People in evening attire strolled toward it, women in glittering gowns and men in suits, pausing at the topiary to have their pictures taken against the red-carpet backdrop. Onlookers waited on the edges of the path, eager for a glimpse of the rich and famous. A TV crew lurked in the distance, by the entrance, the correspondent interviewing the guests. Cameras flashed, ushers hurried back and forth, jewels sparkled on skin and hair . . .
The urge to crawl back into the Escalade gripped me.
I raised my chin. I wasn’t some Cinderella with a magic dress from my fairy godmother. I bought my own dress with money I earned, I bought my shoes and my bag, and nothing was going to turn into a pumpkin at midnight. I didn’t like this fake world of glamour and excess, but nobody had the right to question my presence here. I had a job to do, and I would do it.
Alessandro came around the car and offered me his arm again. A few heads turned our way.
Linus exited the Escalade. A subtle change came over the crowd. They didn’t exactly gape, but the Primes of Houston paused. Every single one of them knew Linus was there.
Linus flashed a thousand-watt smile. When he was young, he might have given Alessandro a run for his money. He waved at no one in particular, and the onlookers went wild.
Linus strode up the red carpet. We followed. Ahead, the TV crew realized that a Big Name Prime had landed, and the correspondent was desperately trying to wrap up her current interview.
Alessandro walked next to me, beautiful and slightly aloof, a prince just a touch above it all, while Linus grinned and played up to the crowd. Ahead, the walls of the Wortham Theater glowed with colored projections of acrobats and rings of fire. The Houston Opera Admiration Society was celebrating the opening of Madame Trapeze, a new hybrid show that blended elements of the circus and opera. It had sold out in London and New York, and somehow Houston was the next to get it. We wouldn’t be getting the entire performance, just a few chosen acts before the real thing was open to the general public, but it was exciting being one of the first people to see it.
A woman shrieked from the left, “Alessandro! Look at me!”
He turned without breaking his stride and winked. The group of girls on our left erupted.
“Oh my God!”
“Marry me!”
“Who’s the girl?”
“My number is 830 . . .”
We resumed our march toward the entrance.
“Enjoying yourself?” I murmured.
“Jealous?”
“Of your many admirers? No.”
“You never say anything nice to me,” he said, his voice low and slipping into an intimate tone that brushed against my skin like velvet. We were on display in front of hundreds of people and he was speaking to me as if we were about to make out in my bedroom. “It’s always ‘Stop driving so fast, Alessandro.’ ‘You have to leave, Alessandro.’”
“What would you rather hear?”
“I could think of a few things.” His face took on a wistful expression. It looked good on him. Like everything else. “I missed you, Alessandro.”
Why did I ask?
“Hold me, Alessandro.” His seductive voice wove around me. All my senses came to attention. The crowd was fading and only his voice mattered.
“Kiss me, Alessandro.”
Heat warmed my face. I was blushing. Damn it.
“Will you stop?”
We were almost to the TV crew. Maybe we could slip by them unnoticed while they pounced on Linus.
His face shut down as if someone slammed a door closed. I hit a nerve. Good.
The correspondent pounced on Linus. Alessandro smoothly passed by him and we joined the throng of overdressed people walking through the wide-open glass doors. Nobody asked us for our invitations. Apparently just arriving with Linus Duncan was good enough.
Six armed security guards in black suits lined the sides of the short lobby. We passed through the arch of the metal detector, then the airport-style bio scanner, and took the escalator up.
The Grand Foyer had been transformed. An enormous wagon wheel chandelier supporting stage lamps hung suspended fifty feet in the air. Above it yards and yards of midnight-blue fabric stretched from the ceiling to the walls and dripped to the floor, imitating the inside of a big-top tent. Strings of golden lights curved from the chandelier to the sides of the room where the walls met the ceiling, glittering like summer stars against