Page 92 of A Shade of Myself
Hundreds of tiny white lights had been strung up along the pillars and under the canopy of the long patio along the edge of the Grand Canal. Water lapped gently at the deck’s pilings, mingling with the sounds of rapid-fire conversations in a half dozen languages and the pianist in one corner striking up a lively tune.
Look at me up past midnight. Sure, it was still afternoon in Vancouver, but I was here and that’s what counted.
The patio was packed so I unobtrusively planted myself off to the side, remaining hidden. Initially, the different groups of people seemed like any you’d find at a party, but there were far more men than women. The men dominated the floor with the women relegated to one side, like at a middle school dance.
I couldn’t see anyone who resembled Giselle, but since I had only glimpses of the women from where I stood, I made my way over to their area careful not to bump into anyone.
A pattern emerged among the men’s groups. For every two or three men who were engaged in conversation, there were four more flanking them—no, covering them like backup. No one’s smiles reached their eyes.
They reminded me of sharks. Were these people vampires? They certainly had that same lethal predator vibe.
I discarded that idea because waiters circulated with hors d’oeuvres, which were being eaten by most of the crowd. Also, there was a disproportionate number of men either openly wearing crosses or with them tattooed on their forearms. Especially the men speaking either Italian or Slavic languages.
One man to my left, wearing a pinkie ring with a diamond that almost blinded me, raised a glass. “A la famiglia!”
A corpulent man with a cigar clamped in his mouth clinked his highball glass and toasted back in Russian.
Family?
I gasped, slapping my hand over my mouth. These were mafioso. My shock deepened when I saw Giselle.
Our client stood in profile chatting with two older women drenched in gold jewelry, but there was no mistaking her light brown hair, lithe dancer’s body, or perfect posture. Had Yoshi been unable to find Aurora and mistakenly gotten Giselle instead? What was she doing in Italy with this crowd?
Checking thoroughly that no one was paying any attention to me, I dropped my cloaking and intercepted her on the way to the bar. “Giselle?”
She turned with a brittle smile. “I think you have me confused with someone else.”
I rocked back on my heels, my mouth hanging open. Aurora and Giselle weren’t just sisters, they were identical twins. Almost identical. This woman was Giselle’s doppelganger, except she had a tiny birthmark on her right cheek. A handy visual to tell them apart.
“Aurora?” I said.
The woman shook her head. “That’s not me.” Her velvet off-the-shoulder dress and chignon were elegant, but her fingers were bitten to the quick and her eyes looked haunted.
I put out a hand to keep her from leaving. “Listen to me, please. I realize this sounds crazy, but your real name is Aurora Mueller.”
She gave a tiny head shake and took a step back. “You have the wrong person.”
“No, I don’t. Look, if you would just come with me for five minutes. Just to the lobby. I can explain.”
“My fiancé, Edvin, is waiting.”
“But—”
A security guard appeared at her side. “Signorina Lotta, are you okay?”
Lotta?
“I’m fine, Antonio,” she said, “but I’d like Edvin to take me home.”
“Certamente. I’ll have the boat brought round.” Wow. Okay.
The guard placed a hand under my elbow but there was nothing courtly about it.
Practically hauled off, I glanced back in frustration.
Lotta joined a blond man, whose back was to me. While she spoke to him with flustered gestures, he rubbed between her shoulders as if to calm her.
The guard kept his hold on me until we reached the lobby. “Leave Signorina Lotta alone.”
