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I don’t know why it took me so long to get there.
Because what this tells me is that he expects that if he attends a party like this with no mask, he’ll be recognized. I start flipping through what I know of the guest list in my head.
“Veal is cruel,” I make myself reply, just in time to make it seem like a reasonable pause since he spoke instead of me drifting off somewhere. “Though perhaps you’re a bit too high in the instep to have gotten that message.”
“Is that what you were doing the other night?” he asks, so mildly, though that voice of his is nothing but silken temptation. “Measuring my instep?”
I’m shocked that he’s referencing that night in the office. Willingly. And seemingly out of nowhere.
But then, after a moment, I’m not so shocked. If he’s trying to divert my attention from a conversation regarding his origins, however obliquely, that means that I’m correct.
Fake Luc issomeonewith a capitalS.
This is why I smile at him. “I wasn’t studying your instep at all, actually. I was wondering why it was that the magnificent Luc Garnier, known far and wide for his wealth, taste, and commitment to luxury that apparently includes private jets like this one, is homeless. Sleeping in an office instead of in one of the numerous investment properties that make up his portfolio.” I pick up the heavy silver fork on my tray. “Given the opulence that is available to him, you can understand my confusion.”
But he only smiles back and applies himself to his laptop. I know he won’t answer.
Some part of me would be disappointed, at this point, if he did. Because I am good at finding my own answers and solving my own puzzles. It’s only a matter of time before I solve the mystery of him, too.
I’m less certain I can solve the mystery of my reaction to him, sadly.
“I have an idea,” I say then, perhaps a bit too brightly. “Why don’t you tell me one thing? One true thing.” Then I laugh. “Between you and me, I don’t think you’re capable of it.”
“I am fascinated,” he says after a moment, almost musingly, “that you have such an apparent commitment to honesty, Annagret.” He looks up then and his dark eyes seem to spear me where I sit. “When your entire life is built on a lie. I think some people would consider that hypocrisy, yet you seem to think it imbues you with some kind of moral superiority.”
Ouch.
But I only shrug. “Women have to do what they must do to make it in this world,” I say flippantly, even though I do not feelflippantat all. “I’m not apologetic.”
“Why would you be apologetic? You haven’t exactly been found out. No one knows the liar you are but me.”
It turns out I really dislike being called a liar. More than I disliked it as a child, but I suspect that has a lot to do with howwarmI feel in this man’s presence.
“Because you’re not a liar?” I manage to ask, softly enough.
Which is maybe notsoftat all.
His gaze cuts to mine and there is something so stark, then, all over his face that I know I will never have to consult those photos I took to remember him. Not when the way he looks at me now seems to burn its way into me, as if he is branding my bones.
“You have no idea how much I wish this was not necessary,” he says, and he manages a quiet in his tone I couldn’t.
“Then make it not necessary,” I say, but I don’t know if I mean I want him to go away or…tell me thewhyof this. And it feels like a kind of ache in me that I can’t tell the difference.
“There are greater things at play than—” He shakes his head.
“Than what?” I’m leaning forward then, my gaze trained on his. “My life?”
That hits him. I see the force of the blow.
“Annagret.” And I don’t want my name in his mouth. Not when he says it like that. “I did not understand, I think, what this would ask of you.”
My heart is a driving, terrible force, a threat in my chest. “You didn’t? That’s astonishing. What did you think it would be like to insert yourself into the middle of a stranger’s life like you have a right to it? What did you imagine would come of simply taking over what isn’t yours? I don’t even know why I’m surprised. Men like you always take what they want and care not at all for the consequences, don’t you. That’s what makes the world go round.”
He looks stricken. As if I’ve sunk a knife deep into the center of his chest.
If I squint I can almost see it, and I tell myself that what I feel is a surge of something like victory, not the far more concerning pulse of…distress. On his behalf.
“If I could tell you the reasons I am here, I would,” he says. “I am exploiting a loophole, not exposing you.” He swallows. That starkness recedes and he is unreadable again. He inclines his head slightly. “You might want to find your way to more gratitude.”