“—broke his word. Yes, of course that would upset you. Would piss me off, too. But in this case, I think you need to forgive the boy.”

I can’t help my ironic half-smile. “I will. I honestly can’t imagine staying mad at Damien. But not right now. I’m feeling a little fragile.”

She keeps speaking as if she hadn’t heard me. “You need to forgive him because he didn’t break his word. Blaine did.”

“What?” I play her words back in my head, but I still don’t understand.

“Blaine told Giselle,” Evelyn says matter-of-factly. “He didn’t mean to. He was mortified. They were talking about model releases for the gallery and somehow the conversation turned to the portrait. He doesn’t even remember what he said, exactly. You know how he gets when he starts chattering. And the next thing you know, he’d told her. He rushed home and told me the whole story. Didn’t sleep that night—took all my harassing to keep him from calling Damien right then and there, but it was two in the morning, and I told him it could wait. Poor kid looked green until he finally got Damien on the phone at five the next morning.”

“When was this?” I am flabbergasted.

“Four days ago.”

“But—but I asked Damien point-blank if he told Giselle, and he said yes. He was lying for Blaine? Why?”

“Aw, honey, it wasn’t Damien that Blaine was green in the gills about. It was you. He fucked up, and he hurt you, and he fully intended to come clean. He wanted Damien’s advice on how to tell you, and Damien told him not to. Damien said he’d talk to Giselle and make sure it didn’t go further, and that if need be, he’d take the blame.”

“But why?”

“You already answered that one, Texas,” she says gently.

For a moment, I don’t understand. Then I recall my words. I honestly can’t imagine staying mad at Damien.

“He’s protecting Blaine,” I say, more to myself than to Evelyn. “He’s protecting our friendship.” Suddenly, my hand is over my mouth and I’m blinking back tears.

“You want me to tell Blaine that you know?”

I shake my head violently. “No. No. I don’t want him to worry that it bothers me or that I’m mad at him. Maybe someday I’ll tell him, but right now, no.”

“I wasn’t sure about telling you myself,” she says. “I’m glad I did.”

“Me, too,” I say.

“To be honest, I was surprised as hell to see Giselle here. Blaine told her that he didn’t mean to say anything. She must know that showing up would embarrass you and piss off Damien. Hard to believe she’d go out of her way to piss off her best client.”

“No kidding,” I say, but I’ve realized now what Tanner meant. If Damien is Giselle’s best client, then the accusation that Bruce hired me to make his wife happy makes sense. Keep the wife’s best client happy and keep the galleries making money.

“Maybe I had it wrong,” Evelyn muses. “Maybe Giselle’s the one who’s jealous.”

“Of me? Why?”

“You’re with Damien,” Evelyn says. “And she’s not. Not anymore.”

This is a night of revelations. “Damien and Giselle used to date?”

“Years ago. They were an item for a few months before she and Bruce tied the knot. Now there’s an interesting story.”

“Damien and Giselle?” That’s a story I’m not sure I want to hear.

“Giselle and Bruce,” Evelyn says with a small shake of her head. “But that’s dirt for another day.” She tosses back the last of her drink, then slams the glass onto the tabletop. “Ready to head back into the fray?” she asks, standing.

“No,” I admit, though I stand as well. Because it’s not people that I want right now. It’s just Damien.

14

I wait a moment after Evelyn has gone, then make a quick circle through the party. A few people smile or nod at me, moving a step to one side as if silently inviting me to join their conversations. But I pass by; I have no time for anyone but Damien, and I move through the crowd with singular determination.

When I finally see him, I stop short. He stands in a small group, listening to a story told by a stout woman with curly brown hair. As if he feels me looking at him, Damien turns. His eyes find me, and suddenly everything around me seems to melt away. The people are nothing but blurs of colors, the conversation little more than white noise. We are the only two people in the room, and I stand transfixed, my body tingling, mouth suddenly dry. It is as if this man has cast a spell over me, and I am a willing participant to the enchantment.

I want to bask in the heat that radiates between us. I have been so cold today, my body battered by icy winds and drifting tides. I want to stay here, lost in time. Lost in Damien.

But I cannot. There are things to do—things to say. And so I force myself to move. I take a single step forward, and the world around me rushes back into focus, people moving, couples talking, glasses clinking. But my eyes have not left Damien’s face, and I smile in apology and forgiveness. And also in invitation.

Then, with my heart beating wildly in my chest, I turn and walk away.

It takes remarkable strength not to turn and look behind me, but I manage the task. I head back into the kitchen, then follow the short hallway that leads to the service elevator. I get in and descend one level to the second-floor library. That floor isn’t available to the party guests. It is Damien’s private space, and though I am feeling decidedly on edge, I know that I belong there, too, and I smile as I step off the elevator and into the small alcove that houses a computer workstation. This area cannot be seen by anyone climbing the stairs, but neither can I see those magical, sparkling lights. And magical and sparkling is exactly what I need right now.

I move out of the alcove, passing the dimly lit shelving until I come to the open mezzanine. The lights twinkling on the railing are no less impressive from this angle, and I take my camera off my shoulder and focus in close, so that nothing but dots of diffused light fill my sight, each pinpoint radiating out into vibrant prisms of color.

I snap, then snap again, and soon I’m lost in the world that I’m capturing on camera. The perfection of the angles of this house I love. The tattered cover of a Philip K. Dick novel that Damien has left on a side table. Even the cocktail party guests, or what little I can see of them, as they seem to float above me. From here, I cannot make out voices. And I can see only the head and shoulders of the few who venture close to the landing.