Okay, seeing his face was worse than a punch in the gut. Goodness, but he could clean up well... His hair lay in a perfectly delectable sweep over his head and my fingers twitched, as if eager to bury themselves in it and pull his bloody face closer. The navy suit brought out the blue in his eyes like that of a fresh water stream bubbling untouched down the mountains. Suddenly, his high cheekbones, the kind you see only on magazine covers and in dreams, seemed so much more prominent, beautifully defined. I had a feeling I would never be able to see his face the same way again.
I think Mr. Rodwell and I won't have come out of our trances if the glass hadn't fallen. The shattering sound shook the two of us so hard I almost shrieked. For a moment the room had felt so quiet that the sudden cataclysm felt like a train ramming into my eardrums.
Mr. Rodwell's face flushed (he was really doing a lot of that, nowadays). "I-I apologise," he said. Did he just stammer?
I stared at him. And it was during the course of this particular staring that I noticed that hanging over his pristine white shirt was a cream tie. Cream. And there were gold cuff links on his shirt cuffs. Crikey... Please, please, god, don't tell me we match. Don't you dare tell me we match...
We matched.
I suddenly felt for the first time that I didn't have a made up curse for this particular occasion. If I had had anything navy in my dress, I would have thrown myself out the window.
There was a rushing sound from behind me and I found Tasha popping out the room, a panicked look on her face. When she saw me, she immediately asked, "He shot you?" But after a moment, when she had time to actually see what she was looking at, a sigh escaped her. "Oh, sorry. What was that sound?"
"Mr. Rodwell dropped a glass," I told her, motioning towards where the said individual stood, looking down at the mess at his feet with a frown, like he couldn't figure out where exactly to start the cleaning up process from. Or, I guess, he was just waiting for someone to materialise at his side and do it for him.
Tasha's eyebrows shot upwards as she took in the disaster. A small smiled played somewhere on her lips. "Did he now?" she said softly, almost to herself.
Eliza, who had followed Tasha out the door, looked at the pieces of glass on the carpet and glanced up. "Would you like me to clean that, ma'am?"
"Eliza," Tasha said, sounding exasperated. "You don't have to jump to help every time some rich snob drops something. I am sure Mr. Rodwell can pick it up himself."
Mr. Rodwell send Tasha a dry look. "Someone will be here to pick it up. We don't have time. Or do you plan to get to the event when the cleaning crews arrive?" he asked me, avoiding my gaze.
"No, I'm ready," I said. "Just-Tasha, make sure Ella, Hannah and Granny don't go near that, please."
"Granny can take care of herself," Tasha protested.
"One day I caught her trying to eat glass because she thought it would help with her digestion," I informed her.
Tasha sighed. "Okay, I will tie her up the moment she walks through the door."
"Right, then," I said, glancing at Mr. Rodwell. He was studiously adjusting his cuffs. "Shall we go?"
He grunted in response. I guess that was supposed to be yes in yeti-language. I wondered who taught him that.
"Where's Christopher?" Tasha asked.
"In position," he said. "Don't try to contact him. It won't work." Then he pressed the elevator button and, when it dinged and the chrome doors opened, stepped inside and stood tapping his boot on the carpeted floor.
"I..." Tasha started, but then trailed off when I looked at her in question. She forced a smile on her lips. "Alright then. Take care," she said, placing a hand on my shoulder.
I gulped as I glanced at the elevator again. Oh god gracious goodness... Suddenly, I didn't want to go. The enormity of what exactly it was I was about to do wasn't lost on me.
"Go," Tasha said, pushing slightly at my arm.
"Ple-"
"What is it now?" she hissed. "Finally seen sense?"
"Are you planning to come, Miss Mahal? I promise I don't bite."
Shit biscuits... (I really need to invest in more ferocious curses)
"I-wait, I forgot to kiss Ella goodbye!" I tried to scuttle back, but Tasha's hand was on me before I could take another step.
"I am going to kill you, Zara," she warned. "If you aren't ready, then just say it, and we will forget about this plan this fast." She snapped her fingers.
I shook her hand off my shoulder, sighing. Alright then...
