Page 44 of X: Command Me through Alexander’s Eyes

It’s a ruse. It has to be. Pepper has two settings as far as I can tell: simpering sycophant and raging bitch. But they will eventually meet, and, at least, I can control the encounter here. Another time and place, I may not be so lucky.

“Behave,” I order.

“I just want to meet the woman who finally captured your heart.”

I cast a warning glare at her. “Don’t try so hard to sell your act. It makes it easier to see through.”

Clara’s toasting with her black-haired friend—the one I don’t know—as we approach. She hesitates, glass at her lips, body going still. Can she feel that too? The invisible thread linking us. She’s tugging on her end now, calling me to her. I can’t resist the pull—I don’t want to.

“Clara,” I say in a low voice as I step behind her. “I see you found a drink.”

She spins around, startled, champagne spilling from her flute onto Pepper’s dress. I fight the urge to laugh and win—but only barely.

“I’m so sorry!” She looks horrified, nearly dropping the glass as she tries to find a way to help Pepper mop it up.

Pepper shakes her head, plastering a smile on her face, but her eyes stay on the ruined fabric. “Don’t worry about it.”

Their eyes meet, and I wonder what they see. The two couldn’t be more different. Pepper is tall and blonde and spends so much time at the gym it’s practically her career. She wears her sexuality like a beacon. It’s a siren song she howls at all times, and God help the poor bastards that fall victim to its lure. Clara, on the other hand, with her curvy body and dark hair, has no idea how sexy she is. She knows she’s pretty. She’s not exactly confident, though. She doesn’t need every eye to turn when she walks into the room. I suspect she doesn’t want that kind of attention. But any man who catches sight of her wants her. I know that. I’ve caught their stares this evening.

“Clara, may I introduce you to an old family friend, Pepper Lockwood?” I say stiffly, placing as much emphasis on friend as possible—and hoping they both get the message.

She smiles, obviously a little lost as to what to say, and before she can think of it, Pepper leans forward to kiss her cheek.

“It’s nice to meet you, and I am so sorry.” Clara is flustered, and I can’t blame her. Surely, she senses the venom behind Pepper’s greeting.

“It’s just a dress,” Pepper whispers like they’re old friends. I don’t catch what she says next.

Clara laughs, her body relaxing. Whatever Pepper said has lowered her guard. I shoot a pointed glare at my old friend.

This sham introduction is over, and she needs to move on. Pepper’s eyes widen, but she collects herself quickly. “I should be going. I brought a date, and I’ve lost him.”

Clara looks like she understands this a bit too well. She’s in good hands, though, and no one will protect her as fiercely as her best friend.

This is good because it’s time for Pepper and me to have a little chat. I brush a kiss over Clara’s cheek and murmur a reassurance before steering Pepper away from her.

“I behaved myself,” Pepper hisses when we’re a safe distance from Clara and her friends.

“I wasn’t going to stick around to see how long that would last,” I say, dropping my hold on her elbow.

I start to turn, eager to be rid of her, when she blurts out, “So, how long have you known about Albert and me?”

“I’m not sure this is the place to discuss this,” I say through clenched teeth.

“We could meet up. For coffee? Dinner?” she suggests.

“I’m fully booked,” I say coldly. But there are things I want to say—need to say to her. Now is my best opportunity to do that without winding up with photos splashed all over the tabloids again. “And we both know that you’re just hoping to make the front page again.”

“We’re news. I can’t help that,” she says, blinking as though she disdains the spotlight.

I’m news. I always have been. Looking back, I can’t remember how Pepper became so close to my sister. Did she crave the attention even as a child? Was she groomed to seek famous friends? Knowing her mother, that seems a possibility. There’s really not much I know about her at all. She’s like a heat-seeking missile that’s been tuned into my family’s frequency. Or, at least, the frequency of money.

“Let’s have a drink now,” I say, nodding toward the bar.

Her chest puffs out, her chin tilts, nose sticking up in the air. She thinks she’s won this round. Maybe she has, but losing one round might make all the difference in figuring out what she’s really after.

“Two martinis,” she says to the bartender.

I frown. “One martini—and a Scotch for me.”