Page 13 of Devil In A Suit, Vol. 3

Chapter 8

Over the past two weeks, I’ve begin to grow accustomed to Jared’s extravagances. He may be a creature of habit, wearing the same designer suits each day, eating the same breakfast each morning, but when it comes to those around him, it turns out that that’s where his money goes.

It started with the key to his apartment on a Tiffany keychain. Then I noticed a drawer full of lingerie from Délicat appeared in his bedroom dresser. His fridge and pantry was soon stocked with my favorite snacks, books on me reading list appearing on the bedside table. There was even a new iPad engraved with my name for me to work on. I was starting to suspect he was trying to get me to move in without actually asking the question.

But this? This is by the far the most incredible thing anyone has every given to me.

It’s a Monique Lhullier gown, special ordered and fitted to my exact measurements. The dress is a heavy silk in fire engine red with a strapless, straight across neckline. It has a slim mermaid silhouette that hugs my hips down to a wide bell skirt. It has asymmetrical draping across the bodice and skirt, with a magenta silk accents peeking out around the bottom.

“This is too much,” I whisper, staring at my reflection in the mirror. Jared appears behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. He already shaved and ready to go, looking very James Bond in an impeccably tailored tuxedo.

“But you said you didn’t have anything to wear,” he says.

“I meant I was going to have to rent something,” I say, running my hands over the heavy silk around my hips.

He steps back. “You were going to rent a dress? Like teenage boys do for the prom?”

“I didn’t realize teenage boys were in the habit of renting dresses,” I reply with a smile.

“Look, I could return it, but frankly I think that would be mean to the dress. No one is going to ever look as good as you wearing it, and that’s just not fair,” he says. He glances at his watch. “We’ve got to get going. The limo will be waiting.”

Tonight is the night of the King Foundation benefit. Jared asked me to accompany him just after the dinner with my parents. I asked him if it would cause a scene bringing an employee as his date — and a fairly junior employee at that — but he brushed me off and told me he couldn’t imagine going with anyone else.

In the limo, Jared wastes no time putting his lips on mine. His hand snakes up to the back of my neck, careful not to muss my hair, which is pinned in a loose knot at the nape of my neck. Still, his lips and tongue are urgent, and I have to remind him that our ride is only five minutes long.

“I can ask the driver to circle the block,” he murmurs into my mouth.

“Maybe on the way home,” I tell him, though every part of me wants to acquiesce.

“Fine, fine,” he grumbles, though there’s a spark in his eye. He takes my hand and threads his fingers through mine, and we ride like that the rest of the way.

The event is being held at the Fairmont Copley Plaza in the Grand Ballroom. Those words might conjure up an image, but nothing I imagined could compare to the sight when I walked in on Jared King’s arm. The wood floor is polished to an impossible shine that only just competes with the gilded accents on the pristine white walls. Gold chairs surround banquet tables topped with elegant ivory linens, silver and crystal and white bone china. A full jazz band in white dinner jackets is arranged on a low stage playing jazz and swing standards. Waiters and busboys in black tuxedos weave through the crowd carrying delicate, bite-sized food on gleaming silver trays.

The room is already filled with the cream of the crop of Boston business and society. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a Kennedy or two in the crowd. All the men are in designer tuxedos, the women in a veritable jewelry box of brightly colored silk and brocade, lace and satin, their necks and arms and ears dripping with priceless jewels.

“This is like a fairy tale,” I whisper.

“Then I guess that makes you my princess,” Jared replies, and all my nerves melt away.

As a waiter passes by, Jared plucks two glasses of champagne from his tray, passing one to me. We clink glasses and take sips. And then I spot him.

“Your father is here,” I say, gesturing to an otherwise empty banquet table in the corner, where the elder Mr. King is seated swirling something dark brown in a cocktail glass.

Jared’s gaze follows mine until he sees him, and then everything in him goes tense. “Damn. I was hoping he wouldn’t show up.”

“I’m sure he’s here for your mother.”

“You don’t know my father,” Jared replies. “He only ever does anything for himself.”

“That can’t be true.”

“He’s never given me any indication otherwise. The man acts like she was never alive to begin with. Like he has no memory of her at all,” he practically spits. He downs the rest of his champagne, depositing the empty glass on a passing tray. Then he holds out his arm to me. “Please, let’s forget about him and have a good time.”

With a final glance across the ballroom, I notice that Mr. King looks like he’s not having a particularly good time. But Jared seems determined to muscle past whatever stands between him and his father, and I decide to agree with him.

We spend the rest of the evening mingling with various luminaries. I trade stock tips with the Mayor, discuss higher education funding with the President of Harvard, and even get an autograph for my dad from a Boston Bruin.

But all the while I keep my eye on both Jared and his father. Mr. King, though he does make the rounds through the crowd, never seems able to relax at all. And while his son is much more adept at pretending, I can tell that he can’t unwind either. I also notice that each manages to keep the other squarely in sight, checking in their whereabouts throughout the evening. For two people who seem intent on ignoring one another, they sure can’t seem to forget the other.