I hobbled towards the elevator and stepped inside, making sure I was as far away from Mr. Rodwell as the floor allowed. Only, he was stationed right in the middle of said floor, so my space was entirely too limited. He inserted a key into a slot and the doors shut. I imagined Tasha's curiously blank face being squashed to a bloody pulp between the doors.
The mute light of the overhanging chandelier cast a lovely beige glow on my gown. The sleeves shimmered and sparkled like so many diamonds studded into my arms. Wait, not like that...that would be painful. Maybe-
Someone cleared his throat. "Did you bring that dress with you?" a quiet voice inquired from my right.
I looked up at his face. "No, it's Tasha's." He grunted once more. I knew I had to shut up. If I had been in my right mind, I would have. If it had been anyone else but him, I would have. But since both these facts weren't in my favour at the moment, I continued the conversation, my voice tinkling wildly. "It's a little too showy, don't you think?" Why the hell am I giggling? There was no reason to giggle. We are having a normal conversation!
There was a little uncomfortable silence. Then, "I won't know, Miss Mahal."
I cleared my throat. "Of course. I just mean, we don't want to draw too much attention to ourselves, now do we?"
"Miss Mahal, there's going to be a lot of attention on us no matter how you dress," he stated.
I stared at him, my mouth hanging slightly open. "What the hell do you mean?"
"I mean," he said, adjusting his cuffs yet again, "that there's going to be a lot of attention on the two of us regardless."
"What do-oh, will you please look at me! I can't possibly look that ugly."
This time his head whipped around like a puppet's might when the puppeteer pulls the string. "You don't look ugly, Miss Mahal." His voice was funny. Suddenly, his eyes were way too vivid.
I snorted. "Please," I said. "I know I must look ridiculous. I look much better when I'm dressed like a human being, not a doll."
"You don't look ugly," he said again. "In fact," he cleared his throat (why were the two of us clearing our throats so much?), "in fact, you won't be able to pull off an ugly look if you tried."
My heart was thudding really, really fast. My jaw started to hurt from how hard I was biting down. "Are you telling me I am beautiful, Mr. Rodwell?" I tried to make my voice light, joking, but I might as well have tried to bite into steel.
He cleared his throat once again. It took him a moment to reply, but when he did, his voice was crisp and business like. "Well of course, Miss Mahal. That's a clear fact."
I looked away. Okay, okay... he's right, this is a fact. Even I know I am beautiful. This doesn't mean anything. Nothing at all. Nothing!
"I see," I said in the same business-like tone. "Of course. It's a fact. You're handsome too, Mr. Rodwell. Just a fact. You must know."
"Yes, Miss Mahal. Just a fact."
We descended into a slightly charged, tension filled silence. Mr. Rodwell found his cuff links so interesting that he spent the whole of the ride down adjusting them, first one way and then another. I kept fingering the supports of my crutches too, and after a moment, leaned back against the wall and watched the light play over my flimsy shoes.
Outside the building, we found Conrad waiting for us, dressed up in a chauffeur's uniform, complete with a stiff cap that he doffed at me when he opened the door of the long limousine.
Now, it must not be very hard for one to guess that I had never been inside a limousine before (or in one's vicinity, if the truth be told), and I had no idea where I was supposed to turn once inside. Thankfully Mr. Rodwell silently directed me to the long bench at the back, and then took a seat on the one across from me.
"Drive as fast as you can, Conrad, without crashing us into a pole," he instructed crisply when we were comfortably settled. "I want this night over with as soon as possible."
Conrad doffed his hat again--he seemed to just love doing that--and shut the door gently.
After about a minute, the limousine smoothly slid into the traffic.
The silence was starting to get stifling, like a blanket might when put on your face. I tried to distract myself by looking out the window, but the streets weren't as interesting as they usually were. My eyes kept flickering towards the statue sitting across from me.
"Can I offer you something to drink?"
The question came out of nowhere, and I jumped slightly, thoroughly embarrassing myself. I looked at Mr. Rodwell, who had opened the bar and was studying the myriad of sparkling bottles on top.
Finally, a safe topic. My upper lip curled in disgust. "And why exactly would I want to drink something that would hamper my ability to think?"
He gave me a cool look. "Is this another one of your Pakistani morals, Miss Mahal?"
