Page 46 of Madame X

I sniffle. Blink hard.

NO.

I cannot let loose this flood of emotion. I am in control. I am in control—breathe, breathe—I can’t do this, not here, not now. Not because of Jonathan Cartwright the Third. You know nothing of me. You want me because you can’t have me, and that is all it is. And whatever kinship I may feel for you in return is based on less than that. You represent my most obvious success. That’s all it is.

I like my life.

I am content.

I do not need more.

I do not want to know what else may exist, out there, for me.

I am safe under Caleb Indigo’s protection.

So why am I fighting tears?

I hear the door open, close. A faucet runs.

Silence, but the knowledge that someone else is out there, fixing her makeup, probably, steels me. I cannot be weak. Will not be. I viciously push down my emotions. Shut them off. Bury them. Hold my head high, and exit the stall.

Freeze.

I am in the men’s room.

When I exit the stall, look up, see the man, I am struck dumb. A man stands facing me, a cell phone in his hands.

I am left breathless.

There is beauty, and then there is perfection. I have known many beautiful men. Some rugged, some pretty. Some merely handsome. None of them have ever compared to Caleb Indigo, however, in terms of sheer masculine appeal.

Until now.

This man?

He is the splendor of heaven made flesh.

Chapter 10

“Hey there. Looks like one of us has the wrong bathroom, I think.” His voice is low and warm and amused and kind, bathing me in sensation.

I cannot move, cannot breathe. He is looking at me, seeing me with eyes so blue they make my heart stutter in my chest, eyes that defy description.

There are countless shades of blue:

Azure. Periwinkle. Baby blue. Navy blue. Ultramarine. Celestial. Sky. Sapphire. Electric. So many others in variation.

And then there is indigo.

Oh, how ironic.

His eyes, they are indigo.

I try to speak, but my mouth only opens and closes without producing sound. Something in me is broken, off-kilter.

“You okay? You look upset.” A quick step, and I am assaulted by the scent of cinnamon gum, laced with hints of alcohol and cigarettes. But the cinnamon, it is in me, in my nose, on my taste buds.

His hand touches my elbow; another brushes past my cheek, not quite touching my skin, sweeping errant hair away from my eyes.