blane. Senator Kirk, she mentally corrected. What the heck was he doing here? Was he gay? She hadn’t thought he was gay—