"No, it's common sense."
"They call a drink 'liquid courage'. I assume you're feeling nervous?"
"I am perfectly fine. Or at least, I don't feel so bad that I might want to suppress my nervous system."
"Miss Mahal-"
"Just drink if you want to," I offered graciously. "Imagine that I am not here."
Mr. Rodwell poured himself a clear liquid and took a sip. I hope he chokes on it. God didn't grant my wish. "That is a considerably difficult thing to do."
"What?" I looked at him, thoroughly annoyed. I wished I had asked him not to continue, like the first time. Change of tactic didn't work. My stomach still roiled every time I looked at him.
"You asked me to imagine you weren't here. I can't do that."
"And why is that?" My hands were twisting into each other so hard they hurt.
He shrugged. "I don't know."
I glanced at the glass in his hand and then at his face. "How much have you had to drink today, Mr. Rodwell?"
He shrugged again. "I don't know."
Oh, crap. "More than you do normally?" I prompted.
"I don't know, Miss Mahal," he said again, taking a long sip, practically downing the whole thing. I took that as a yes.
"Are you drunk, Mr. Rodwell?" Is that what he had been doing all the time he had been away? He hadn't been away that long, had he? How long had I taken to get ready? Was I in a car with a drunk Mr. Rodwell?
"How does one know, Miss Mahal?" Mr. Rodwell inquired. "I feel perfectly fine."
Alright, so he's drunk. I couldn't believe that Mr. Rodwell could be so irresponsible. This was only the second time I had seen him drink, and the first had been when his little dead sister had been mentioned. So why was he drunk now? My heart clenched a little. Was it because he had to pretend to be my date for a night? Was my company so undesirable that he had to numb his senses to get through it?
Alright... I shrugged mentally. What did it matter? I didn't want to be here either. I was here under duress myself. This was a sacr-
Wait... I looked at Mr. Rodwell closely. He was staring out the window, the passing lights skittering over his face one after the other like fire-flies. My eyes narrowed. I had seen a lot of rowdy drunks, loud drunks and destructive drunks. Tasha herself belonged to one of these categories. But it seemed Mr. Rodwell wasn't one of any of these. He, it was clear, was one of the rarer ones.
The quiet drunks. The quiet drunks one could prompt into talking.
And I could take advantage of that.
Only if I wanted to, of course. I mean, Mr. Rodwell was much more forthcoming with information since all the curtains had been lifted between us. But...but he still tended to be frosty when asked questions. But now it seemed I could ask him questions and he would answer them. Because he wasn't his real self and couldn't think straight.
I had a long list of questions to ask him--and I don't mean in my head; I had taken time to actually write all of them down. I could ask them to him right now and he would spill like a fountain.
If I wanted to, of course.
If-
Okay, I wanted to. Very much.
"Mr. Rodwell?"
He glanced towards me. "Yes?"
"Mr. Rodwell, I am going to ask you a question right now."
"How nice of you to inform me."
"Er..." Where to start, where to start? Okay, better start safe. "How did you ever know that Fred had any connection with Frank? He could have been any drug dealer? Maybe a freelancer. How did you know he had anything to do with Frank?"
His eyes narrowed slightly. "That's what you wanted to ask?"
"Well...yes." No.
He looked slightly disappointed. The glass lifted again. "It was a matter of shared acquaintances. When a person meets the same people other people are meeting, and these other people are meeting some other people, and these other people some other, till that long chain finally leads to your target, then it's fairly safe to assume that they are related. We have been following Frank from the moment we noticed him. Stepping slowly down the ladder led us to Fred. Common sense."
Wow. That did sound simple. "But then how did you know I had anything to do in all this?"
"By keeping a close eye on irregularities, Miss Mahal. You see, when we figured out Fred, we ran a check on all the people working for him. First it was Meli. Pretty straight forward. Born in rural town, high-school dropout, multiple times sexual abuse victim, married at the age of eighteen to a man named Oscar. Then, Oscar dies in a car crash, Meli moves to the big town, marries John Hudgens, has a daughter by him, and worked at Frederick Bosley's ever since." He ticked all the points off on his fingers.
