Prototype (18 page)

There is no arguing with him, because he is right. This is dangerous, but I will be perfectly hidden all night. Masked, I can stand directly in Declan’s eye line and he will never know it is me. And if something happens, I can back up Miles and Farrah without hesitation.

I reach out a hand. “Give me the dress.”

Getting the outfit on proves difficult, as it has a built-in bustier and squeezes my midsection like a vise—Leigh is taller, but also thinner. The dress zips over the top of the corset and has a cowl neckline that reveals way more breast than I am comfortable with. Cross-diagonal pleating in the top leads to a floor-length skirt with a high slit up one leg.

Foster kneels in front of me while someone hides my hair under a blond wig that hangs straight to my shoulders. He reaches through the part in the fabric and belts a leather garter to my thigh. Like Farrah’s, it hides well under my billowy skirts.

He jostles around with the garter and glances up at me. “HK outside thigh. Knife inside thigh. Aerochlor canister back thigh.”

I nod and swallow, my dry throat clicking. “Tell me this is going to be okay.”

He stands and grips my arms. “I’ll be waiting here with a stiff drink for when you get back. We’re both going to need it.”

My eyelids drift closed and I try to breathe. My heart beats too fast. “Oh my God.”

“Shoes,” another man says, and puts a pair of heels in front of me. They must be five inches high.

Dr. Malcolm arrives at my side with an aerosol can. “For your arm.”

I glance down at the new skin outside my left arm, and the mixed tones top off my panic. “This will not work.”

The doctor smiles reassuringly. “Trust me. No one will know the difference. It smells a little, though.” He looks around the room. “Does anyone have perfume?” Other than Sonya and Leigh, we are surrounded by men, who smirk in response.

“Just spray her arm,” Reid orders.

Dr. Malcolm sprays the pale skin on my left arm until the color matches. And he is right. It smells. More than a little.

Sonya appears and sprays me with something that smells strongly of vanilla and sugar. The mist makes me cough.

“There,” she says. “That’ll cover it up.”

Reid appears with a full mask. It is white with a red-and-gold half mask painted around the eye area to match heart-shaped lips. White ribbons hang from the sides.

Reid takes me by the elbow and rushes me down the hall, giving me orders the entire way. I am already too late to use the same teleporter stop Leigh would have used to meet her car. I will have to teleport someplace nearby, though this part is sticky for him. I offer to teleport into the gallery down the street from Declan’s building, and he seems more than happy with this suggestion.

I tie my mask on outside the teleporter while he chatters on; he is clearly stressed by this turn of events but has efficiently worked out every detail. Personally, I pray I do not faint the second this adrenaline dissipates.

“You have your com?” Foster asks as he helps me onto the teleporter platform.

I waver in my heels as the floor gives, then nod. “Yes.”

“All right. See you when you get back.”

After one good breath in, I punch in the sequence that will take me to the gallery where Noah once planned to kill me. Maybe once he sees me, he will attempt to repeat the action. He is going to hate this more than I already do.

“Good luck,” Foster calls as everything disappears.

T
he gallery looks just as I remember it from my first visit with Declan. The walls feature a wide array of styles—paintings and photographs—with canned lighting in the ceiling. Cushioned benches are arranged in front of every piece, inviting patrons to sit and admire.

I, for one, would love to sit. Not because I want to appreciate the work but because what I am about to do has hit me. Entering this building has set me right into a piece of my old life and opened my eyes. I could end up in Dr. Travista’s lab tonight, and Clint Reid may as well have put me there. Old instincts kick in and I consider cities to teleport to in the west.

Leave while you still can.

Oh, how I want to, but then all of Noah’s hard work would be for nothing. Farrah and Miles are already set up to do this thing, and what if they need me?
Really
need me? Noah cannot help them, and he will not allow them to start without proper backup. Which happens to be me, of all people. Worse, if this fails, Leigh will submit to cloning. If I can stop that from happening, I will.

I head for the exit and end up rushing through the door when the gallery owner, Harold Geist, spots me. He cannot know who I am behind my mask but must see a potential sale and nearly bombards me with a pitch.

On the sidewalk, I pause to look up—
and up
—into the lights of Richmond, which are so bright they hide the stars. The last time I saw this district of town, the Christmas holiday had the streets lit up in festive decorations and music played over a sound system. It is nothing like that now, but I am still surrounded by clean lines and the friendly voice of a man stating the price for a
Richmond Times
download. There are ninety-nine suited men crowding the sidewalks to every one woman, all of them staring at me.

Sweat prickles under my mask, from both nerves and summer heat. The retreating sun has taken little of the simmering temperature with it. I fist the folds of my dress in warm palms and lower my gaze as I walk to my destination.

Noah paces outside Burke Enterprises, which urges me to pick up my pace. I must be ten minutes late at best. The closer I get, the hotter and more constricting the air becomes. He is going to kill me.

