My first official dinner party as Amelia Winters’s assistant was held in the Federal Ballroom a block outside of the French Quarter. The event was ostensibly a charity ball for the Louisiana wetlands, but, like most $10,000 dinners, it also functioned as a means for the rich to rub elbows with each other and show off their new trophy wives. All of what would once have been known as the “blue bloods” were in attendance, along with a good selection of the newly rich, up-and-coming businessmen and women who wanted to be seen with old money. I saw a few people I recognized from politics and from society gossip columns, as well as the man rumored to be the head of the local mafia. If there’s one thing that’s true about the moneyed gentility in New Orleans, it’s that everyone simply ignores the bad things about everyone else—at least to their face.
I was nothing but a bundle of nerves from the second we arrived, and I found myself rather quickly grabbing my third glass of champagne. Realizing that I’d be slurring my words if I kept up this pace, I made myself sip it, slowly, looking up from my glass to scan the room for the ten potential buyers I’d selected for tonight. I had some back-up possibilities, but the men I was looking for were the ones I knew we should approach first. I spotted one and touched Amelia’s elbow, lifting my chin at him slightly. She looked away from the older gentleman she was talking to and nodded at me briefly.
“Phil, I hope you’ll excuse me,” she said.
He smiled at her. “Of course, dear. Just let me know about that figurine when you hear something.”
“I will,” she said. They kissed each other’s cheeks and then she grabbed my elbow and walked us slowly toward the man I’d indicated.
“Tell me about him,” she said quietly as we approached.
“His name is Brent Cameron. He’s divorced. Fairly new to the city, but from the South—one of the Carolinas. He just bought a rather large share of a local marketing firm, and he owns a big part of the Upriver District development that’s about to break ground in the Irish Channel.”
Brent turned toward us as we approached, and his face lit up. “Well, aren’t you ladies a sight for sore eyes,” he said. “I was afraid nothing but old trolls were here tonight, but you’ve proven me wrong.”
We both forced a laugh at his “witticism,” and I stood by for the next few minutes, watching Amelia weave her magic. Since we’d arrived about an hour ago, she’d already managed to create ten potential sales. She was incredibly impressive.
“You know you’re right,” he said after listening to her for a while. “My new place does need a little something for the walls. I don’t know about that modern shit, though. I’m more of an old-fashioned kind of guy myself. Portraits, landscapes—that’s my bag.”
“We deal in all kinds of artwork, Mister Cameron,” Amelia said smoothly, unruffled by his vulgarity. “With new clients, we assess the location and then make suggestions based on your tastes.”
“That sounds just fine, especially if it means getting one of you lovely ladies over to my place for dinner first.”
We both forced another laugh. “Of course,” Amelia said, smiling. “Whenever you’re available.”
Brent fished around in his pocket for a moment and withdrew his card, handing it to her. “That’s my office line, but I’ve got my cell-phone number on the back for you, sweetie.” He winked slyly. “Have your girl call my girl, and we’ll set something up for next week.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” Amelia said.
“Until then.” He tipped an invisible hat before walking away.
When he was out of earshot, Amelia turned toward me, looking genuinely pleased. “He was a perfect choice,” she said. “Moneyed and stupid.”
I laughed. “I don’t know how you did that so smoothly. Five minutes and he was eating out of your hand.”
“You’ll get the hang of it.” She patted my shoulder and then glanced at her watch. “I think dinner is about to start. I managed to get us a seat at the table closest to the mayor’s table. Plenty of rich pickings for us to talk to while we eat.”
“Us?” I asked, my heart in my throat.
She touched my shoulder again. “There’s nothing to it. Get them talking about anything but artwork and then bring it up casually. Flatter them, flatter their wives and girlfriends, and then drop the hint.”
“I’m not so sure—”
“Don’t worry. You’ll do just fine. Consider this a practice run. There’s no pressure here tonight.”
