Predatory
Page 62“No,” Vlad groaned. “The other one.”
“That’s Emerson’s sister and A, anyone with even an ounce of Emerson Hawk blood in her is completely and totally off limits to you and your undead little friend down there,” I said as my eyes skipped over his zipper, “and B, you’re on the run from one woman and you’re running out of safe houses. So keep it zipped. I have a party to get ready for.”
The reception for the Institute for Haute Couture was at a swanky restaurant in Chelsea with low lights, polished cement, and an open bar. It was stuffed to the gills with beautiful people in one-of-a-kind dresses, white-gloved waiters wielding untouched appetizer trays, and quite possibly every hair product in the tristate area. My town car let me out in front of the restaurant at the precise time as Emerson’s let her out and even though a grimace would totally throw off the incredible vibe of my gold-threaded vintage Versace, I couldn’t help it when I saw her.
Emerson strode past me, her beaded clutch almost taking me out as she did. Nicolette, hurrying behind as usual, shot me a small, apologetic smile before she yanked open the door for Emerson. They walked into the restaurant and melted into the crowd; I stepped in and there was an audible gasp.
Scanning the room, I could see why.
Aside from the waiters, the place was a morbid sea of black. Black dresses, black suits, black hair décor that masqueraded as vintage. My gold dress stood out like a shiny beacon and I smiled, accepting my glory while Emerson glowered in the crowd, her drink practically evaporating from the waves of heat that rolled off her.
The energy in the restaurant was low, most people not knowing whether they should mourn or celebrate. Half a drink in, Jason Forbes took a makeshift stage and made a touching—if quick—toast to Reginald’s life and career then a muted introduction of the contest, Emerson, and me. Directly afterward, the heavy appetizers—and the murmured gossip—started. I carried around a canapé and a glass of champagne and flitted from group to group, head cocked, lips in a serene yet friendly smile, ears open.
I heard that Reginald had offed himself because Felipe was going home to a mystery wife he had back in Brazil. I heard the suicide was due to a fashion line Reginald was hired for that nosedived, taking the entire company with it. I heard that it was drugs, alcohol, carbohydrates. But when I heard that Reginald hadn’t committed suicide at all, I stopped walking.
A model I knew as Bea was talking, her greasy-plate lips stained a weird glossy orange as she held court.
I edged my way in, gushed appropriately, and Bea pulled me into the conversation.
“My boyfriend,” she said, flapping enormous baby-girl lashes. “He is interested in so many things, so he volunteers at the city morgue.”
The woman next to me nudged me in the ribs with a bony elbow and mouthed the words “community service.”
Bea shot her a death glance and kept going. “Adam had to stand by and watch the coroner start the autography.”
“Autopsy,” I corrected, taking a burning swallow of champagne.
“Right. They started the preliminary thing and the coroner talks into a tape recorder. Adam heard him say that the . . . the,” Bea said, and made a motion around her neck. “The rings on Reginald’s neck were not conducted to a death by hanging.”
Bea turned her enormous eyes on me and nodded. “You heard that, too?”
I had to physically control myself from rolling my eyes.
“Anyway,” Bea went on, “he said that it looked like Reginald was dead before he could hang himself.”
The other women in the circle shivered appropriately but I stepped forward. “How did he die, then?”
Bea’s tiny bird shoulders rose. “And did he hang himself before or after?”
I handed Bea my champagne glass and beat a hasty retreat—at least I tried to, before coming face to face with Emerson.
“Someone’s in a hurry,” she said, her eyes raking over me. “Need to rush off and rip a few seams?”
My one-track mind went from checking out Reginald’s not-suicide to wishing Emerson was the one swinging from the rafters.
I stopped there.
“Hey, Em,” I said, closing the distance between us—and thankful my gag reflex had disappeared along with my soul. “What were you doing this morning?”
She cocked an anemic eyebrow that let me know she suspected something. “I was with you.”
“Before that.”She whipped away from me. “Why do you ask?”
I sized Emerson up. If Bea was right—and I couldn’t put much stock in that, as she was boobs over brains—and Reginald’s death wasn’t a suicide, could someone like Emerson be responsible?
Emerson crossed her arms in front of her chest—or attempted to, as her horrid interpretation of sleeves swallowed her up—and flared her nostrils. “Nicolette and I were working at the apartment.”
I narrowed my eyes, trying to determine if there was something in her voice, her stare that would indicate absolute guilt. I like to think my super-vampire sense would make me particularly good at reading a breather’s emotions, but no.
“Stop staring at me.”
“Ms. LaShay!” I felt an arm snake through mine before I heard Jason Forbes’s deep voice—but not before I saw Emerson’s face tighten, her eyes sharp as naked swords.
“I was hoping to catch you. I see you and Ms. Hawk are getting acquainted.”
I put on my most dazzling smile and nodded. “We certainly are.”
Jason pitched his head toward mine, his lips just brushing my ear. “I’d like to talk to you about one of your designs.”
I kept grinning, enjoying Emerson’s pallor.
It was at the precise moment that Jason put his hand on my arm that I saw Emerson lurch forward, in the most melodramatic fall I’d seen in lifetimes. I watched the deep, red zinfandel swish from her bowl glass, up, up, up and out, and then I felt the liquid seeping through my dress, dripping over my collarbone, droplets slipping down through my décolletage.
And then all hell broke loose.
I forgot that Jason Forbes was within wetting distance and screamed, “You bitch! You did that on purpose!”
A slick grin rushed across Emerson’s lips before her expression snapped into one of mock apology and horror. “Oh, dear, oh! I’m such a klutz. Please, do send me the dry-cleaning bill.”
People had started to circle now, looking sadly at my spoiled dress—few things moved fashionistas like wounded couture.
“If you were worth anything as a designer, you’d know that you don’t dry-clean hand-dyed, vintage Versace.”
I’m usually known for keeping my cool. But tonight, my cool was wrapped around Emerson Hawk’s scraggly neck. Before I realized it we were in a full-on girl-fight, complete with hair pulling and feline scowls. Had my entire life and fashion career not been on the line, I would have gone full-on Lestat on her ass and left picking subpar designer out of my teeth.
“I swear to God I’m going to murder you!” I growled.
“With what?” Emerson wrinkled her nose. “Your polyester excuse for couture or one of your gag-worthy designs?”
“Ladies, ladies, ladies!”
I felt strong arms snaking around my waist and suddenly I was off the ground, being pulled backward. I craned my neck to see who my savior/new attackee was and harrumphed when I realized it was Pike. I had expected Jason, but found him standing a few feet away, grinning like someone was about to inflate the ring and fill it with mud. I was so flabbergasted and annoyed that I wasn’t even able to take the time to appreciate being wrapped in Pike’s arms, or how devastatingly handsome he looked in a slim-fitting deconstructed tuxedo, his hair half slicked, half I-just-rolled-out-of-bed sexy.
He yanked me a good ten feet from Emerson and her weapon of couture destruction but I could still see the sick smile on her face and my rage boiled again.
“Put me down!” I said between clenched teeth. “I’m going to rip her throat out. I don’t care if she’s your girlfriend.”
Pike dropped me with a thump. “My girlfriend?”
I waved at the air. “Ex, whatever. She ruined my dress. On purpose. She’s a snarky little snake in the grass.”
“Shh, shh, shh. Nina, relax. She is a—what did you call her? Snaky snark? She’s that, which is why you’re not going to let her get you tossed out of this competition.”
The anger in my gut was slowly, barely, starting to pull back. I glanced at Pike’s earnest expression and then back over my shoulder at Emerson, who was being led toward the back patio, leaning on some poor waiter as if she’d been actually wounded. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">