He spots me and lets out an annoyed sigh. Once I am in hearing distance, he says, “Do you have any idea what time—?”

He stops abruptly, eyes wide under his mask. His lips lengthen into a taut line. I follow his gaze down to my chest, but my full mask limits the movement. He reaches forward and hot fingertips brush the space between my breasts. The light movement of a chain tickles my skin.

Then I know. I never removed my luckenbooth necklace. All this time I have kept it hidden under my shirts; I doubt he even knew I wore it. Clearly he recognizes it and does not believe for a second Leigh wears it.

Noah fists the necklace between us until his knuckles whiten. “What the hell is going on?” He speaks in a whisper, but his shaking tone holds so much fury it makes my throat tighten.

Swallowing my fear, I say, “It is fine. I promise.”

He bends to put his lips by my ear. His breath is hot and humid. “Explain to me how this is
fine,
Emma. You can’t be here.”

“There was an accident and Reid made the only choice he could.” I whisper too, watching the long line of masked attendees entering the building on a red carpet. “You need me or this is over.”

He straightens. “Then it’s over. Of all the people to send . . . I can’t believe you followed along.”

“I did not see another alternative.”

He continues as if I had not spoken. “You’re going into a room with the very man who would erase you completely; do you realize that?”

“I am masked and wearing a wig. As long as these items stay on, he will never know.”

He shakes his head, his focus on the concrete under our feet. “It’s too risky.”

“I chose to do this. You know me, and you know I would never have gone along if I did not believe we could do this. Let me help, Noah. Please.”

He looks at me, unblinking, for a long moment. A heart-pounding eternity later, he reaches out and starts to unclasp my necklace. “I’ll hold on to this. No hired escort in her right mind would wear this symbol.” He pockets the jewelry and offers me his elbow. “Come on.”

 • • • 

The Fire and Ice Masquerade Ball is on the second floor. Security checks invitations at the top of the stairs, then allows the attendees to enter an extremely large room with dim lighting that gives the atmosphere a romantic feel. Marble pedestals topped with round glass bowls surround the room. Inside each vessel is a flame that appears to float and lick the open air. Tables with ice sculptures or full bouquets of red roses for centerpieces are arranged around the outside of the room. A string quartet plays on a raised dais in a corner, dressed to match the guests in red and white.

Noah lays a hand over the top of the fingers I have curled around his elbow. The second we enter, his entire body relaxes, reminding me to do the same. He smiles and formally greets other guests, whom I do not recognize. Because I am an “escort,” he does not waste time making introductions.

He pauses once we are deep inside the room and glances around. “Let’s dance,” he says without looking at me. He searches for someone, but I do not know if he looks for Miles and Farrah, who are not due to arrive yet, or Declan. As the host, he should already be here, but the room is too full to tell.

Noah finally looks at me, and it as if I am the only woman in the room. I have not been on the end of this intense gaze since San Francisco, and it makes my head swim in a warm haze.

He lifts my arm and spins me onto the dance floor. He follows the graceful move and guides me into his arms with ease, setting a hand on the small of my back and holding the other in the air.

I have no memory of dancing with him but do not find it hard to follow his lead. Each step is smooth like silk, his hold firm. Somehow he manages to ensnare my eyes with his and never missteps. Despite the recent tension, and in one look, I am all his.

“You look stunning,” he whispers.

Heat prickles my chest and rises up my neck. “You do not have to say that.”

“Why not? It’s the truth.”

I take a shaky breath. “Thank you.”

A soft tone beeps in my earpiece, followed by Miles’s voice.
“The Winchesters are in place.”

Noah pushes me out and spins me again. Once I am back in his arms, he says, “Tucker and guest in place.”

I glance over Noah’s shoulder and spot Miles and Farrah taking champagne flutes from a passing waitress. They do not look our way, and to any stranger’s eye they look like a beautiful couple very much in love.

“Five minutes,” Noah says softly, “then we go find our host. You ready for that?”

No.
“It will be fine.” I do not know if this affirmation is more for my benefit or his.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,”
Miles says,
“but your date sounds very much like
—”

Leigh’s laugh interrupts the com.
“Oh it’s 2.0, all right. And I’m kicking your buddy Jacob’s ass the second I’m able.”

Relief floods me with the sound of her voice. “How are you?”

“Not now,” Noah says. “We go on as planned.” He turns us and bumps a shoulder into another gentleman, to whom he apologizes in an absent way, but then his entire body stiffens.

“Dad.” The greeting holds no surprise, but no familial love, either.

My mouth dries up. Noah has a father. Who is here. As a guest.

“Hello, son,” the man says, and pulls his young date to a stop. “I thought that was you.” From behind his mask, amber eyes look down the bridge of his long, pointed nose at me. “I’m surprised to see you with a date.”