I was still uncertain as we made our way over to our table. Of the ten chairs, it appeared that the other eight were filled with couples, most of them in their fifties and sixties. All the men sat up a little straighter when we sat down, and I saw several of the women frown at me. So far, Amelia had been talking exclusively to men, so I wasn’t quite sure how to even begin to speak with these women.
“That’s a lovely shawl,” I told the older woman seated next to me.
Some of the tension left her face. “Thank you. It was my mother’s.”
I continued to look at it. “I just love family heirlooms. They mean so much more than the things we buy.”
“I agree completely.” She looked surprised.
The rest of the conversation was actually far easier than I’d anticipated. Taking Amelia’s advice, I kept the conversation to heirlooms for a couple of minutes before talking about a painting I’d inherited from my parents and then to the company I worked for. The woman recognized the name Winters and immediately asked her husband if she could make an appointment for a home consultation. He rolled his eyes but agreed, and my heart lifted in jubilation. While it was only a potential sale at this point, I was fairly certain that, after a visit, I would be able to get them to buy something. I saw Amelia wink at me as I put the woman’s card in my purse, and I smiled back at her.
The dinner was surprisingly bland, given the cost, but I felt that I managed to comport myself fine, only hesitating between two forks for a couple of seconds before watching Amelia choose the right one. Dinner was followed by a silent auction. Amelia made a bid on a small painting that she won, and I could see that she was extremely pleased with her winnings.
Once we all stood up for the reception, she pulled me aside, shaking her head in disbelief.
“That painting is worth over four times what I paid for it,” she whispered conspiratorially, her eyes merry. “Whatever numbskull decided to donate it doesn’t know what he’s doing. I just made back the cost of our dinners.”
We made our way over toward the dance floor, Amelia looking around carefully for past clients. We stood there for a long while on the edge of the dancing, and I spied another potential new mark I’d researched this week. I touched her elbow again, and she turned toward me, her body and face inches from mine.
“See another target?” she asked quietly. Almost exactly my height, she was close enough that I could see the flecks of gray in her dark-blue eyes.
“Across the dance floor. He’s standing next to that leggy blonde. His name is Peter Donaldson. He’s Scottish. Rich. Shipping magnate. I think his girlfriend’s name is Kelly, but she could be a new one.”
Amelia looked back over at him, appearing devious. She turned back to me. “The only way over there is to dance our way to him.”
I swallowed. “Dance?”
“It’s rude to walk across a dance floor.” She paused, and then, seeing my face, she added, “And it’s bad luck.” She raised an eyebrow at me to show that she was kidding.
“I’m not very good at dancing,” I admitted, looking anywhere but at her.
“That’s okay. I’ll lead.”
I looked around the room, panic rising. “Won’t it be strange that, I mean, that you and I—”
She laughed. “People are used to seeing me dance with other women, Doctor. Don’t worry about it.”
I swallowed again and nodded, my heart racing. She held out her hand and pulled me into a twirl, and we were soon dancing our way around the small floor. She was an incredible dancer, as I knew she would be, and as we moved her hand rested on my bare back, exposed because of my dress. The touch of her fingers sent tingles up and down my spine, and I felt hot and dizzy at the same time. I was vaguely aware that people had stopped to watch us dance, but my attention was rooted to her and her hand.
She pulled me a step closer to her and put her mouth close to my ear, her voice barely above a whisper. “Have I told you how incredible you look tonight?”
I shook my head a little, too terrified to respond.
“Well, you do. You’re the most stunning woman in the room.”
“Hardly.”
“Your modesty is very becoming, Doctor, but in this case it’s misguided. You’re beautiful.”
The whirling motion of the dance and the heat spreading out from the hand on my back was beginning to make my head spin, but I couldn’t wrench my eyes from hers.
“There’s no one more attractive here than you, Miss Winters,” I managed to say.
She threw her head back and laughed, then steered me around an older couple who glanced at us as we danced by them. “I love your flattery.”