Sexual abuse victim? Multiple times? Now I understood what she meant when she said a wolf kept the other wolves away. Oh, Meli...
"And me?"
"You, Miss Mahal," there was a smile on his face, "your case was entirely different. You see, there were irregularities in you papers."
"What? No, that's not possible. I admit my papers are forged, but many people have seen them. There are no irregularities."
"Really? The thing is, Miss Mahal, that irregularities tend to glare out when you are actually looking for them. And that's what I was doing. Your papers might be perfect in the eyes of an ignorant law enforcer, but to me, who knows how these things are done, they were not so."
"How?" I asked.
"Please, Miss Mahal. Haven't you heard about trade secrets? I can't very well tell you."
What? Were the effects of his inebriation wearing off already?
"Bu-"
"I know what you're doing," he whispered suddenly. My cheeks flushed. "I did not get to where I am right now by letting every other little slip of a woman like you fool me."
Great. Goddamn!
I looked out the window. We were now among very large houses. Where were we? I had absolutely no idea. This wasn't a kind of place I usually went to make friendly visits. Soaring houses rose all around us, set so far back from the street that only their top-most terraces showed. But that was more than enough to figure out what kind of people lived there. The barred, ornately carved doors were another indication towards how unwelcome a person like me was in this place. I felt a surge of pride flow through me. I almost felt like a brave infiltrator, going into enemy territory to gather valuable information.
The car, if you could call this sock-like long automobile that, swerved around a bend, and suddenly before us rose huge gates similar to the ones we had just passed. But in this case, we passed through these. There was a short stop, and then we continued on.
There were huge trees swathed in shadows and strings of light bulbs on either side of us. They lighted a path under their gentle arbour, leading along a twisted way till we stopped before a large house. Now, I just can't seem to find words in me to describe houses like these. They were huge, they were sumptuous, they somehow exuded history and riches, and they also somehow exuded a very unwelcome feeling.
There, perfectly described.
The limousine stopped. I could see people through the slightly tinted windows. The press. It appeared that the rush of new arrivals was over (of course) and they were just relaxing, waiting for the event to be over and the elite of New York to come out with their bellies full and their bank accounts considerably lighter.
When all of a sudden a mysterious, unknown and unexpected limousine suddenly stopped before them, the journalists and reporters didn't know how to react for a second. But only a second. Before Conrad could even come around to open the door for us, they were already raising their cameras high, brightening their lights to capture just the right picture, and thrusting their microphones beyond the boundary of the red carpet into forbidden territory.
Goosebumps rose on my arms.
"I can't do this," I muttered, sinking back into the seat, almost deflated. What the hell had I been thinking? After spending all my life under the radar, to now think that I could survive having my face plastered over newspapers? How could I possibly think that?
But the answer was simple, of course. I hadn't been thinking. If I had, I would have seen this little problem. But all my energy had been concentrated on figuring out how to get to Zayn. I hadn't even entertained the possibility that the press would figure into the equation too.
"Come on, Miss Mahal," Mr. Rodwell urged silently.
"I can't do this," I repeated, almost shaking.
"Miss Mahal," Mr. Rodwell was suddenly by my side and holding my hand. What th- "Zayn's in there. We need to get to him. And the only way to do that is to go through them. Come on."
"I-"
"Miss Mahal, I never took you for a coward."
"I am not a coward," I said angrily.
"Well, you certainly are acting that way," he observed.
And that did it. He thought I was a coward, did he? Who the hell did he think he was? Of course I wasn't a coward. I was not a coward. I was strong. I had survived all that had happened to me and still stayed strong (if you didn't consider the slight occasional short circuits in my head).
I can do this. And then I will rub my bravado in his face.
In retrospect, it was of course clear to me what he was doing. He was trying to make me angry, probably the only thing absolutely certain to get me out of the hole I was trying to dig for myself. His noble motives didn't matter, though. He could go to hell.
When Conrad finally opened the door, I was ready.
Mr. Rodwell and I slid out the car and the people around us exploded (metaphorically, thankfully).
"Mr. Rodwell!"
"Mr. Rodwell, you decided to come!"
"Mr. Rodwell, who's the lady with you?"
