Page 80 of Edge of Stars

No wonder my poor buddy is still sweeping the floor with his own scruff, which heightens my gratitude for his mature move the next moment.

“What I think she’s trying to say is that the show must go on, you guys. At least if we want to flush the right guest out of the target audience.”

“Thanks, man,” I say. “Though with these two leading the way with these fashion statements, I’m sure our show is about to hit much bigger than this circus tent.”

“That’d be the general goal,” Kell says, curling a hand to Jesse’s shoulder and rubbing as she leans in. “Why do you think we were tittering like naughty peahens?”

Against the don’t-do-it screams of my self-control, Jesse and I do a tandem eyebrow dance. He ends it all too fast to swing a worshiping look up at his brunette companion.

“You two don’t look like peahens.”

Just when I think Kell’s going to take her answering swoon even further, she yanks back and braces into a runway-ready pose. “Then that must mean it’s time to channel the inner egrets.” With another half-inch of confidence from that defined Valari jaw, she directs her attention back our way. “You two ready to do this?”

As Kara nods, she reaches for my hand. She takes a long breath, her air as shivery as her fingers, but her smile is steady. She sets her head higher, readying for the camera flash explosion that assaults us as soon as Kell pulls on the door that opens onto the pool deck.

Sure enough, there are the twenty tuxedoed waiters with their lupin-garnished hors d’oeuvres trays. The pool, a sparkling sprawl bested only by the vast sea beyond, is enhanced by a constellation of floating candles. Crowded around it are about a hundred people, dressed shockingly formal despite our exhortation on the email invitation that nobody needed to worry about attire. But the girls warned Jesse and me that the media wouldn’t listen. When the most bizarre Hollywood story of the season is about to be explained in one of the world’s most glamorous destinations, everyone in town grabs the emergency formal wear from the back of the closet.

“Here we go, crew,” Jesse murmurs as Kara and I continue to wave, smile, switch our angles, and repeat. “Cue the highfliers in Speedos and the pretty ladies on tightropes.”

“Damn,” Kell softly quips in return. “Right when I thought it was okay to leave the calliope at home.”

“Doesn’t matter. They showed up anyway. Now we have to hope the box office returns our investment.”

I pivot long enough to toss my friend an affirming look. He’s spoken a lot of truths today and tonight, but none so searingly accurate—or scarily important—as that one.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

KARA

“Kalispera, everyone.”

I’m shocked by the composure lining my voice, considering the number of flashbulbs still throwing off the edges of my equilibrium. Though I’ve been through the strobe parade before, it’s never an experience someone gets used to. Except, perhaps, my mother or the White House Press Secretary.

Mother.

I blink frantically, hiding my twinge of torment by expanding my smile. Weakness isn’t an option. And borrowing those perfect words from the Veronica Valari bible, making myself a perfect apostle of her ultimate ministry. The image. The impression.

Don’t fuck with us. We’re the Valaris.

But apostles also know when to pray. And this entire minute is mine. I plead to whatever power there is, with every strand of stamina I can spare, for a power that my abilities don’t cover. The magical muscles that only this throng can wield for us.

Global communication.

The flashbulb barrage calms to a dull roar, making it possible for me to speak again. The resort here on Plaka Beach has thought to provide a microphone on a stand, but I hope I don’t have to use it. This might be the strangest circus on earth right now, but it has to be one with heart and sincerity.

“Good evening, everyone,” I say, repeating the greeting in English. “Thank you for dropping your lives and flying out here, to Elounda, Greece, to be with us. Maximus and I”—it’s a perfect place to pause, making sure they properly note our location as well as my kittenish grin—“or should I say my husband and I, are floored by how many of you made it in such a short time.”

A spatter of applause follows, though everyone’s generating the sound around their holds on champagne glasses, so the sound isn’t ripping the air apart. It’s easy enough for someone at the far end of the pool to shout out and be heard.

“Don’t think anyone’s calling this a sacrifice, Mr. and Mrs. Kane.”

There’s the one that gets some louder claps, though a reporter near the front with a Radio France identifier box is fast on the draw for a follow-up.

“Is it?” she asks. “Mr. and Mrs. Kane? Were the nuptials actually commemorated before the storm bore down?”

“Affirmative.” As Maximus states it with alpha-style emphasis, the group laughs. “If they weren’t, do you guys think we’d let a stupid little squall stop the ceremony?”

“A little blast that nearly took the roof off the place,” reminds someone else from down front. “And, as many initially thought, made off with you two, as well.”