Annabella’s faith in the abilities of Segue or Custo to get rid of Wolf was rapidly diminishing. It would be much worse if he got a hold of her the way he’d gotten a hold of Abigail. Unimaginably worse.
Or better? In some very disturbing ways, she wanted what Wolf—damn it, the wolf—offered. Wanted it so bad that she hardly dared to admit the truth to herself, much less Custo.
She surveyed the crowded interior. The wolf was somewhere in this superstunning place, plotting how to ruin her life so much that she didn’t want it anymore. Should she hide under the covers, afraid of the wolf (and herself), or live her life?
Damn it, Custo was right. She’d worked too hard to get to this glittering apartment, to receive that welcome applause.
Okay, back to basics.
Chin up, she commanded herself. The phrase was one of the most common corrections in the ballet classroom, especially for the youngest little dancers. Shoulders back. Another common correction. Tummy in.
One hour, Custo had promised. She could manage a little poise for that long. Heck, she’d go for two. Poise was her specialty.
A glittering assemblage of people halted her progress with congratulations and effusive compliments. “Magical!” “Transported!” “Inspired!” The fact that these comments were close to the truth dampened any pleasure she would have taken from them. But she was an actress, too, so she smiled and blushed and thanked the company’s patrons for their kind words.
She double-kissed Jasper, who embraced her, and took a picture with Venroy, who was disappointed she’d missed company class that morning. Oh, well.
Custo steered her, unnecessarily, through the groups and into a gathering room off to the side. A large, gorgeous table was the only furniture in the room.
“Have a drink.” Custo shoved a glass of wine into her hand. “This party is for you; it’s okay for you to enjoy it.”
Annabella frowned at him as the fruity smell wafted up from the glass and tickled her nose. Maybe not a good idea on an empty stomach. “I am enjoying it.”
“Anna!” a familiar female voice shouted over the party din.
Annabella looked over her shoulder. Katrina beckoned to her. She stood with a circle of girls to one side, a group largely forgotten by the rest of the people at the party.
Annabella disengaged herself from Custo, though he grabbed her hand while some old cougar with obnoxious breasts purred at him.
“Hey,” Annabella said, faking a smile, “drunk yet?”
“You weren’t at class this morning. Everyone was looking for you.” Katrina’s eyes were bright, her face flushed. Yeah, a little drunk.
Annabella opened her mouth to speak, but Katrina continued, “Ohmygod! You have to tell us. Is there something between you and Jasper? We thought he was gay!”
The others shushed her, but Katrina went on, full voice, “And there he was fighting that hot guy over you—who is he, by the way?—as soon as the curtain went down. Venroy is soooo pissed, but somebody heard him on the phone singing your praises, so he can’t be that pissed, if you know what I mean. What is going on?”
Damage control. Annabella mustered some calm to dampen Katrina’s spirits. “Jasper is still gay, as far as I know. He just took something that screwed things up in his head. Some weird herb, I think. He’s okay now.”
“And him?” Katrina grinned stupidly at Custo’s back. A couple others giggled into their glasses.
“A friend.”
“A good friend,” Katrina corrected.
Annabella shrugged. “I honestly don’t know what he is.”
“Look, if you don’t want him—”
Custo chose that opportune moment to turn back and whisper in her ear. “If you are done here, you should probably do a little more face time with the big patrons, or we’ll be here all night, friend.”
“I’m done,” Annabella answered, but not because he said so. She loved gossip; she just couldn’t stand to be on the exciting side of it. If she tried to tell them about the wolf, they’d call a bunch of men in white lab coats to lock her up.
Oh, wait…that had already happened, at Segue.
She and Custo moved beyond the hallway into a receiving room of sorts. Still no wolf, but plenty of moody shadows. The room had little furniture to accommodate the party, only a console table along the back wall and some trim, upholstered chairs. The walls held family portraits, tiny museum spotlights highlighting their faces.
“Brava!” a woman’s voice announced as they entered. A small circle opened to admit Annabella, with Custo at her back.
“Thank you so much, but it’s really the whole company—” Annabella broke off as Custo’s arm circled her waist and pulled her hard against him. She could feel his heart pounding in his chest.
Oh, no. Something was wrong. Again. Where was he? Where was the wolf?
Her heart gulped into acceleration. She glanced over her shoulder at Custo to find the source of the danger, but his gaze was fixed on a man, not a monster.
The man was older, but not old. Tall and broad across his shoulders. Maybe in his fifties with dashing branches of laugh lines winging out from his eyes. He had a full head of salt and pepper, and the same strange mossy green eyes as—Oh. Small world.
“I thought you were dead,” the man said.
“I am,” Custo answered, dang cold for speaking to his father. If she ever dared answer her mom that way, there’d have been hell to pay.
“I went to your funeral,” the man insisted.
Talk in the circle of wealth and congratulations halted completely.
“You shouldn’t have bothered.”
“Was it a ruse?” the man demanded. “Are you in trouble again?”
Custo seemed to attract trouble. And he was contrary and difficult, and sometimes outright mean. The man’s conclusion that Custo might have faked his death did actually seem more plausible than the truth.
The man stared unblinking at Custo for a moment, a million disquieted thoughts in his eyes, but even she could tell that theirs was a conversation best saved for someplace private.
Custo’s arm constricted further at her waist as the man’s gaze shifted down to her. “I’m Evan Rotherford.”
Custo pulled her back so that the man’s outstretched hand was beyond her reach. Annabella leaned forward anyway. Her fingertips were grasped in a polite, old-fashioned nice-to-meet-you.
“Astonishing performance last night. You held me spellbound,” Mr. Rotherford said. His voice had that flat New England inflection. Money. “I’ve been a ballet aficionado all my life, but I have never been so moved.” He glanced over at Custo. “The appreciation for ballet must run in the—”
“We’re done here,” Custo said. He towed her back, and the connection between her and Custo’s father was broken.
Custo assumed most of her weight as he propelled her toward the arch of the room’s entryway. Annabella adjusted her bearing to make their partnered exit look as natural as possible, but it was a little difficult what with her feet barely touching the floor. A lifetime of dance classes for this? They pushed across the hallway into the opposite room, architecturally similar to the other, but with an open arrangement of sofas occupied by little old ladies nursing short, strong drinks.
Annabella tried to look back, but Custo gave her a rib-cracking squeeze.
Custo’s father had seemed nice enough to her. He’d gushed over that cursed performance, which proved he had taste. Whatever had happened between him and his son couldn’t have been that bad. He was genuinely shocked by Custo’s appearance, though not by Custo’s rude behavior, so it had to be old history. Weren’t angels supposed to be forgiving?