"Mr. Rodwell, sir, this way please! Pose for the camera!"
"Lady, lady, move you head to the left! Just a little!"
Mr. Rodwell ignored them all. For some imperceptible reason, he kept his hand around my waist and, for some entirely more baffling reason, I let him. He helped me to slowly hobble forward, coming before me and the cameras whenever he could.
And finally, we were inside. Mr. Rodwell's hand fell almost immediately.
We were in a marble and gold lobby. Before my eyes had time to adjust to the muted lighting and to look around, I noticed a little frilly woman walking towards her. Her hair was so light I was sure it wasn't natural. He skin was tanned in that weird way these rich people think makes them look pretty. Personally, I thought she looked orange. She wore a simple strapless floor length gown that made me feel like a plumed peacock. Shit.
"Meester Rodweel!" the woman slurred, her hands held out wide like she wanted to hug him. Mr. Rodwell stiffened in anticipation by my side. "Ho loovely it izz! Ho loovely thath you cood coome! Wheen Georgey toold mee, I coood not belieeeve!"
"Mrs. Harrison," Mr. Rodwell bowed his head. "It's an honour." His voice made it sound like he meant strangling her would have been an honour.
Mrs. Harrison must have noticed something on his face along those lines, for she stopped a few feet away. "But yoo are sooo laaate, Meester. Soo late. The dinner'z ooover."
"I apologise," Mr. Rodwell answered in clipped tones. "But I just had to come."
"But ooof course you deed! It'z theee event ooof thee year!"
"Yes, ma'am, I am sure."
"Pleeese, pleeese, come theeese way! Theee dancing izz juzzt starting! My looovely girl, you cooome tooo! Meeester Rodweeel's date! Theeez is heeztoric!"
"I'm sure," Mr. Rodwell muttered.
"Teel me, my girrrl, waaat's yoor naame?" she asked as she led us down a corridor, further into the bowels of this nightmare of a house.
"Er...Zara?" I said uncertainly, glancing at Mr. Rodwell. He continued to glare stonily ahead.
"Zaeeraa? But theez is mozzt remarkabl!" she hissed. It was almost like she had a snake in her mouth. "Wheeere are yooo froom, my girrrl?"
"Pakistan," I said shortly. The woman was positively creeping me out.
"Paakizztaan? But thaat'z remarrrkable! A modeel, I prezzume?"
"Er..." no, actually I was a dish-washer before Mr. Rodwell tricked me into working for him to find out about my shadowy past. Nice to meet you too.
"Mrs. Harrison?" Mr. Rodwell suddenly interrupted. "How's Carlotta?"
The woman's head suddenly whipped to the side. She looked at me uncertainly and then at him with a positively hungry look in her eyes. "Carlotta?"
"Yes. It's been a long time since I saw her."
"Yeez," she almost cackled gleefully. "It'z been veerry long. Carlotta talkz about yooou all the time. She-"
"Are we here?"
We had come to a stop before two giant open doors beyond which couples could be seen twirling to the slow melodic beats of music.
"Yeeez, and there'ss Carl-"
"Thank you, Mrs. Harrison. It's been a pleasure." And saying that, Mr. Rodwell swept into the ballroom, dragging me along and leaving our open mouthed hostess behind.
We were in a wide open cavern sized room done up in gold and dark ebony. The floor was solid gleaming wood under our feet. Chandeliers dangled from the roof in a solemn line. The mezzanines running around the edge of the room shone with gilded railings. Giant arched windows opened out over the mezzanines into the night sky. The underside of these entresols had smaller chandeliers hanging down too. The whole room shone with a muted golden glow.
About a million people moved on the dance floor, undulating like waves on the arms of their partners. The dancers wore exquisite ensembles, their faces radiant with slightly predatory smiles. None of these people were the others' friend, that was for sure.
The ballroom and its graceful patrons were beautiful. They were, also, the most terrifying thing I had ever seen.
"Like what you see, Miss Mahal?"
"Where's Zayn?" I asked. I wanted to get out of here as soon as possible. My hands were clammy around my crutches.
