red velvet.
Dizzy with relief and awe, Prue sagged in her seat.
The tumult broke before she could draw her next breath. Some stood on their seats and clapped. Others shouted and stamped, Erik’s name on every lip.
He’d created a sensation. The entire city would be buzzing with it. Laughter bubbled up in her throat, and she pressed her lips together lest it escape.
Beside her, Florien let out a shaky breath. “Fookin’ ’ell.”
“Exactly.” Then she recollected herself. Gods, the child had a filthy mouth. “Florien—”
Correctly interpreting her expression, he cut her off. “Don’ bother.” He hopped out of the chair. “Comin’?”
Prue blinked. “Where?”
“T’ Erik. T’ talk about t’ meeting wit’ t’ Money man.”
“Not necessary.”
Rising, Prue settled the shawl across her shoulders so the embroidered seelies gamboling happily all the way to the fringed ends were clear to see. She had no idea why she’d worn it, except that, in a strange way, it seemed right, a gesture of solidarity. Besides, it was an extremely versatile garment. Abruptly, even the light touch of the silk was more warmth than she could bear. Letting the shawl slip back to her elbows, she inhaled carefully. What would it be like to feel him deep inside, to have him wrap her up, take over her senses until she was no more than a bundle of quivering sensation? To give herself over to his control, to the gentle restraint of silk?
“I’m fine,” she said. “I’ll take a skiff home.”
Florien grabbed her sleeve. “He sed you’d say thet. An’ he sed t’ say . . .” His brow furrowed with concentration. “He’ll give t’ five ’undred he owes ye t’ Rose.” The dark eyes gleamed with satisfaction at a job well done.
So that was the way he intended to play it? She couldn’t decide whether she was more irritated with Erik for such an obvious ploy or with herself for falling for it. By the Sister, she was going to give Master Thorensen a piece of her mind! And she wouldn’t be charmed into smiling, let alone laughing. Even if it killed her.
“Lead on,” she said resolutely.
Without a word, the lad trotted out of the box, taking a set of narrow back stairs down several flights to a warren of small, poky rooms. They brushed by men carrying mysterious toolboxes and a stout, harried fellow with a sheaf of papers. Everyone had a greeting for the boy, a curious glance for Prue. One of the scantily clad dancers, a lissome blonde with endless legs, reached out to ruffle Florien’s hair.
“Got yourself a lady friend, sweet cheeks?”
“Fook orf, Syd.” Florien ducked without breaking stride. “She’m Erik’s.”
Erik’s. The casual assumption hit her so hard, Prue gasped aloud. She knew she ought to be outraged, and truly, she was, but she didn’t have the energy to spare to deal with that right now. The world was slipping sideways faster than she could grab it and haul it back. She’d never been one for emotional ups and downs, but merciful Sister, from the moment Erik Thorensen had opened his mouth, she’d been hurtling from the pinnacles to the depths and back again. It wasn’t good for her, truly it wasn’t.
Unobtrusively, she hauled in a couple of steadying breaths. She’d just have to do better, that was all. Keep her wits about her.
As they turned down yet another passageway, she glanced back over her shoulder. The dancer stood stock still, staring after them. Her pretty mouth drooped.
Catching up with the boy, Prue asked, “Who was that?”
“Sydarise.” Florien shot her a sly glance. “He was sweet on ’er month afore last.”
The woman was tall enough to fit his large frame. From the male point of view, it all made perfect sense. Not only beautiful, but convenient.
Prue slowed. What in the seven hells was she doing? She’d always been brutally honest with herself. Here she was, trotting off to Erik’s dressing room with her heart in her hands, brushing past his previous conquests on the way. She’d already decided the ephemeral pleasures of the present weren’t worth the certain pain of the future.
Hadn’t she?
“Wait.” Prue grasped the boy’s thin shoulder. She swallowed. “I need a minute. Somewhere quiet.”
Florien stopped, studying her face from under his tangled fringe. Apparently satisfied, he grunted, grabbed a fistful of skirt and towed her down another passageway and into what was evidently a storeroom. The light spilling in through the doorway created a dusty twilight crowded with grotesque shapes—the gigantic haunch of some hoofed animal, a ship’s tall prow, four