Page 47 of Selling Innocence
There was a risk to this stupid plan, of course. Nem, Quad or Jarrod might see it. If they did, I doubted they’d wait on the sidelines quietly. They wouldn’t know what was really happening, but having a boyfriend would draw attention.
However, they were an entire country away. Vance had assured me that this interview would be released locally, which should reduce that risk. We only needed Lorien to see it, after all. Plus, we wouldn’t use my full name, which hopefully would prevent it from getting picked up by a search engine keyword watch.
“You look beautiful.” Vance’s voice warmed me, and just as quickly I stamped out that fondness.
His pretty words were all lies, after all. Maybe not the words themselves, but the underlying feeling, the promises they held, those didn’t exist.
The makeup artist turned, smiling widely. “She’s easy to work on because she’s already very pretty. Just a little polishing is all it takes.”
Vance came into the room just as the girl gathered her things and left, seeming to feel we wanted a minute alone. Once she shut the door, Vance let his gaze move over me. “You really do look lovely.”
“Keep it to yourself.” I got out of the chair and ran my fingers through my hair. It had more curls than usual, making me appear fancier than I preferred. I loosened a few with my fingers.
“You’re still mad?”
“No.”
“You are such a woman, saying you’re not mad when you’re all but snarling.”
I turned toward him, unwilling to appear weak. “There’s a difference between being mad and being smart. I’ve always thought that when someone shows you who they are, you should believe it. You’ve shown me who you are. I get it. We’re good.”
“Well, this little attitude of yours won’t play well for the camera. We need to look the part of a happy couple to sell this.”
“Lorien knows you bought me. Why would he think we were happy? Not a lot of women dream about becoming someone’s property.”
Vance sighed, then picked up a napkin from the counter. He grasped my chin, holding my face still as he rubbed off the lipstick the makeup artist had put on. “You really are a lot of work, you know that?”
“You’re just used to women who fall at your feet.”
He smiled as though recalling fond memories before grabbing a lipstick from behind him. He set it down, then grabbed another, holding them up beside me. “It’s more fun when they do that, I’ll admit. I mean, who doesn’t enjoy a well-behaved woman who’s more than willing to please?”
I scoffed at his statement, but froze when the meaning really hit me. How often had I wanted to be that person? How often had I shoved down how I really felt to fit a mold? Even if I complained, I always ended up bending to my mother’s whims.
I’d been ready to walk down the aisle to marry a man twice my age just because my father told me to…
Vance opened one lipstick, a soft pink as opposed to the bright red the makeup artist had chosen. He applied it to my lips, his expression focused.
It was strange to see him serious. He finished, then set the lipstick down on the counter. “There. That color fits you much better. Bright red is for women who need the extra pop, but you don’t.”
His words threatened to soften my feelings, but I refused to let them. I knew better, didn’t I?
When he set the lipstick down, I found myself watching his actions, the way he used his left hand, the awkward way he’d done everything with that hand.
“Why do you wear the gloves?” I asked.
The air in the room disappeared, as though that question had sucked it all out. Vance didn’t answer, didn’t even look at me, but his muscles went rigid beneath his black turtleneck shirt.
It reminded me of how he’d acted when I’d looked at them before, the way it immediately shut down any warmth inside him.
He turned away from me and took a few steps toward the door as if he hadn’t heard me. He paused just before he left. “Make sure you play your part. Your life depends on it.”
He left me with those threatening words.
But was he really threatening me or just trying to throw me off the trail? I had the sense that Vance was the sort of man to snarl when people neared his wounds.
And suddenly I wanted to know about those wounds, even if I knew it would only hurt us both all the more.
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