Page 30 of Exiled

“Hello, Jonathan.” I smile. Pretend to be at ease. Fake it till I make it.

“Madame—”

“I go by Isabel now.” I speak over Jonathan.

More shocked silence. “Isabel.” Extends a hand, ingrained manners taking over.

I take the proffered hand, intending to shake it, but Jonathan turns my hand palm down and kisses the back. It is an archaic gesture, strange, and out of place. But the way Jonathan does it, it comes across gentlemanly, respectful. I am impressed.

“Pleased to meet you, Isabel.” This is said with a dash of irreverent humor.

Jonathan’s date is confused. “Jon? How do you know her?” Jealousy, barely restrained, a French accent.

“Isabel and I are . . . former business associates.”

“Oh.” The blonde relaxes, jealousy assuaged.

True enough, I suppose. Our true relationship to each other would be nearly impossible to explain, even if either of us were inclined to discuss Indigo Services.

Jonathan remembers his manners, once again. “Oh, sorry. Isabel, this is my girlfriend, Brigitte.” He says itBrih-ZHEET.

“Pleased to meet you, Brigitte.”

“You as well.” I am still receiving a cold stare from Brigitte, despite the gorgeous man at my side, arm around my waist, scanning the crowd.

Jonathan extends his hand to Logan. “I think we met, a while back. At the auction.”

Logan shakes, firmly, briefly. “Yeah. Logan Ryder.”

“Jon.” Just Jon. No last name, none of the pretense I saw when Jonathan was my client. He is at ease, confident. Well dressed, polite.

A success, then.

Jonathan and Logan are discussing something to do with business. I’ve tuned out, thinking about Jonathan when we last met, the arrogant posturing and callow shallow hubris, now turned into pride and confidence and an attractive charm. HowIdid that.Itaught him that. Perhaps Comportment will be a success after all. I vacillate often, sometimes thinking it will be the best thing I’ve ever done, and other times that I should just give it up as impossible.

I let Logan lead me to our seats.

The opera is not what I expected. It is beautiful, rapturous. Transporting. Logan, however, is impatient.

And even as much as I enjoy the music, the spectacle... seeing Jonathan shook me. Gave me pause. Reminded me.

So I am distracted.

It is over before I know it, and I am following Logan through the crowds, down the steps, to our limousine, which is waiting for us, door open, driver with a hand on the door.

The ride home is quiet. Silent.

Neither of us speaks.

Logan’s hand rests on my knee. The closer we get to home, the higher up my thigh his hand goes.

When the driver halts outside Logan’s home—ourhome—he is nearly touching my core.

And I am in a fit of confused, weltering emotion.

Aroused.

Aware that I am—that I might be—