Page 102 of A Taste like Sin

blindfolded figure across the room. His head is cocked and I imagine him intently listening to every

bit of conversation around him, discerning more through observation than I figure most could ever see

at one time.

Like the fact that I’m the center of attention. Several pairs of eyes dart in my direction, scanning the

daring cut of my gown. I copy them, eyeing the dress as if for the first time. As odd as it feels to

suspect, I can’t shake the feeling that he created this. Designed it, maybe. It’s too damn intricate. A

risqué play on fashion only a true artist would dare attempt. Jaw-droppingly sheer fabric and

strategically placed appliqués to shield my nipples and waistline from view. At the same time, it’s

matronly in shape, with a high neckline and a formfitting bodice. I catch several photographers

pointing their camera in my direction, and I suspect I’ll make tomorrow’s society pages.

“I was wrong,” someone murmurs heatedly into my ear.

I look over at the corner; the secluded figure has vanished.

“I knew the dress would look stunning on you,” the man in question admits into my ear, sliding his

hand over my lower back. “But given the reaction tonight,mierda… I almost wish I could see it

myself.”

The world seems to think so. As if on cue, I catch several murmured compliments directed my way.

You look beautiful.

You look marvelous.

What a stunning dress.

Pretty statements that merely skim the surface. How I look, never how I feel. To them, I’m just the

same old Juliana with a different coat of paint. But therein lies the real question. Who is the woman

they’ve known all along?

And who is the man by my side?

“I need to talk to you,” I croak.

“Sí.And I need to talk to you.” He extends his cane, deploying it like a sensor to ensure he doesn’t

come close to anyone else. “Though, as promised, I will ensure we aren’t seen together for long.

When you are ready, head to the restroom, ¿sí?”

He pulls away and I watch him go, my heart in my throat. There’s nothing left to do but simper, and

smile, and mingle.

It’s nearly an hour before I escape into the bathroom, but Damien isn’t lurking inside the stalls.