A Taste like Sin Page 14

  “Allow me,” a man cuts in.

  I turn and find someone looming behind me, cutting a striking figure in a tailored black suit.

  “May I?” He takes my arm and guides me forward.

  Despite the crush of reporters, we enter the venue unmolested. In the foyer, Harrison helps me out of my coat and tosses it to a nearby attendant.

  “I’m surprised you came,” he says, raking his gaze over me. “Rumor has it that you weren’t particularly fond of your father’s return to politics in the first place. And this event… Gerald Wellington was a man even your father despised, though he was more than willing to take his money.”

  “I’ve always supported my father publicly,” I croak. “Always.”

  “I heard he’s awake.” Stepping forward, he leads me past an army of valets laden with trays of wine ready to be served to the partygoers. “One might presume you’d be with him.”

  “He wanted me here.” God, I hate how my voice keeps breaking. Maybe the will didn’t cement it, but just being here does. I am Heyworth Thorne’s daughter for better or for worse. He lied to me; there’s no erasing that. But at the end of the day, he still trusts me with his most important possession of all: his name. “I’m doing this for him.”

  “Well, perhaps you may be interested in lending his support in the form of an endorsement?”

  “An endorsement?” I raise an eyebrow, scanning the ballroom for a familiar face in a sea of beautiful strangers. A few weeks of self-imposed exile and I barely recognize the polished upper crust of society anymore. I’m a tainted doll now with visible cracks, drawing eyes everywhere I go.

  “Yes. In light of Heyworth’s unfortunate health concerns, my son Kyle has decided to run for mayor in his stead.” He nods toward a man standing near a corner of the room, surrounded by fawning guests. At a glance, a slight resemblance is obvious in their confident stature and dark-brown hair. “An endorsement from you in your father’s place would be a fitting show of solidarity.”

  “I appreciate the offer,” I say, forcing a smile. “But I should discuss it with him first.”

  “He’s talking?” His head swivels in my direction, his eyebrows furrowed. “His condition has improved that much?”

  “It’s better than expected,” I admit, blinking tears back. “But still touch and go.”

  “I see.” He lowers his head, his eyes downcast. “I’m sorry to hear the old son of a bitch still isn’t at his full health. Maybe I should schedule another visit? See if he knows anything about what may have caused his condition?”

  “Maybe…” I trail off as a figure near the back of the room catches my attention.

  A man standing tall, his eyes shielded by a blindfold. Whether he realizes it or not, women flock to him, casting him searching glances.

  From them, he might choose his next willing muse.

  His next victim to destroy.

  “Excuse me, Juliana,” Harrison says, releasing my arm. “I’m sorry to abandon you, but I think I see a colleague.”

  Abandon. The word stings more than the context—turning into agony the more I observe the 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. Shaking, I claim a sink for myself and splash cold water on my face. Looking at my reflection, I try to see the same woman everyone else is. But I don’t. I see a fraud in a dress that fits her too perfectly. Silk roses cup her breasts but threaten to expose her with the slightest shift of fabric. The entire construction is an elaborate dance between elegant and obscene.

  Looking at myself, I settle my suspicion once and for all: He designed this. Only a madman could taunt me in the form of couture. Only Damien Villa could design a trap in the form of a dress.

  And only he would be cunning enough to masquerade as a monster.

  When Damien doesn’t appear, I exit the restroom.

  “Excuse me. Ms. Thorne?”

  I turn and find a man approaching me. Tall and imposing, he cuts a striking figure almost as chilling as Damien. A name comes to mind as I meet his gaze. Kyle Harrison. He shares the same, piercing gaze as his father, honed like a laser.

  “I hope my father spoke to you,” he says while reaching for my hand. I shiver as he grasps my fingers, lifting them to his mouth, “I would love an endorsement from your father, even with his…current issues.”

  He smiles.

  I cringe. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m not sure if—”

  “Think on it,” he urges, releasing me. “I would hate to see his legacy end in ruin.”

  I watch him go, so lost in thought that I nearly collide with someone walking past me. A giggling woman who staggers to regain her balance. Not that she seems to mind. “Are you Juliana?” she asks, her voice breathy.

  When I nod, she steers the train of her navy-blue gown with one hand while offering me a white envelope in the other.

  “A man asked me to give this to you.” Her raised eyebrow indicates curiosity, but the wine on her breath leads me to believe she won’t remember enough of this encounter to gossip about it later.

  “Thank you.” I take the note and watch her stumble into the restroom. Then I rip it open and read while hunched against the wall.

  Come to the east wing.

  The sender didn’t even bother to sign it—not that he needed to. I can smell him. Sin and malice embedded within the paper itself.

