King Among the Dead - Lauren Gilley Page 0,10

few even brand new. She watched a woman in a white wool coat step out of a Mercedes and marveled at the woman’s spike-heeled white shoes, and her elaborate hair style. This was someone who had no expectations of setting foot out in the rain.

They parked between two BMWs and Beck came around to hold her door, offering her a hand again. She took it, and wondered if this would become a habit. And how she could politely tell him that there was no way she could step foot inside Steinman’s.

He must have read the hesitation on her face. One brow cocked upward in polite inquiry. “Something wrong?”

“I can’t – I mean. This is Steinman’s. And I’m…” She gestured vaguely down her body. The borrowed rain coat was the nicest thing about her ensemble. The nicest thing she’d ever worn. “You’re…and I’m…”

His brow smoothed with understanding. He still held her hand, and towed her forward by it, closing the car door behind her. “I’m a very loyal customer from a family of loyal customers, and you’re my guest for the day.” He drew her up alongside him and started for the elevators, his touch gentle, but inexorable. “If anyone says anything unkind to you, I’ll handle it.”

The way any wealthy person would, with a sharp reprimand and a request to speak to management.

Or…in the way he’d handled Miss Tabitha?

She didn’t ask for a clarification, but her nerves settled a little.

~*~

She’d seen a grainy photo of the inside of Steinman’s once. It had failed to capture the real thing. The terrazzo interspersed with black carpets. The comfy chairs in convenient corners. The coiffed employee who kept offering to take things to the counter or bring them espressos. Her fixed smile had terrified Rose at first – no one in the Bends had reason to smile that widely and it looked manic – but so far, the woman hadn’t so much as curled a lip in distaste when addressing Rose.

Not that Rose could respond very well. She was too overcome by…everything. Counters of perfume, counters of jewelry, counters of cosmetics. And the clothes. Everything from underwear to evening wear, from the dark and tasteful to the glittery and ostentatious. A display of wild hats, shaped like boxes and bowls and adorned with feathers and ribbons, dazzled beneath carefully placed track lights.

It was so much. Too much.

Rose found herself clutching the sleeve of a sweater with white-knuckled force, eyes closed, breathing harshly through her mouth.

“Is she alright?” she heard the employee ask; her voice sounded like it was coming down a tunnel.

“She’s fine. Just a bit overtired,” Beck said. And then strong, warm hands closed on her shoulders, and her eyes flew open, body coiling up tight. Run. Not safe. But he said, “Shh, it’s alright. Keep them shut. Breathe with me. In, and out. In, and out. That’s right.” Even softer. “You’re safe. No one will hurt you.”

She breathed. In and out. It helped.

“Have you ever had an anxiety attack before?” he asked, still just whispering. Just for her, not for anyone who might be watching. And, oh, people were watching, weren’t they? Here in this fancy store.

“Rose,” he prompted.

She took a deep breath. “In the pie safe,” she whispered back.

His hands tightened, a gentle squeeze. “Just breathe. It will pass. And then we’ll pick some nice warm clothes for you, alright?”

She managed a nod, throat tight. With the fading anxiety attack, and with shame. She was eighteen, and she shouldn’t be breaking down in a fancy department store. Shouldn’t be freaking out because there were too many choices. How stupid.

Beck shifted his hands up and down, stroking her arms. She could feel his body heat at her back, shielding her, blocking her from view. “I used to get these sorts of attacks all the time when I was younger,” he said, low and soothing. “It always helped to close my eyes. To be in the dark. To block it all out and remember who I was. Remember what I could do.”

Something brushed her ear: his lips, she realized.

“You are Rose…”

Another deep breath, and she could feel herself relaxing, coming back down, heartbeat slowing. “Greer.”

“You are Rose Greer, and you can survive a pie safe. You can survive that bitch Tabitha.”

Her pulse jumped, but not with fear. Her palms tingled. Her toes wiggled inside her shoes.

“You can do so much more than you know,” he whispered, right into her ear. Cedar, and smoke, and silk. “Don’t be afraid.”

He stepped back; she heard