Part 22 (2/2)

He stood in the foyer, hands in his pockets, lean body clad in a tuxedo. Black, crisply shouldered, a perfect bow tie at his neck. His hair was down, the gold of it straight around his face, highlighting cruelly perfect cheekbones, emerald eyes. He was almost too handsome, untouchably handsome, the face of a G.o.d-or something altogether more wicked.

”What's wrong?” he asked, without looking up.

I reached the first floor, shook my head. ”I'd rather not talk about it.”

That lifted his gaze, his lips parting infinitesimally as he took in the waterfall silk. ”That's a lovely dress.”His voice was soft, somehow that much more intensely masculine.

I nodded, ignoring the undertone. ”Are we ready?”

Ethan tilted his head to the side. ”Are you ready?”

”Let's just go.”

Ethan paused, then nodded and headed for the stairs.

He let me be silent for most of the ride to Oak Park, which was considerably faster than the trip to the Breckenridge estate. But while he didn't talk, he kept turning to look at me, casting worried, surrept.i.tious glances at my face, and a few more lascivious ones at other parts of my anatomy.

I noticed them, but ignored them. In the quiet of the car, my thoughts kept going back to my conversation with Mallory. Was I forgetting who I'd been, my life before Cadogan House? I'd known Mal for three years. Sure, we'd had a spat or two along the way. We'd been roommates, after all. But never something like this. Never an argument where we questioned the other's choices, where we questioned our roles in each other's lives. This was different. And it was, I feared, the harbinger of unfortunate things. Of the slow dissolution of a friends.h.i.+p already weakened by physical separation, new ties, supernatural disasters.

”What happened?”

Since Ethan's question was softly spoken and, I thought, sincere, I answered it. ”Mallory and I had a fight.” About you, I silently added, then said aloud, ”Suffice it to say, she's not happy with the person, the vampire, I'm becoming.”

”I see.” He sounded as uncomfortable as you might expect a boy, even a four-hundred-year-old boy, to sound.

I skipped a responsive nod, fearful that the movement would trip the tears, smear my mascara, and leave track marks down my face.

I really, really wasn't in the mood for this. Not to go to Oak Park, to play dress-up, to be in the same room as my father, to pretend at being that girl.

”I need a motivational speech,” I told him. ”It's been a pretty awful night so far, and I'm fighting the urge to take a cab right back to Cadogan House and spend an intimate evening with a couple of deep-dish meat pies. I could use one of those 'Do it for Cadogan!' lectures you're so fond of.”

He chuckled, and the sound of it was comforting somehow. ”How about I tell you that you look radiant?”

The compliment was probably the best, and worst, thing he could have said. Coming from him, it felt weightier, more validating, than it should have. And that bothered me. A lot.

Scared me. A lot.

G.o.d, was Mal right? Was I sabotaging my relations.h.i.+p with Morgan for this man? Was I exchanging real friends.h.i.+ps, real relations.h.i.+ps, for the possibility of Ethan? I felt like I was spiral ing around in some kind of vampire whirlpool, the remnants of my normal life draining away. G.o.d only knew what would be left of me.

”How about I remind you,” he began, ”that this is your opportunity to be someone else for a few hours. I understand, maybe better than I did before, that you're different from these people. But tonight you can leave the real Merit in Hyde Park. Tonight, you can play make-believe. You can be . . . the girl they weren't expecting.”

The girl they weren't expecting. That had kind of a nice ring to it. ”That's not bad,” I told him. ”And certainly better than the last speech you gave me.”

He made a Master-vampire-worthy huff. ”As Master of the House-”

”-it's your duty to give me the benefit of the doubt,” I finished for him. ”And to motivate me when you can.” I glanced at him. ”Challenge me, Ethan, if you need to. I understand a challenge; I can rise to it. But work from the a.s.sumption that I'm trying, that I'm doing my best.” I glanced out the window. ”That's what I need to hear.”

He was quiet so long I thought I'd angered him. ”You are so young,” he finally said, poignancy in his voice. ”Still so very human.””I'm not sure if that's a compliment or an insult.”

”Frankly, Merit, neither am I.”

Twenty minutes later, we pulled into the circle drive in front of my parents' blocky Oak Park home. The house was a stylistic orphan, completely different from the Prairie-style, Wright-homage houses around it.

But my parents had had enough sway over Chicago's political administration to get the plans approved.

So here it sat, a rectangular box of pasty gray concrete in the middle of picturesque Oak Park.

Ethan stopped the Mercedes in front of the door and handed the keys to one of the ubiquitous valets that apparently haunted these kinds of galas.

”The architecture is . . . interesting,” he said.

”It's atrocious,” I replied. ”But the food's usually pretty good.”

I didn't bother knocking at the front door, nor did I wait to get an invitation into the house. Like it or not, this was my ancestral home; I figured I didn't need an invitation. More importantly, I hadn't bothered on my first trip back to the house shortly after I'd been changed. And here I was, the prodigal daughter, making her return.

Pennebaker, the butler, stood just inside the concrete-and-gla.s.s foyer, his skinny, stiff frame bowing at each pa.s.sing guest. His nose lifted indignantly when I approached him.

”Peabody,” I said in greeting. I loved faking him out.

”Pennebaker,” he corrected in a growl. ”Your father is currently in a meeting. Mrs. Merit and Mrs.

Corkburger are entertaining the guests.” He slid his steely gaze to Ethan and arched an eyebrow.

”This is Ethan Sullivan,” I interjected. ”My guest. He's welcome.”

Pennebaker nodded dismissively, then looked back to the guests behind us.

That hurdle pa.s.sed, I led Ethan away and began the trek toward the long concrete s.p.a.ce at the back of the first floor where my parents entertained. Along the way, bare, angular hallways terminated in dead ends. Steel mesh blinds covered not windows but bare concrete walls. One stairway led to nothing but an alcove showcasing a single piece of modern art that would have been well suited to the living room of a maniacal serial killer. My parents called the design ”thought-provoking,” and claimed it was a challenge to the architectural mainstream, to people's expectations of what ”stairways” and ”windows” were supposed to be.

I called the design ”contemporary psychopath.” The s.p.a.ce was packed with people in black-and-white clothing, and a jazz quintet provided a sound track from one of the room's corners. I glanced around, looking for targets. There were no Breckenridges in sight, and my father was equally absent. Not that that was a bad thing. But I found something just as interesting near the bank of windows that edged one side of the room.

”Prepare yourself,” I warned him with a grin, and led him into the fray.

They stood together, my mother and sister, eyes scanning the crowd before them, heads together as they gossiped. And there was no doubt they gossiped. My mother was one of the ruling matrons of Chicago society, my sister an up-and-coming princess. Gossip was their bread and b.u.t.ter.

My mother wore a conservative gown of pale gold, a sheath and bolero jacket well suited for her trim frame. My sister, her hair as dark as mine, wore a pale blue sleeveless c.o.c.ktail dress. Her hair was pulled back, a thin, glossy black headband keeping every dark strand in place. And in her arms, currently chewing on her tiny, pudgy fist, was one of the lights of my life. My niece, Olivia.

”Hi, Mom,” I said.

My mother turned, frowned and touched fingers to my cheek. ”You look thin. Are you eating?”

”More than I've ever eaten in my life. It's glorious.” I gave Charlotte a half hug. ”Mrs. Corkburger.”

”If you think having my daughter in my arms will prevent me from swearing at you,” Charlotte said, ”you are sorely mistaken.” Without batting an eyelash-and without explaining why she planned on swearing at me-she pa.s.sed over my eighteen-month-old niece and the nubby burp cloth that rested on her shoulder.

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