  Heart in my throat, I head further down the hall and slip from the ballroom altogether. The east wing is a simple trip across the foyer, but a man is standing guard near the archway leading toward it. My footsteps slow as I approach him, but he merely nods, allowing me to pass unaccosted.

  It’s dark. The winding hallway is illuminated only by the moonlight drifting in through beautiful antique windows that display a view of a private garden. Once I reach the ballroom, I have a crystal-clear view of the man responsible for this
game of hide-and-seek. He’s near a window, and bathed solely in the glow of moonlight, he’s breathtaking.

  “How do you like the dress?” he wonders, his voice easily reaching me.

  I flinch. I’ll never understand how he can make me feel more exposed than I did in a room with hundreds of people watching my every move. He doesn’t just skim the surface. He has his head cocked so that his ears are in the prime position to capture every slow, unsteady breath I take. My deliberate footsteps.

  “It’s lovely,” I say robotically, stopping short.

  “Only for you… Is something wrong?”

  I can’t remember how to move until he beckons me with a crook of his finger and a challenging tilt of his chin.

  “You’re awfully quiet tonight.”

  The moment I’m close enough, he reaches out to decipher me through heated fingertips. Tasting me with a slow flick of his tongue along his lower lip. He breathes me in, analyzing my every action, and I stand there until he delivers his assessment.

  “I designed this damn thing with you in mind,” he admits, his voice quickly losing its polished cadence. He sounds guttural. Raw. Too damn honest. “I knew you’d wear it—”

  “I feel overdressed,” I counter, fighting to breathe.

  “Oh?” He’s scowling now. “It appears as though you’re the talk of the ball. I could hear those bastards simpering from here. Though it seems none of them have noticed that, beneath this”—he swipes a teasing handful of fabric—“you’re wearing nothing at all. How scandalous, Ms. Thorne.”

  I wrench away from him and cross my arms over my chest. One touch and he senses what a room full of people overlook. “Sometimes it feels like you know me better than I know myself,” I whisper, my eyes burning. “Too well…”

  “Oh?” His steps cease their slow advance. “I’m sensing that isn’t a compliment.”

  I close my eyes, remembering the first time I saw his artwork at his gallery. That room where all those paintings of other women watched me. Now, their dead, blank stares take on a taunting aura, their gazes smug. You fell for it, they tell me. Stupid, foolish bitch.

  “Have you been lying to me all this time?” I whisper brokenly. “About my father? …Simon?”

  “Juliana.” His voice is deeper than before. Like he already knows damn well what I’m thinking. That he won’t deny it. That he can’t. “Talk to me,” he commands. “What did you learn that is making you ask this?”

  What did I learn? “The truth. That you were Simon.”

  It sounds insane out loud. Four years. Four years of torment. Of misery. Of lies, and pain, and memories…

  But the more I relive every tortured moment, the more it makes sense. Only a man with such an intimate grip on my life could utterly control it.

  And only an artist would relish in my misery.

  “The real man has been dead for four years, according to my father. But you… You studied me,” I say brokenly. “You studied him, and for four years, you’ve played his game.”

  “It’s not what you think.” He takes a step toward me, but I flinch back.

  “Isn’t it?” I force a callous laugh, but pretending doesn’t help me now. Nothing. Turns. Off. The. Pain.

  If anything, it grows, swelling into an agonizing lump in the pit of my stomach. Without giving a damn for decency, I double over. A gag racks my throat and vomit spills onto the floor. Noisily. Messily. I let him hear what the truth does to me. It destroys me. I’m brought to my knees by the force of it, robbed of even the voice to scream.

  “I won’t deny it,” he says like it matters, still paces away. “But I won’t hide the rest from you, either. You deserve to know the full truth.”

  More?

  “I didn’t leave the gifts for you to find—but,” he adds before hope can even take root in my chest, “I know who did, at least vaguely though not a true identity. In some ways, I facilitated their actions, if only out of curiosity. I knew they upset you. I didn’t know why—but upsetting you was enough.”

  “Because you had leverage,” I whisper, seeing things how someone like him would: through a lens of hate and revenge. “Over my father. Over me.”

  That’s how his world works, a muted landscape of give and take. Of death and decay. He doesn’t admire flowers for their beauty—it’s for their fragility, a reminder of the cruel balance he lives by.

  “Why would I intervene in the life of the daughter of a monster like Heyworth Thorne?” he wonders. “It was more advantageous to me if I sat back and watched. I gathered what information I could use to my benefit, but your safety was not of my concern. I will admit that.”

  “So who is he?” I demand, swiping at my mouth. “Will you tell me that much?” But I’m not even surprised when he shakes his head.

