“I’m also curious about your wife,” she said. “We’ve been together a couple of days now and you’ve not phoned her once.”
“That you know of.” Hugo grimaced as he remembered the call he’d ignored in Braxton Hall’s mock graveyard.
“So you have phoned her?”
“That’s none of your business, now is it?” He had, but they’d spoken for no more than a minute, coldness on her end, brusqueness on his.
“Oh, come on. What’s the deal?”
Hugo thought for a moment. He didn’t really know what the deal was himself, so explaining it wouldn’t be easy, but he didn’t mind trying. “She’s in Dallas right now. She’s … an interesting person, likes to travel, likes to shop.” He shrugged. “I don’t know what you want to know.”
“We could start with her name.”
“Christine.”
“And how long have you been married?”
“Since May of last year.” He saw her mouth open for more questions, so he gave her the rundown. “We met in Washington, DC, and got married in Dallas, where she’s from. I’m from Austin, which is about three hours south of Dallas. She’s my second wife.”
“A new and shiny trophy wife?”
“Not really, no.” Hugo tried to bend a piece of naan bread, but it snapped. “Kind of old, some of this food.”
“Don’t change the subject. Why did you divorce your first wife?”
“I didn’t.”
“She divorced you.”
“No, she died in a car accident. Four years before I met Christine.”
“Oh.” She looked down at her plate. “I’m sorry, that was insensitive.” She looked up again, her voice softer now. “You have any kids?”
“No,” said Hugo, and he was surprised to feel the regret in his voice. He cleared his throat. “How about you? What’s your story?”
“Born and bred in London. Only surviving child; my mother’s the daughter of a banker in Hong Kong and my father’s a banker from Putney. No idea what I want to be when I grow up. Not a banker.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-five. No kids, no boyfriend, no pets.”
He smiled. “And no car.”
“Thanks for the reminder. Shit, will the police keep it?”
“For a while, I’d guess. Until they’ve processed it for any evidence.”
“They can keep it.” She shuddered, then reached for her Coke. “Do you think I’m pretty?”
She isn’t seeking a compliment, Hugo thought; she’d asked the way she’d ask him to pass the salt, or if he liked the Beatles.
“Yes, I do.”
“I can never decide. The whole mixed-race thing is kind of a curse sometimes.” She shrugged. “Oh well. We should talk about tonight, so you know what to expect. It could get pretty wild for you in there, Mr. Vanilla.”
“That’s OK, I’m not planning on staying long. And I’m certainly not planning on partying for long.”
She cocked her head and pointed her fork at him as a smile spread across her face. “That, my friend, is a great shame.”
As they passed through the gates to Braxton Hall, Hugo suddenly worried that someone would recognize his car. Maybe Nicholas Braxton had written down his license number, or remembered the diplomatic plates, and was on the lookout.
But there was no one checking plates, as far as he could see. Three cars followed him up the driveway, and Merlyn directed him to an empty spot in a line of parked cars.
“Popular party,” he said.
“Yeah, people come from London, Cambridge, all over.”
“How the hell does he keep it so quiet?”
“It makes sense if you think about it,” she said. “If you know about the parties, it’s because you come. And if you come, you don’t want some reporter or clown with a camera snapping pictures of you.”
“I guess that much is a relief,” Hugo said, looking down at his leather-clad legs. “Do we leave our coats here?”
“No, silly, they’ll have someone checking them at the entrance.”
“Which is where they do the eighty percent check, I assume.”
“Right. You’re fine, you’re a hundred percent, you get a gold star.”
“Not a hundred percent,” Hugo muttered. “Just for the record.”
“Underwear? Not a problem in my case.”
“I was thinking about my socks,” he said. “But thanks for the info. And stop thinking about my underwear — I’m married.”
“Yeah,” she said, rolling her eyes. “To a chick in Dallas.”
They crossed the gravel driveway and went up the stone stairs to the main entrance where a woman in a black PVC catsuit stood with a clipboard.
“MHS from Putney,” Merlyn told her. “And guest.”
“Handsome guest,” the woman purred. “Both eighty percent? Coats over there.” She pointed over her shoulder with her pen, eyes still on Hugo.
As they approached the coat check, Hugo felt a flutter in his stomach. He’d still not seen Merlyn’s outfit and he’d do his best not to look, and then to act nonchalant when he did look. She’d slipped her long coat from her shoulders and handed it to a young man sporting what looked like rubber shorts. Merlyn wore a black leather bra, plain and well-fitting, and a matching skirt that clung to her body and ended just, and only just, below the curve of her bottom. A pair of plain black knee boots finished the look, and Hugo was relieved not to see stilettos, but for no reason he’d be able to articulate.
His covert admiration of Merlyn ended when the young man moved to help Hugo off with his coat, the American suddenly aware of his own attire and how ridiculous it felt. He shot a look at Merlyn and saw her fighting a smile. He frowned at her and then realized that if he was going to tussle with his ego all night, he was fighting a losing battle. He changed his scowl to a sheepish grin and shrugged. After all, undercover is undercover, he thought. No matter the cover.
“Along the corridor and down the stairs,” the young man was saying, camping it up with a lisp and wave of the hand. “I think I’ve seen you before, young lady. You know the way.”
“Sure do. And it’s Merlyn,” she smiled. “Remember the name because you’ll see me again. See us again, maybe.” Without waiting for a response, she took Hugo’s hand and dragged him through a dark archway and along a short passage. Their feet rang on the red tile floor, the sound captured and thrown back at them by the narrow and low-ceilinged hallway. Ahead, the floor disappeared down a staircase, and the heavy beat of music rolled up to meet them. Hugo realized he was still holding Merlyn’s hand, but he didn’t let go. Undercover, he reminded himself.
They descended the stairs slowly, the music growing louder and louder, an orange glow lighting their way and guiding them into what Merlyn called the “Cellar.” Another stone arch marked its entrance, and once inside Hugo moved to one side to look around. To his left, a long bar stretched the length of the room, which was at least a thousand feet square. To his right, and opposite the bar, a series of arches led into another space that Merlyn had warned him would be set aside for playing, watched over by DMs, or Dungeon Masters, who made sure everyone played safely. He’d need a drink before going in there, he suspected, though he was definitely curious. Merlyn had said it wouldn’t get busy in the play space until later, once people had socialized and made connections, and right now he could see a few people wandering through to have a look at the area, a good time to sneak a peek at the equipment before getting to work, he thought.