By now the other people were starting to notice our presence. An imperceptible murmur was starting in the corners and spreading like the plague as people turned around and took in the impressive sight of Mr. Rodwell standing in a ballroom with a girl at his side. I had a feeling this wasn't something they saw very often.
"I can't see him," Mr. Rodwell said, blind to the looks people threw our way.
"Where's that girl who was tailing him?" I asked, fighting the impulse to grab his hand like a kid. "Perhaps we could ask her?"
"I let her leave," he informed me, glancing around with narrowed eyes. "One never leaves a tail too long for fear of being notice. We will just have to find him ourselves." He smiled at me. "I have an idea."
Oh, good god...
"And what is that?"
"To take a turn around the room, of course."
Oh, thank god...
"I see. Yes, of cour-"
"We need to dance."
"What?" I asked, my voice shrill. "Are you out of your mind?"
"I think I am too, Miss Mahal. But what other plan do you have?" He shrugged. "We need to blend in till we find him. The way these people are muttering, the news of my arrival will reach Frank in under five seconds. We need to keep his attention off you."
"And how is dancing going to make him not see me?"
"Not, not see you, Miss Mahal. But see you and forget you. And that's only possible if you act like the rest of your crazy species. And dancing would help in that."
"That's ridiculous!" I protested. Then a sudden fearsome thought struck me. "Oh, goodness. I am not exactly dressed like everyone, am I? He will notice me because of that!"
"Focus, Miss Mahal," he snapped. "Look around. This is a very big event if there ever was one. There is international presence here too. Look," and he pointed at a woman across the hall, dancing on the arm of a little grinning man.
The woman had dark ebony skin. Her pearly white teeth gleamed from across the room as she glided and twisted like a wraith. She was dressed in the classic kind of dress I had seen on T.V. when African countries were discussed. It was a yellow and green patterned outfit with the same coloured cloth twisted around her head like a cap.
After seeing her, it was easy to notice the myriad of differently dressed people present. An almond skinned woman in a Japanese kimono. A brown skinned man dressed in an Indian dhoti. And furthermore, even a tall milky skinned woman in a salwar kameez suit.
Wow. I totally did not see that coming.
"That's interesting. But I still can't dance."
"I didn't ask if you could."
And saying that, Mr. Rodwell swept a hand around my waist, knocking the crutches and my leg out from under me, and pulled me into his arms. All the breath was knocked out of me in one big rush and I placed my arms around his neck as basic survival instincts kicked in.
"What are you doing?" I screeched. Thankfully the general hubbub and music drowned out my voice.
"Asking you to dance," he replied mildly as he stepped onto the dance floor.
I just couldn't help it, okay? I had to do it. If I hadn't I would have fallen. And nobody wants that, do they? I just had to do it...
I snaked my leg around his, locking myself in position. Only then did I say, "Let. Me. Down."
"Don't jeopardise the mission, Miss Mahal."
"I can't dance!" I hissed.
"I am well aware of that. You can't walk. How could I expect you to dance?"
"Then why are we doing this?" I asked angrily.
"Because I think it's a great idea."
He started to twirl me around the room. My heart climbed into my throat. Okay, I told myself, this is normal. This is business. This is a mission. We have to find out where Zayn is, and we need to do that fast. This is just as good an idea as any.
I looked around the room. People were glancing our way, but not at me. Almost all of them were looking at Mr. Rodwell, the girls throbbing with some insane kind of emotion I had never seen before, the men with an expression I had. Jealousy. Almost all the men in the room looked at Mr. Rodwell from the corners of their eyes, faces green with envy as they tried to capture their dates' divided attentions back.
It must have been something in the air, for seeing the girls made my blood boil.
"All the girls are looking at you," I told him.
"Is that so?" he asked mildly, fingers tightening around my arm. The music sent us around another spin. He wasn't any expert, but man, he knew how to pull it off.
"Yes," I said shortly. Then I don't know what came over me, for I continued. "I am sorry."
His brows furrowed over his beautiful eyes. "What ever for, Miss Mahal?"
I chuckled self-consciously. "I don't know. Maybe because you could have come to this party with any of those angels but you had to come with me. Must be a major bummer."
He was silent for so long, I had to wonder if he was going to answer or not. Then he said, "Miss Mahal, do you know why Mrs. Harrison was so shocked at my arrival?"
