“Naomi’s flaw is not so visible, but I can assure you she has one,” I say, and leave it at that.
Miz Ghita looks Izabel over with the calculated sweep of hard beady eyes—I just hope she doesn’t ask me to prove it, because unlike my brother, I haven’t seen any other part of Izabel’s body to know if there’s anything wrong with it. Maybe I should remedy that later when we go back to the hotel, make Izzy squirm a little, make her regret ever wanting to be a part of this mission—that’ll teach her stubborn ass.
But Miz Ghita is relentless.
“I’m very curious to know what it is,” she says, looking Izabel over once more before her vulture eyes, full of expectation, fall on me—it’s such a petty thing, but for some reason she wants to know and she wants to know now. And I can’t refuse her. It would look suspicious to keep it from her because it’s so petty; and after I just paraded Nora’s missing finger, and admitted to Miz Ghita that I look for flaws in my girls, it would seem as though I’m proud of them, and not to show off the flaw of my ‘favorite’ girl, would seem suspicious. Fuck—what do I say?
“May I show her?” Izabel speaks up, snapping me out of my sudden panicked mind.
I look at Izabel, and she’s looking back at me, sweet-tempered, confident, fearless—more in control of this situation than I clearly am.
Finally I nod and answer, “Yes, Naomi, show Madam Ghita your flaw,” having no idea what it is, and hoping like hell I’m not exhibiting that in my face.
Izabel hands her wine glass to Nora, turns her back to me and says, “If you would unzip me?”
Reluctant for only a moment, I fit my thumb and index finger around the zipper tab and slide it down the center of her back; smooth, tanned skin appears, replacing the white lace fabric of her dress. She’s wearing no bra, no panties—you’ve got to be fucking kidding me; Izzy what are you doing?
Izabel steps out of her dress and turns around to face us, standing stark naked in the middle of the room for all of forty or fifty people to see, and every single pair of eyes, minus the eyes of the servants, turn in attention.
Goddamn she’s beautiful. More stunning than the naked statue of Venus of Arles on our way in, with a waist and hips like an hourglass, average-sized breasts but full and perfect—I can see what my brother sees in her now, I guess. Still doesn’t make Izzy any less of a mouthy bitch though.
Izabel smooths her fingertips over the gunshot scar on her stomach and then meets my eyes before turning her attention to Miz Ghita—my heart sinks, and I swallow a thick dose of guilt and regret because I’m the one who gave her that scar.
“May I explain to Madam Ghita how I came to be scarred?” Izabel asks me in a gentle voice, though hidden within it is a quiet conflict between the two of us: You shot me and you’re a bastard, Niklas. I know, and I’m sorry, Sarai; I’ll always be sorry and I’ll always be a bastard.
Miz Ghita looks right at me, waiting.
“Yes, Naomi,” I say quickly. “Tell her how you got that scar.”
Izabel steps back into her dress and pulls it up, sliding her arms into the thin strap sleeves—everyone watches. “I was shot,” she says, turning her back to me so I can zip her up, “in Los Angeles, California, by a very sick man.” Only I can hear the distaste in her voice, and only I can feel the sting.
Once the zipper is up, I drop my hands from her and she turns back around.
“I see,” says Miz Ghita, looking only at Izabel, wanting to know more. “And what happened to this sick man? Was he…dealt with?”
Without meeting my eyes, Izabel answers, “No, Madam, he is still running free out there somewhere as far as I know. But…I don’t fear him so much anymore”—(I feel her eyes on me, but I don’t look back at her)—“because I have Niklas to protect me.”
Miz Ghita looks between us curiously.
“I suppose it was a good thing,” she tells Izabel, but is looking only at me, “that Mr. Augustin found you.”
I say nothing, and neither does Izabel.
The three of us—minus Nora—turn our heads in attention as a group of women and men emerge from an arched entrance to our left.
Niklas