“It’s the truth,” I replied.
She laughed again. I was vaguely aware of a flash out of the corner of my eye but dismissed it, my eyes still rooted to hers. She moved her face toward mine, and for a moment I was certain she was about to kiss me. I held my breath, waiting.
“I think we’ve made our point,” she said quietly. “On the next pass, I’m going to stop and lead us over to your Mister Donaldson.”
I felt my face fall in disappointment and saw Amelia lift an eyebrow at me, but we were soon drawing apart as we hit the edge of the dance floor. Several men were watching us, openly interested. Amelia shook her hair back from her shoulders and looked over at me. “Ready?”
I could only nod.
As she schmoozed Mister Donaldson, I tried to center myself and calm down, but my body was a cascade of emotions and sensations, my head still spinning. My back still felt hot, as if her hand still touched it. I imagined I could look in the mirror and see the red outline of her handprint. My stomach clenched tight with something like panic, and my heart was pounding. My body was covered in a layer of cold, clammy sweat. Worst of all, however, were my racing thoughts. I kept chastising myself for overacting, but it was no good. I felt unmoored, confused, and distracted. I did, however, manage to nod in the appropriate places as Amelia made plans for another appointment with the potential new client. Once she’d stowed away his card, she grabbed my elbow and led me away from him and over to a small table.
She looked concerned. “Do you want to sit down? You look pale.”
“Yes,” I said, sitting heavily. When I looked up at her, she was frowning at me. I attempted a weak smile in response. “I’m sorry. I think all that wine is catching up with me. I don’t feel too well.”
Looking relieved, she sat down in the chair next to mine and squeezed one of my hands. “It’s okay to be nervous the first time you do this. I should have realized.”
“It’s not your fault. It’s mine. I kept drinking when I knew I should cut myself off. Nerves, I guess.”
“This will all come naturally to you in time.” She waved at the room.
I looked away. While it was true that I might eventually become more comfortable with these kinds of people and this kind of event, I doubted that I would ever get used to dancing with Amelia Winters. My body and mind were in complete turmoil.
“Why don’t you let me take you home?” she offered.
A wave of panic swept through me. I certainly didn’t want to blow an important dinner for her. “But it’s so early!”
She shook her head. “It’s fine. Please don’t worry about it. In fact, it’s better to leave these things a little early once in a while. Makes you seem less available.”
Knowing that she was catering to my needs didn’t help matters, but I agreed with her anyway. I needed to get home and soon. We stood up and approached the dance floor again, and Amelia laughed when she saw my face. “I think we can make an exception—let’s just walk across the floor.”
I sighed in relief and let her take my hand. In the back of my mind, I was aware that several people were watching us leave together, but dismissed it. Let them think what they want, I thought.
Amelia made a quick phone call to her driver, George, and we waited outside, the warm, fresh air reviving me slightly.
I saw someone approaching us, and when I glanced up, my stomach clenched in horror. It was Charles. He smiled widely as he came nearer, and I had to let him hug me, lightly.
“Hey, Chloé,” he said. “I didn’t know you were here. I was just out having a cigar. You’re not leaving already, are you?”
“Yes,” I said quietly, unsure how to react.
Amelia watched this exchange, her eyes intense and alive with curiosity. She saw my expression and frowned, as if sensing my tension. Turning to Charles, she held out a hand. “I haven’t had the pleasure,” she said smoothly.
“Oh gosh, where are my manners? I’m Charles King, a friend of Chloé’s.”
“Charmed,” Amelia said, shaking his hand. “I’m Amelia Winters. Another friend of Chloé’s.” Her emphasis on the word friend made it clear that she understood, at least in part, that my relationship with him was more complicated than mere friendship.
He appeared surprised. “Really? I’ve done some work with your father. Of course I’ve heard all about you.” Suddenly, as if remembering something, he looked back and forth between the two of us. “You came here together?” he asked after a long pause.
