Falling In (11 page)

Chapter 11

Female Torture Rituals

After changing into a more “appropriate” outfit for the day, Scout quickly rushed down to the spa. She wasn't sure if she needed anything. A sweet girl about her age with beautiful teeth and a cheery smile greeted her.

“Evelyn?”

“Yes. I'm sorry I'm late.”

The girl came around the counter. “That's no problem at all.” She held out her hand. “I'm Beth.”

“Evelyn,” she said stupidly and blushed. “But you already knew that. I might as well just tell you I have no idea what I'm doing here. I've never been to a spa before and I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to do.”

Beth grinned and somehow her trepidation vanished. “You'll love it. Just be yourself. Mr. Patras arranged for you to have quite a full day. We're going to start you off in the salon. Mr. Patras made it perfectly clear that your hair was to remain long, but we should clean up the ends for you. They have some great hot oil treatments as well. Once you get back to Isabella you guys can discuss color if that's something you're interested in. From there you'll meet with Ivone for your massage, then Katelyn, who'll help you select the right kind of makeup for your coloring. You have beautiful skin, by the way. After that, Richard will style your updo and then it's back to Katelyn for your makeover.”

As Beth spoke she led Scout back to the salon. Various scents fought over the airy space. Everyone wore black and had perfect hair. Even the one stylist with spiky pink hair had managed to accomplish the perfect spiky pink.

Scout was ushered to a cushiony seat and introduced to Isabella, who also appeared to be quite nice. Her hair was taken out of her ponytail and fondled by several stylists. She tried not to flinch at being touched. They each commented on its thickness and how lucky she was to have such nice natural waves. An unfamiliar pride filled her with each kind word.

They each put in a suggestion of the type of cut and style she'd look best with. Scout had no opinion on the subject, so she remained silent. She was brought to a small sink where magical fingers massaged her scalp and delicious-smelling products were rubbed into her hair.

When the first snip came, a mixture of excitement and sorrow swirled in her belly. She'd never cut her hair. They said it would remain long, but as each coil of brown fell to the polished floor she fought the urge to tell them to stop. It was just hair, but oddly, watching it fall to the floor made her sad, like she was saying good-bye to part of herself.

Everyone was so nice. The massage was a chore of sorts. At first she couldn't relax. She wasn't used to being touched, and her personal space was something she took very seriously, but eventually Ivone had her practically weeping as her hands worked over her flesh.

When the masseuse lifted her arms, she quietly asked about Scout's shaving situation. She blushed and explained that she was too afraid she'd cut into an important artery if she shaved anymore. She smiled and suggested she see a girl named Patrice to get waxed.

Waxing sounded worse than shaving, but Ivone swore it was the way to go. She also hinted that Mr. Patras would probably like it. Her comment turned Scout's cheeks scorching hot with embarrassment, but also convinced her she was right.

It was very hard not to punch Patrice in the face after she pulled the first sticky strip away during what she called a Brazilian.

Brazil must be filled with a bunch of sick, sadistic bastards.

Her underarms weren't that bad, but it took serious courage to allow her to put wax on her eyebrows. Patrice applied a topical cooling cream to her face, which helped. She also gave Scout something for the damage she'd done on her legs.

After the waxing fiasco was over, Katelyn yelled at poor Patrice because apparently it wasn't the best thing to have a wax the day of a makeup consultation. Poor Patrice. She had been nothing but badgered all morning. Scout decided next time she helped her get pretty—
if
there was a next time—she'd ignore the temptation of attacking her when she caused her pain. She truly understood now what the girls at the salon meant when they joked that “beauty is pain.”

Richard styled her hair in a crown of cascading curls that exposed her neck and swept off to the side of her face and over her shoulder. She looked like a woman from the 1920s. Once her makeup was done, Scout could hardly recognize herself. She smiled the entire way back to her room as people stared at her admiringly.

It was only four o'clock and all she had to do was dress. She decided she'd wear an ice blue gown that gathered at the lower back. The bottom reminded her of a mermaid tail. Out of navy blue heels and strappy silver ones, she wasn't sure which matched. She went with the strappy silver ones in the end.

Being that she had some time to kill, she walked around in her underwear and shoes for a while. She had terrible balance. How did women manage to get around in these things? What if she needed to run for some reason? She didn't want to stumble and embarrass herself or worse, break her neck, so Scout spent the better part of the hour simply walking back and forth, back and forth until she worried her toes might bleed.

A light was blinking on the phone beside the bed and she stilled. There were all kinds of instructions written on it, but they were useless to her. The first group of words was next to the number nine. She pressed it but nothing happened. Next was the number zero followed by more words. She pressed zero.

“Patras front desk, this is Kevin. How may I assist you this evening?”

