Page 37 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
He’d witnessed Chantilly yelling at me earlier for seating the design team too far from Nash’s table. As it was, I’d made it a point to avoid looking at him all night except to make sure I always stood on the opposite side of the room
from him, far enough that I couldn’t even tell the color of his suit.
Aside from Brandon, Nash was the one man in the room who hadn’t bothered with a masquerade mask. Didn’t matter. With or without a mask, I would have recognized him.
He had that kind of presence. The type that had you turning around and looking over your shoulder to make sure he wasn’t behind you because, from across the room, I could feel him near me.
Even now, it took everything in me to push his presence out of my mind.
“Oh?” Brandon sipped his drink, something clear. Water, whereas everyone else had taken the open bar as an invitation to get plastered. The insight unsettled me. “You look like you fit in with this crowd.”
“I’ve been to more of these things than I’d like to count.” I shrugged, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. “Doesn’t mean I like it.”
I did, however, like keeping my job. Forgoing another night at the soup kitchen didn’t hurt either. I usually went during off-hours when it wasn’t busy, but lately, with how unpredictable the weather could be this time of year, people constantly filled it, seeking shelter from the harsh heat and sudden rains.
“Are you an investor?” He didn’t seem particularly interested in the answer.
I inspected his features again. Curiosity rooted my feet to the floor, even as instinct yelled at me to retreat. Assembling the mystery of Brandon reminded me of starting a book and being told not to finish. I’d never possessed the willpower.
“No. They’re wearing the gold name tags.” I didn’t elaborate, snagging a fruit tart off a passing tray. My mission tonight was to eat as much food as I could, so I wouldn’t have to stop by the soup kitchen in the morning.
“Not a date, then?” An amused grin lifted his lips. He watched me struggle to remove the wrapping from the tart.
Malaise.
A general feeling of discomfort or unease.
I couldn’t grasp where I knew him from, but I’d pinpointed the feeling his presence evoked from me. Despite my bravado, it gave me pause. The last time I’d felt that had been the night Angus Bedford committed suicide.
“I work here.” The catering and design teams shared sterling-colored tags, etched with our first names. I thumbed mine, the movement unintentional.
“Why do I get the feeling you’re not as invested in this conversation as I am?” He didn’t look offended, but I had the decency to pretend that I felt bad.
I shoveled the tart into my mouth as gracefully as I could and sent him an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I haven’t eaten all day.”
“You have nothing to apologize for.” He snagged a chocolate strawberry and offered it to me. I considered returning it to the waiter before giving in to my hunger. “I actually approached you because you look so familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?”
I knew it.
We did know each other.
I resisted the urge to adjust my mask. I’d stitched it myself with the sole intention of making it large enough to hide my identity. I no longer wore my hair blonde, my lashes didn’t boast eight-hundred-dollar extensions, and my hair fell down to my waist in a wild mixture of wavy, straight, and curled locks. I looked nothing like the Virginia Winthrop clone I’d once been.
The single identifying feature I still possessed were my eyes. One gray. One blue. But not noticeable enough that he’d realize it unless he searched for it or he’d been around me all of his life. And since he seemed familiar…
Déjà vu eased its way inside me. My stomach took the hit first, nausea replacing some of the hunger pains. It still ached from starvation and exhaustion, but I no longer possessed the self-destructive urge to stick around and find out how Brandon Vu recognized me.
I bit into the strawberry, buying time to consider my words carefully. “I think I have one of those recognizable faces.” My shoulders shrugged, and I pretended to wave at Chantilly, who frowned at me in response. She was still frowning at me. “My boss just waved me over. I’m so sorry, but it was nice meeting you.”
Trotting off before Brandon could say anything, I sidled up next to Chantilly at the open bar and discarded the strawberry stem into the nearby trash can. Chantilly had moved past glaring at me to gawking at Nash.
The woman was as transparent as a hologram. She wore a crimson faux fur-lined mask to cover her face, not sunglasses to cover her eyes. She could at least pretend she wasn’t staring.
Metanoia.
Tarantism.
Marcid.