“Thought it was time for a change,” Noah says, and tightens his arm around my back. His fingers dig gently into my side. “Don’t worry. I didn’t do anything stupid like purchase a wife.”

His father chuckles. “That
would
ruin the forever-a-bachelor image you’re so desperate to protect, wouldn’t it?”

Noah smiles, but it does not reach his eyes.

The man, whose only resemblance to Noah that I can tell is in his eyes, reaches a hand out to me. “James Tucker.” He nods down at his date. “This is my wife, MyAnna.”

“Tenth wife,” Noah clarifies for my benefit, but still does not introduce me.

“Constance,” I say with a Southern inflection, and take James’s extended hand. There is no softness to his bony touch, and I feel as if he might break my hand with his overly firm grip.

The men lead us off the dance floor, where they stop one of the many young women carrying trays of champagne. Each girl wears an identical sequined, white shift dress and high heels.

James takes two flutes, and Noah takes only one for himself, as part of his act to be dismissive of me. Not that I can drink, not with this full mask on.

James starts to hand me his. “My son is very rude, Constance.”

Noah raises a hand to stop me from taking it. “No drinking for my date. Part of the contract.”

MyAnna lifts her chin and turns her face away, but I am careful not to react.

James takes a slow sip of his champagne, then says, “Reputation has always been my son’s number one priority.” He looks at Noah while speaking to me. “One wrong word, my dear, and he’ll never hire you again.”

“Reputation means everything in this town.” I should probably remain silent, but I also have a strong need to defend Noah. He does not deserve this condescension, most especially not from his own father.

“Not everything,” James says, and smirks in a way that has Noah written all over it despite Noah’s lips being fuller. Adrienne, too, actually. “Can’t forget money. After all . . . reputation alone can’t buy one happiness.”

Noah lengthens, his unforgiving stare never leaving his father. Finally, he turns his attention to me, and it is not much softer. “I think it’s time we mingled.”

I nod at James and MyAnna. “Nice to meet you both.” Noah steers me away and I whisper, “Did you know he would be here?”

“I thought he’d show, yes.”

“I take it he does not know he has a granddaughter?” I do not know why, but this bothers me. We have so little family, and faced with Noah’s, I hate the idea of Adrienne never knowing him.

Noah stops, throws back what is left of his champagne, then sets the empty flute on a nearby table. “My dad thinks I’m a bachelor who lets business control my every waking decision. That’s all he needs to know.”

“And your mother?”

His cheeks flush and I sense a tide of banked anger inside him. He looks over my head but seems to be somewhere else entirely. “He sold her when I was young. He sells them all when he’s done with them. Impregnates them once, sometimes twice out of his sense of duty, then moves on.”

I cannot breathe. “What? Where is your mother now?”

Please do not say dead.

“Germany. Her husband moves around a lot.”

“Does she know the truth about you?”

He nods once and his eyes come to rest on mine. “She loved you.”

I have nothing to say, so I simply take his hand and squeeze.

“We need to look for Burke,” he says, squeezing my hand back.

“We should split up, yes? If I see him, I will com you.”

“That wasn’t part of the plan. You need to stay by me.”

“We lost time speaking to your father. Miles needs to get to the server room and Farrah needs to get to Declan’s office. Security is still tied up with incoming guests. We have to utilize this time efficiently.”

Noah sighs, then nods. “Okay.” He scans me for a moment, holding me so I cannot turn away. “Slouch or something. I feel like your posture is a dead giveaway.”

“That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard,” I tell him, biting back a laugh. “Stop worrying about me. I will be fine.”

He lets my fingers slide out of his, and I turn my back. I can feel his attention on me until I disappear around the side of the dance floor. I walk slowly and take a glass of champagne when it comes by for nothing more than to have something to do with my hands. I pass Farrah and Miles, and they ignore me as easily as everyone else.

I scan the outlying tables and dance floor for Declan, but he is nowhere to be found. I do, however, see the Thomases clustered in a dark corner. Evan and Daxton seem to be having a heated yet quiet conversation, which tugs at my curiosity.

Charissa Thomas sips from a champagne flute and looks elsewhere. Her sleek, dark hair has been curled into a chignon with ivory hairpins. Her white maxi-length dress is fitted from top to bottom, emphasizing her slim curves, and belted at the waist.

On the dance floor, I spot Richard and Lydia Farris, he in a white tux and she in a shade of red that suits her auburn hair. A sweetheart neckline gives way to an A-line skirt that sweeps the floor. She looks radiant tonight, and nothing like the skeletal, pale, day-old clone I met last year.

I am about to move on, but that is when I smell him. The bold musk that ties my stomach in knots while melting my insides all at once.

I want him,
my body says, remembering all the expert ways he used to touch me, guide me, love me. Except . . .

I hate him.

Turning, I find Declan smiling down at me, a red half mask over the sea in his eyes.