“Um, hi, my name's Evelyn Keats and I'm in room 3000.”

“Good evening, Ms. Keats. Are you enjoying your stay?”

“Uh, yes, thank you. There's a light blinking on my phone. Do you know what that means?”

“That would mean that you have voice mail. Just dial ‘star' and your room number and it will connect you.”

“Oh.” She had no idea who'd leave her a voice mail. Perhaps it was Tamara calling about her schedule change or Lucian calling to cancel and tell her he no longer wanted to see her again after the way she spoke to him. A sick ball of dread rolled in the pit of her stomach. She thanked the man at the desk and did as he instructed.

“Hello, Evelyn. This is Dr. Vivian Sheffield. I'm calling to let you know that all of your tests came back perfectly fine. I'd still like to see you again in a few weeks if that would be all right with you. We also need to discuss contraception when you're ready. If there's anything you need me for or any questions you have please don't hesitate to call.” She left her number and Scout quickly formed the numbers on a notepad labeled with the recognizable Patras logo.

Scout looked down at her sloppy handwriting and thought about what this meant. Did Lucian know her blood work came back clean? Yes, he probably knew before she did. She was substantially relieved she wasn't sick. So many people had so many different sicknesses, and although she was always careful with her mother, there was always a risk.

Her gaze landed on her underwear. Perhaps she should change into something a little fancier. Her stomach did a cartwheel at the thought. She tucked the number into her bag and walked some more. On her fifth trip past the bag with all the fancy panties, she stopped and pulled out a lacy blue pair.

At ten minutes to, she brushed her teeth, freshened her lip gloss and slipped into her gown. She couldn't get the zipper all the way up on her own. She didn't want to walk through the hotel half-dressed, but she tried to reach every which way for the zipper and couldn't. Slipping on her shoes, Scout grabbed her key and, again, placed the Do Not Disturb placard on the door before she left.

When the gilded elevator arrived at Lucian's suite, she was ridiculously nervous, her anxiety causing her stomach to cramp painfully. She wasn't late, but feared he'd be upset with her anyway. Maybe he was still mad about this morning. She'd had time to cool off and wanted to forget about the whole thing. She took a steadying breath and knocked, realizing she forgot the room key he'd given her.

Chapter 12

Scattered Pictures

The door opened and Scout's mouth gaped. Lucian was dressed in a sleek black tuxedo and looked incredible.

“Evelyn, my God, you look . . . words fail me.”

She smiled nervously. “Fail you in a good way or a bad way?”

“Good,” he rasped. “Definitely good.”

“Glad to hear it, because I got the shit kicked out of me at that torture chamber you're passing off as a spa down there. Can you help me zip my dress?” She stepped in and hid a smirk. Seems she had rendered Mr. Patras, hotel tycoon, bazillionaire, entrepreneur extraordinaire, speechless.

He stepped back and shut the door. Presenting him her back, she shivered at the soft touch of his fingers as they slowly pulled the zipper up. Her back was still very exposed, but at least now the dress fit properly. She turned.

“Thank you. You look very handsome, Mr. Patras.”

“You're stunning, Ms. Keats. I'm wondering if I should keep you here instead.”

Scout tilted her head. “Why?”

“Protect my queen.” His reflective complement was incredibly flattering. Warmth spread through her chest and she smiled at him for a moment, not quite sure what to say next. He turned briskly.

“I have something for you.”

“You do?” She followed him to the common area and he handed her a large, heavy gift box with a navy blue bow. “What is it?”

“Open it. I saw it this afternoon and thought of you.”

Grinning foolishly, she pulled the satin ribbon back. It gathered in a large loop and fell to the ground. She placed the box on the seat of the settee and shimmied the fitted lid off. When she saw something furry, she jumped. “What—what is it?”

Lucian reached into the box and pulled out a stunning white, silk-lined fur coat. “I realized we forgot to get you a dress coat for formal functions. Here, try it on.”

“Is it real?”

“Quite.” He held the coat open for her to step into.

“Don't people hate people who wear fur?”

“They're all hypocrites. The Americans slaughter billions of animals a year for clothing, cars, furniture, shoes, and exotic food, but protesters only seem to care about the cute fuzzy ones.”

He had a point.

She slipped into the coat, its silk lining cool against her skin. It engulfed her. The fur was heavy, but it was likely the warmest, softest thing she'd ever put on her body.

“My God, Lucian, it's beautiful.”

“I'm glad you like it. Shall we go?”

She simply stared at him. The coat must have cost a fortune. She reached for his hand and slowed his escape.

“You're very generous,” she whispered. “No one's ever done so much for me in my entire life. I'm not even sure how to accept such openhandedness.”

He frowned. “It means nothing to me. It's just a coat.”