"The weird woman with the reptile in her mouth? I don't know," I said.
"She thinks her accent makes her sexy. But back to why she was shocked. It was because this is the first time I have come to an event like this."
I stared at him, confused. "But your diary has so many events listed."
"That's to make sure I remember not to be anywhere near them."
My face broke into a grin. "That's so childish!" I said.
He must have been really drunk, because he chuckled. "I know."
We drifted into silence for a moment. All I wanted to do was take advantage of the pause and gaze into his eyes. Okay, I am not going to lie here anymore. That's what I wanted to do. But it's perfectly understandable, of course. His eyes were beautiful. Anyone would want to look into them and just drown... Alright, maybe everyone might not want to drown, but I am sure you catch my drift. Like he had said, it was a fact. His eyes were beautiful. It was a fact. A fact.
Mr. Rodwell suddenly tightened his arms around me, bringing me so close I blushed. I had been looking pointedly over his shoulder at a girl who kept staring at him and fanning herself, but now I was forced to look at him.
When I did, he brought his face closer. His breath fanned over my face. "Miss Mahal, I am curious. How many of your moral am I breaking right now?"
I swallowed. He was so close. Closer than close. Our noses almost touched. Oh, god, I groaned mentally, why did he have to be so beautiful? Why? He could have been so ugly. He could have had elephant ears and a wart on his nose. His lips could have been as thin as a snail's. But no! No, he had to be so beautiful. So beautiful.
"I don't know how many," I whispered. His eyes were floating before my face like a dream. Was I being hypnotised? Entirely possible.
"I thought so," he snorted. "I am not sorry. Are you?"
"I really don't know," I said again.
"Do you hate me right now? Because I think your morals do."
I stayed silent.
"You know, I thought you would have protested more. But you're taking this remarkably well."
"I am not taking this well." I forced myself to focus on his words. What was wrong with me? "But I understand that this is a mission. You have to make sacrifices to get something."
His eyes iced over so suddenly I had to look again to be sure. His smile bled away from his lips. "You consider dancing with me a sacrifice?"
"Well, of course. Don't you?"
He ignored my question. "Well, then, my lady, don't you think it's my duty to make your suffering that much easier?"
I frowned. "What are you talking about?"
He pulled me so close that this time our noses did touch. I lost all feeling in all parts of my body except my heart and the spot where his skin touched mine. "I mean, Miss Mahal, I won't want you to leave this ballroom today the same as you came in."
I swallowed. "And how do you propose to change me?"
He let his nose slide down mine and slip across my cheek. His lips feathered across my skin. There was a dull ringing in my ears.
"Do you have any ideas?" he whispered into my ear.
My heart squeezed to the size of a grape. "Many," I whispered back, like the true wanton I was. I should be buried alive for this. My nails should be pulled out one by one and salted. I should be pulled on a rack. I should be hugged by the iron lady. I shou-
You can do all that to me after this is done.
Mr. Rodwell's smile against my cheek almost made me pass out. "Really? And what would your morals say to your ideas?"
"I am not listening to them right now." My hands finally found his hair. I snaked my fingers into them and pulled.
He brought his face back into my vision, his pupils as dark as the doors of hell. Why the hell did they look so inviting?
"Careful, Miss Mahal. If you keep doing that, I might just do something I won't regret but you would."
I was the cheapest woman to be born on this earth. I brought my lips close to his ear and whispered, "Is that a threat, Mr. Rodwell?"
Suddenly his fingers slid under my scarf and into my hair. He cupped my head in the palms of his hands. "Miss Mahal, I think my drinks are wearing off."
"What drinks?" I was just dying to touch his skin.
"The drinks I had to drink today to make being so near you easier," he replied.
I pulled my face back and looked at him, vision clearing suddnely. "What do you mean?"
"I-" he started, but then stopped. His eyes slid away from my face and fixed on something behind me.
I tried to crane my head around but he didn't let me. "What is it?" I asked, all the muddle-headedness of the last few minutes evaporating. Fear coursed through my veins again. "What are you looking at?"
Mr. Rodwell glanced back at me. "Don't look now, but Zayn is standing right behind us."