I’ve never seen an albino before. I’m pretty sure that even among albinos, his total lack of color is rare. Human skin just doesn’t come in that shade. Good thing he’s not human.
He stands leaning on the edge of the round booth. He’s the guy who doesn’t quite belong. His laugh starts with a half-second lag as if he’s waiting for the cue from the rest of the guys. All the women skirt around him, careful not to get too close. He is the only one without a girl draped over him. He watches them prowling by but doesn’t reach out to any of them. There’s something about the other women avoiding him that makes me want to avoid him too.
“I need you to go over there and get his attention,” whispers Raffe. Great. I should have known. “Get him to follow you to the men’s room.”
“Are you kidding? How am I supposed to do that?”
“You’re resourceful.” His eyes roam over my tight dress. “You’ll think of something.”
“What happens in the bathroom if I get him there?” I keep my voice as low as I can. I figure if I’m loud enough for the others to hear over the roar of the club, Raffe will surely let me know.
“We convince him to help us.” He sounds grim. He doesn’t sound like he believes our chances of convincing him are great.
“What happens if he says no?”
“Game over. Mission abort.”
I probably look the way the brunette did when he told her to go away. I look at him long enough to give him a chance to say he’s joking. But there is no humor in his eyes. Why did I know that would be the case?
I nod. “I’ll get him to the bathroom. You do whatever it takes to get him to say yes.”
I push away from the wall and step out of the shadows, target in my sights.
CHAPTER 30
I’m not an actress and I suck at lying. I am also far from being a seductress. It’s hard to practice the art of seduction when you’re always pushing your kid sister around in her wheelchair. Not to mention that daily jeans and baggy sweatshirt do not a seductress make.
My mind spins, grasping for ways to get the albino’s attention. Nothing comes to mind.
I take the long way around the lounge, hoping to think of something.
Across the club, a small entourage of women and guards makes its way toward the warriors. They follow in the wake of an angel who has almost the beauty of the warriors with just enough normalcy to his looks to make him non-threatening. He’s good-looking without being intimidating. Toffee hair, warm eyes, with a nose that’s a touch big for his otherwise perfect face. This one is all smiles and friendliness, a born politician.
He wears a gray suit circa 1920s with polished shoes and a golden watch chain looping from his waist to his vest pocket. He pauses here and there to exchange a word or two of greeting. His voice is as warm as his eyes, as friendly as his smile. Everyone smiles back at him.
Everyone but the two women who flank him. They stand a step behind on either side of him. Dressed identically in silver dresses that pool on the floor at their feet, they are matching platinum trophies. They’re human, but their eyes are dead. The only time any life comes into them is when the Politician glances toward them.
Fear flares in their eyes before it is squelched, as if showing their fear would invite something truly frightening. I can almost see the trembling of their muscles as they tense to keep from cringing from the Politician.
These women aren’t just afraid of him. They are screaming-on-the-inside terrified.
I take another look at the smiling angel but see nothing but friendliness and sincerity. If I hadn’t noticed the women’s reactions to him, I would have thought he was best friend material. In a world where instincts matter more than ever, there’s something very wrong about not being able to directly detect the person that these women know him to be.
Because of the circular flow of the club, the Politician and I walk toward each other as we near the warriors’ booth.
He looks up and catches me watching him.
Interest lights up his face and he shoots me a smile. There’s so much open friendliness in that smile that my lips automatically curve up a split second before alarms go off in my head.
The Politician has noticed me.
An image of me dressed as one of his trophy girls flashes through my mind. My face waxy and empty, desperately trying to hide the terror.
What are these women so afraid of?
My step falters as if my feet refuse to get closer to him.
A waiter in a tux and white gloves steps in front of me, breaking the eye contact between me and the Politician. He offers flutes of bubbly champagne on his tray.
To stall, I take one. I focus on the rising bubbles in the golden liquid to center myself. The waiter turns and I catch a glimpse of the Politician.
He leans into the warriors’ table and talks in a low tone.
I let out a sigh of relief. Our moment has passed.
“Thank you,” I murmur to the waiter with great relief.