As he presented her his back, she was shocked by how hurtful his words were. Means nothing? Perhaps purchasing a coat like this was the equivalent to purchasing a roll of toilet paper to an ordinary person. Scout found herself blinking back tears no matter how she spun his comment.

Her emotions baffled her. This was not supposed to be an emotional exchange. She was being overly sensitive and needed to knock it off.

Lucian retuned wearing his own coat. “Ready?”

She merely nodded, her voice lodged somewhere in the pit of her stomach beneath her bruised heart.

They took the limo and rode in silence. Lucian seemed preoccupied. Scout stared out the window the entire time, but also studied him in the reflection. Sometimes she saw him looking at her and wondered what he was thinking.

He was so difficult to read. At times he was charming and sweet and in the next moment he was cold and distant. She wondered if this entire arrangement had anything to do with her specifically or if she was just filling a slot. She hoped the latter wasn't the case, which contradicted every barrier her commonsense insisted she maintain.

He was beginning to affect her on a personal level, and that was dangerous. His praise or disregard shouldn't affect her. She needed to stop being so damn vulnerable. She mentally chastisted herself to disassociate any personal feelings. It was a job. So why did his opinion of her suddenly seem to matter?

At this point, after all the money he had spent and everything he provided for her, she was already indebted. She'd follow through with her part of the deal regardless, but it would be a much easier job if she believed Lucian Patras actually liked her.

The Museum of Natural Art was interesting. It was a cross between artifacts, plants, antiques, and quirky art, all sort of blending in with what the aristocrats called the contemporary craft movement.

Scout remembered being at some sort of office building with her mom when she was little and watching a show called
Gilligan's Island
. Her mom had meetings there at the same time every week and she loved it because she got to watch TV. A character on the show was a millionaire. He used to talk with his front teeth clenched together. She realized that was how she expected Lucian's friends to talk. They didn't. They were all normal people.

The women, married, single, young, or old, all loved Lucian, she quickly learned. Men vied for his attention as well. She smiled politely when someone spoke in her direction, but no one really talked to her. She didn't have much to contribute to the conversations anyway. Stocks, bonds, the economy, politics, it was all above her head.

Lucian kept a hand on her the entire night even if he didn't speak to her much. As they moved to find their table, she panicked when she saw there was dancing. There was no way she was dancing in these shoes. She could barely dance in bare feet.

The tables were draped in glossy linens, and ridiculously large topiaries acted as centerpieces. The chair backs were made of bronze-painted branches and the silverware was heavy to hold.

Lucian entered a heated debate over the new permits needed for redevelopment in lower Folsom with the gentleman to his right.

“These things really are silly, aren't they?”

Scout turned at the soft comment coming from the older woman sitting next to her. “Pardon?”

“These events. I mean really. Five thousand dollars a plate to support art. What ever happened to supporting a real cause?”

Scout choked. “Fi-five
thousand
dollars, did you say?”

“Ridiculous. I know,” the woman went on. “I mean, I don't even know how half of the knickknacks out there are considered art. My grandmother used to make crocheted plunger covers. Perhaps I can find a spot to display her work here,” the little woman said sarcastically.

Scout stifled a laugh. She had to be almost eighty. Scout introduced herself and the woman replied, “Lovely to meet you, dear. Yvette Constance Whitfield hyphen Baldwin. My husband's running this event.”

Scout snorted. The woman was a riot. Her laughter attracted Lucian's attention. He greeted Mrs. Whitfield-Baldwin. “Thank you for inviting us, Yvette.”

“I was just chatting with your lovely date, Lucian. About time you found yourself a respectable woman. She's quite exquisite.”

Scout didn't appreciate being appraised as if she were made of stone and incapable of hearing. Lucian nodded his concurrence. “I quite agree, Yvette.”

Scout gritted her teeth but held her smile.

The dinner was nice, but the extravagance of it all was baffling. From the clothes to the cost of the tickets, to the amount of news coverage, it was all obscene. Mrs. Whitfield-Baldwin was right. How about supporting a real cause, like stamping out hunger or solving the job crisis or finding a cure for AIDS?

As they drove home, they again were quiet. Lucian's introspective mood seemed to turn brooding. Scout was already nervous about the remainder of the night, so she figured she'd better try to lighten the mood.

“Lucian?”

He turned to her.

“I shouldn't have spoken to you the way I did this morning.” She wouldn't apologize, but she would let him know her behavior hadn't ranked as one of her proudest moments. She was usually much more in control of her emotions than that.

He scowled then sighed. “It's over. Let it go.”

“But you're still mad.”

“Who says I'm mad?”

“Well, you haven't really spoken to me tonight. I figured . . .”

“Where did you go, Evelyn? It occurred to me this afternoon that I really don't know much about you other than what I read in your paperwork.”