  If anything, he knows how to inflict pain with ruthless precision. “I have my suspicions, but the perpetrator is more powerful than I gave them credit for. They never used the same thug to plant your gifts.” He pauses, waiting for that revelation to land.

  And it does. Like a gut-punch.

  “W-What do you mean?”

  “They used hired experts, but never the same one twice. When questioned, the men couldn’t name who hired them—and trust me, I was very persuasive in my questioning. The one night I finally did try to intercede, they ceased their little façade entirely.”

  “That’s why I never got the fourth present,” I say, ignoring the rest of his statement.

  “There’s more. I think whoever is responsible sent the attacker after you. The man with the knife.”

  My hand flies to my shoulder, tracing a healed wound through the fabric of my clothing. “The man who cut me at the hotel? And you never said anything?” I rasp. “Why?

  “I had a hunch who it might be, but they are proving harder to nail down, just like your ‘Simon.’ Perhaps they are one and the same? But the more evidence I could use against them, the easier it would be to assert my influence when I finally unmask them.”

  “Even if they killed me?” I remember the fear. The isolation. The desperation. “You didn’t help me. You let him…”

  The world spins and I stagger to the wall, bracing my hands over it. It takes everything I have just to stay upright. To breathe.

  “You let him hurt me,” I choke out. “You left me alone—”

  “I didn’t know in advance or I would have stopped it,” he swears. “But I won’t make excuses. I should have told you.” His tone is so different from the man who has comforted me during thunderstorms. This time, he doesn’t smooth my hair or comfort me. He doesn’t lend his presence like an anchor against the darkness clawing its way into my mind. He’s the lightning rod for despair, incapable of understanding human suffering. So he merely watches me break. “I know nothing I can say could earn your forgiveness—”

  “Forgiveness?” A broken laugh trickles out of me as I put the remaining pieces together.

  Simon’s sudden absence. The roses. Roses are not your flower, he said to me during our first true conversation. That was because he’d stolen it. He’d corrupted it.

  Feeling sick, I tear at my neck, ripping his necklace from it. When the delicate pearl strikes the wall, I feel no satisfaction. Just pain. Maybe in his own twisted logic, he tried to tell me the truth all along. Oleander and roses. Poison and Simon’s favorite gift.

  “I…I thought I could trust you—no.” I close my eyes and confess in a rush, “I did trust you. I trusted you.”

  It sounds so pathetic now. Trust a man so incapable of simple human emotion.

  “I didn’t want you to learn this way,” he says, toying with me yet again. “Come with me. I can explain—”

  “No!” I use the wall for leverage to steady myself. Then I run, stumbling for balance on jellied knees.

  He doesn’t try to stop me.

  He doesn’t spout any more lies about trust.

  He lets me go without a word, and I leave a trail of tears like blood.

  A stern-faced
driver chauffeurs me to the hospital, but something feels different even before I step foot onto my father’s floor, still wearing Damien’s elegant creation.

  “Miss?” A uniformed officer blocks my path as the elevator doors part. The gun prominent on his hip catches my notice first, his strained expression second. “I’m going to need to see some identification,” he demands, extending his hand.

  I fish through my purse for my ID. Eyeing it, the man deepens his frown. “Ms. Thorne? I’m going to need you to come with me.”

  “Is something wrong?” I ask. Alarm lances down my spine as I notice other officers clustered in the portion of the hall near my father’s room. From here, the staticky noise issuing from their handsets creates an ominous hum.

  “This way,” the officer in front of me urges, but rather than lead me to my father’s room, he takes me inside a small sitting room instead. “I’m going to ask you to sit, Ms. Thorne.”

  My heart lurches to my throat as I comply. “Please tell me what’s going on.”

  “Your father is in serious condition,” the officer says. “It seems as if there may have been foul play involved—”

  “Foul play?” Panic sends sweat drenching my palms. “Like how?”

  The man frowns and fishes something from his pocket. A notebook. Flipping it open to the first page, he says, “Have you ever heard of a shrub called oleander? Do you know anyone who might keep it potted or grow it?”

  Grow…

  It’s like my brain disconnects from my body. I can see the world drift in and out of focus, but I have no control over my limbs. Trembling legs rob me of balance, and the man has to grab my arm, grunting in concern.

  “Ms. Thorne?” When I don’t answer, he adds, “We have reason to believe your father may have been poisoned. If you have any information, we request that you make a formal statement…”

  He says something else, but the words meld into a frantic hum, drowned out by my heartbeat. I can’t even see him anymore, just white flowers tucked carefully within a small pot, proudly displayed on my kitchen counter.

  God, it’s like I can hear him.

  Dulce niña, did you really believe I wanted more than the obvious?