She gave my hand a quick squeeze. “Yes. Doctor Deveraux was my escort tonight.”
I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing at the expression on his face. He turned to me, eyebrows raised. “Really?”
I nodded, still trying not to laugh.
His brow creased, the information evidently filtering slowly into his mind. “So you guys are, like, together?” As if trying to clarify, he motioned with his cigar back and forth between us.
“Yes,” Amelia said, taking my hand again. “We are. Now if you’ll excuse us, our car is here. I want to get this one home before she keels over.” She smiled at me wickedly and I managed to grin back at her.
Charles watched us, his mouth open, clearly in shock as we got into the Rolls. I could see him still staring at us stupidly as the car drove away. Turning to Amelia, I started laughing, and she soon joined me.
“Did you see his face?” I asked after a while, wiping tears from the corners of my eyes.
She was clearly pleased with herself. “I did indeed. What on earth was that about? Is he an ex-boyfriend?”
My mirth dried up almost immediately, and I looked away from her, out the window. “No,” I said firmly. “I wouldn’t date that man for all the money in the world.”
When I was brave enough to look back at her, she was staring at me, her delicate eyebrows drawn in concern. I shook my head, and she said nothing, seeming to understand that I didn’t want to talk about it.
When we pulled up in front of Aunt Kate’s, I looked over at her again. “I’m sorry again that I wimped out so early tonight. Next time I’ll take it easy on the booze.”
“You did wonderfully, Doctor.” She scooted toward me on the seat, and once again I braced myself for a kiss, my body warming in anticipation. Instead, she gave me a quick hug. “Good night.”
“Good night,” I managed, then fled from the car as if my life depended on it.
After briefly greeting my startled aunt, I went directly to my room, closing and locking the door before resting my forehead on it, my eyes squeezed shut. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I asked myself.
Wearily I removed my shoes and gown and stood for a long time looking at myself in the mirror. I was wearing the new bra and panties Amelia had chosen for me and had on a garter belt to hold up my stockings. Before tonight, I’d never worn garters.
Before tonight, I’d also never wanted a woman to kiss me. It was a night of firsts.
Glancing over at the door to make sure it was actually locked, I looked back at myself in the mirror and met my eyes. The garters made me feel wanton and sexy, despite being so old-fashioned and nearly obsolete. Tracing my finger down my stomach, I stopped just shy of the line of my panties. I slid one finger under the elastic band, not going farther than the top of the hairline despite the desperate fire burning between my legs. Pulling out my finger, I unhooked one garter and then the other, then slowly rolled down the stockings, watching myself the whole time. I stood back up. My cheeks were slightly pink. Stepping closer to the mirror, I gazed into my eyes and recognized the hungry expression I saw there. Going farther than this, I realized, would mean something, and I stared into my own eyes as if waiting for an answer.
I unhooked my bra in the front and let it drop to the floor, standing clad now only in my panties and the garter belt. My heart was pounding at this point, hard, and I met my eyes again, knowing what was coming. Sliding my hand slowly into my underwear, I felt my wetness coat my fingers and moaned before slapping my other hand over my mouth. Lock or no lock, my aunt would hear me if I was loud. I bit my tongue and moved my fingers farther down, finding my opening soaked and wanting. Beginning to feel desperate, I slammed my fingers inside myself, bending at the waist slightly to push back against my hand. Using my thumb, I massaged my clit in rhythm with the fingers sliding in and out of myself and felt an orgasm beginning to build up inside me. My insides clenched and rolled in anticipation, and in seconds the orgasm was cresting and crashing over my senses, my ears roaring and my vision clouded with pleasure. I was pulsing around the fingers inside me and had to nearly chew my tongue off to keep from screaming.
Sometime during my pleasure, I’d crumpled to the floor, and when the last ripples of the orgasm slowed, I rolled onto my back, staring up at the ceiling, my hand still underneath my underwear. I panted heavily and my tongue hurt from biting it.
Now what? I thought.