She fidgeted with her dress. “I had to go see someone.”

“Who?”

“A friend.”

“A male friend?”

She frowned. “What difference does that make?”

“I find it makes quite a bit of difference. Until our time together expires I expect you to treat our situation monogamously.”

“I will.”

He was quiet for a moment and they both looked out opposite windows. “Who is he?”

“Who?”

“The gentleman you were with this morning?”

“How do you know I was with a gentleman?” He gave her a dubious look and understanding dawned. “Oh my God, you had me followed!”

“Don't act so surprised. Do you mind telling me what you were doing all the way in lower Folsom? My man tells me you were in one of the poorest sections of the city.”

“Your man?”

She was still reeling at the idea of being followed. She thought about last night and Lucian's descriptions of the pawns in the game of chess. He was the king and she was his asset and his pawns would do everything in their power to protect the queen.

“I cannot believe you had me followed! Where I went and who I was with is none of your business.”

She turned away and he gripped her arm tightly, almost painfully.

“Be very careful, Evelyn. We have an agreement. Until you or I end our arrangement, you are, for all intents and purposes, in my care. I wouldn't drive my favorite car in that section of Folsom. Don't expect me to let something much more valuable go there.”

“Some
thing?
Do you hear yourself? I—am—a—person! Not a thing!”

He narrowed his eyes. “I'm aware that you're a living, breathing, flesh and blood woman, Evelyn. It hasn't slipped my attention since the moment I found you rummaging through my desk.”

She scoffed. “I was
not
rummaging.”

“Regardless, I don't want you visiting that part of town again.”

Scout turned and scowled out the window, seething. That part of Folsom was her home.
Big, stupid, rich moron!

After several minutes Lucian said, “I spoke to Vivian.”

It took her a moment to realize he was referring to Dr. Sheffield. When she did, she stilled. He could not expect sex after they just had an argument.

“She seemed very adamant that we proceed slowly. Care to tell me why?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Scout said with feigned indifference.

“Don't play games with me, Evelyn. I want to know why Vivian's so concerned with my intentions toward you.”

“Maybe she's just being nice. People
do
like me, Lucian. Maybe she liked me and is just trying to be a friend.”

“She is a friend.
My
friend. Now tell me what she meant.”

Her shoulders sagged and she faced him. “She meant nothing. I'm clean as a whistle so we can go on with our arrangement as planned. Whatever the reason behind her warning, I assure you, it isn't necessary. I'm a big girl and I know perfectly well what I'm getting myself into.”

He contemplated her for a moment. When they arrived at the hotel he said, “No, I believe I'll wait. Dugan, please see that Ms. Keats makes it to her room safely. I'll stay here until you return.”

Scout turned, shocked. “You aren't coming up with me?”

“Not tonight, Evelyn. I think I'll go out for a bit.”

She wanted to throw something at him. Her nerves had been a wreck all night, and where the hell did he think he was going? Her eyes suddenly glazed with tears of frustration. She lifted her chin and turned on her heel, marching right up and over the damn red runner with gold tassels.

Once she made it back to her room, she shut the door on Dugan and threw her shoe at the wall. What was happening to her? Her trembling fingers wiped her eyes and she was appalled to find she was crying.

How silly. Almost as silly as a five-thousand-dollar dinner at an overvalued flea market showing off a hodgepodge of crap!

Scout stripped out of her dress and went to the bathroom to wash off her makeup, hating Evelyn, wanting Scout back. Sniffling, she plucked the pins from her hair and tossed them all over the vanity, some pinging to the tile floor.

She looked like the bride of Frankenstein with her hair still sprayed into place and mascara marks beneath her eyes.

“You are a jerk, Lucian Patras,” she said, narrowing her eyes at the mirror. Something about being in that man's presence unhinged her, leaving her raw and vulnerable. Such self-doubt was unfamiliar and unwelcome.

Her gaze moved to her underwear and the fancy lace bra she wore. None of this was her. He may have thought she was being stubborn, but she was actually trying very hard to be what he expected. Scout stripped out of her underwear and dug through the bags of clothing. Nothing was right.

From the closet she pulled on the big terrycloth robe, then grabbed her old bag and curled up on the bed, tucking her feet beneath her. Digging deep in the inside pocket, she found the picture she was looking for. She stared at it and wiped her eyes as the tears continued to fall. She was overwhelmed by so many unfamiliar things, angry at her inability to keep up with this sort of life, and, most of all, frustrated that he'd some how managed to affect her in such a way.

The sketch was of her and Pearl, twelve years ago. They were sitting on a bench together, a bag of all their possessions to their left. It had been raining and her mom insisted she wear that ridiculous rubber hat. Scout hated that hat.