Just Like Her

Chapter 29

Emma

I could still feel his moist lips pressed against the knuckles of my right hand, and it took all of my will power not to outwardly cringe at the lingering sensation. I nearly jumped out of my skin when I felt sudden pressure on my lower back, but my shoulders must have visibly sunk in relief when I realized it was Cynthia by my side, her one hand nudging me slightly into her and the other thrusting itself into Lord Whatever-His-Name's face.

While I had expected to be scrutinized and evaluated by those in attendance, the way the couple's eyes roamed over my body felt much more carnal than I had been anticipating.

I allowed myself to take a quarter step into Cynthia and forced myself to smile at whatever the Lord had said to make her laugh.

"The elusive Emma Henderson," the lady smirked, still eyeing me.

"I'd hardly call myself elusive," I managed to counter with a tight smile.

"Ah yes," she said, her lips pulling wider to show two perfectly straight rows of pearly white teeth. "A columnist."

"Book reviewer," Cynthia cheerfully corrected before turning to me and explaining in a conspiratorial tone that Lord and Lady Shelby were recurring and incredibly benevolent donors to the foundation.

I attempted to care—or at the very least give off the appearance of caring—and to not focus on the still lingering feeling of wetness across the backs of my fingers.

At some point, Lady Shelby spotted another marked person in the crowd to ambush. As the couple excused themselves, I expected Cynthia to step back and for her hand to drop—but she didn't and, instead, her hand moved up my spine to rest between my shoulder blades. Suddenly we were set upon by a new posse of people, and Cynthia led the introductions with ease.

In fact, she led nearly every conversation thereafter. I was impressed not only by her ability to remember so many names and faces, but also the personal details and shared acquaintances that went with each. By my reckoning, she steered each interaction in the exact direction she wanted it: away from me and the tabloids and always, inevitably, toward the foundation and the financial needs of its ever-growing portfolio of charitable projects.

She would allow one or two questions about my work or personal background—just enough, I realized, to give the impression of my being a reputable partner for the CEO of a multinational charity—and then smoothly transition us to more pragmatic talking points.

At some point, a tuxedoed waiter had come by with flutes of fizzing champagne. While I desperately wanted a drink, I was hesitant to reach out for one and risk looking too eager. Images from that night in the bar flashed in my mind, particularly the photos captured by the paparazzi of my top torn open and my lace bra exposed...

My mind cleared as I felt Cynthia press the stem of a flute into my hand. She was laughing over the rim of her own before taking a delicate sip. I smiled gratefully at her and did my best to mirror her movements.

By the fourth or fifth set of introductions—I had stopped counting after the third—Cynthia noticed I had emptied my glass. Taking one final swig and draining the last of hers, she excused us to the bar.

"Christ, Emma!" She exclaimed in a whisper as she squeezed my elbow, inadvertently pinching my soft skin between her claw-like nails. "You're a natural at this!"

"All I've done is smile and nod my head every once in a while..."

"Yes, and you're brilliant at it!" she cheered with another enthusiastic squeeze.