House of Cards. C.E. Murphy

pleasantry back into the conversation before it soured too much. “It’s a date, then. Or not, as the case may be.”

      Tony hesitated a barely noticeable moment before responding in kind. “Great. I sent a courier over with the invitation—”

      “I got it a few minutes ago. Hadn’t opened it yet.”

      “Good. I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

      “I look forward to it,” Margrit said, and hung up the phone with a silent chastisement. There were things Alban could never offer her, just as Tony couldn’t spread wings and fly with her above the city. Tony was solid and reliable, and when something came through from him, it was tangible: evenings out, time spent together, and in this case, a deliberate attempt to help her career. That was selfless, especially considering the ease with which they argued over her job. There were things to be said for the ordinary. It would stand her well to remember that.

      The memory of a kiss, stolen in the midst of flight, heated her skin and made Margrit knot her fingers around her phone. Alban’s body playing under hers as muscle bunched and stretched, bringing them in leaps from danger into safety. The sting of air imploding against her skin as he shifted from one form to another, becoming more and less than a man within the compass of her arms. There was nothing ordinary in those memories, and the ache of desire they brought didn’t belong in the workplace. Margrit caught her breath and spat out a “Dammit!” that did nothing to relieve the pulse of need that had caught her off guard.

      “Margrit?” A coworker’s concerned face appeared over the edge of her cubicle.

      Margrit put on a smile. “Sorry. I’m fine.”

      “It’s okay. Hey, have you finished the paperwork on the Carley case?” He tapped his finger nervously on the cubicle’s metal frame and Margrit started, shaking her head at the reminder.

      “Sorry, no.” She dug the files she needed from below a stack of papers. “I’ll have it to you by five.”

      “Thanks.” He beat the flat of his fingers against the cubicle edge twice, then scurried off. Margrit tucked an errant curl behind her ear and moved the files again, hunting for the courier package and the evening’s agenda. A moment’s search told her the soiree was at eight. Plenty of time to go home after work, get a snack and find something appropriate to wear to a high-society function.

      She puffed her cheeks out and exhaled noisily. Plenty of time. The only problem was squeezing in a dragonlord who wouldn’t take no for an answer.

      Janx was not going to kill her. Margrit smoothed a hand over her stomach, the nubbly silken fabric there sending a wave of chills up her arm. Janx was not going to kill her for the same reason Daisani wouldn’t: she was useful to him. Especially to Janx, because she owed him two favors of incalculable size. At worst, he would be irritated.

      At worst. Margrit’s stomach flip-flopped, another shiver washing over her. At worst, a man whose presence could eat up all the air in a room would be irritated with her. At worst she’d annoyed someone who considered her life to be an amusing trinket to play with.

      She hadn’t left work on time, research for the Carley case turning out to be more time-consuming than she’d expected. Then she’d found a deep stain on the dress she’d intended to wear, wine discoloring creamy velvet. Margrit had stood over the dress for long moments, too frustrated to move on. Finally she’d called, “Cameron?”

      Her housemate, clad in a T-shirt and workout shorts that showed long legs and a dramatically scarred shin to great advantage, appeared at the bedroom door. “What’s up?”

      “Do you have anything I could wear to a posh reception at the Sherry-Netherland?” Margrit expected the laughing response. The other woman was eight inches taller and had a fashion model’s slender build, in contrast to Margrit’s hourglass curves. “I need a dress by eight.”

      “Nobody expects you to be on time,” Cameron said airily. “Get shoes, put your hair up and we’ll hit Prada.”

      “You’ve got a lot of faith in my credit line.”

      “Well, you can’t go to the Sherry in something less,” Cam said pragmatically. “Fear not. I’m the world’s most efficient shopper. We’ll be out of there in twenty minutes. Get your shoes.”

      Margrit got her shoes and Cam proclaimed them capable of going with anything, then hauled her across town to a boutique fashion shop. In the space of three minutes, she dismissed everything Margrit’s eye landed on, instead settling on a white, knee-length raw silk dress. The saleswoman, whose expression on their arrival had indicated it was too close to quitting time to have to deal with customers, looked startled, then approving. Margrit fingered the dress gingerly, its long, off-the-shoulder sleeves and straight neckline unexciting to her eye. “Are you sure it’s dressy enough?”

      “I’m certain. Trust me on this, Grit. You’re going to be overwhelmingly understated. Put it on and see if I’m right.”

      And she had been. The dress snugged against Margrit’s curves as if it’d been made for her, a six-inch kick pleat behind the knee allowing her room to walk despite the hip-and-thigh-hugging fit. Margrit pinned her hair up before leaving the dressing room, letting a few corkscrew curls fall down her back, and came out with a guilty smile. “You were right.”

      “I’m a genius,” Cameron said with satisfaction.

      Margrit ran her fingers over the raw silk, tempted but still hesitant. “You sure I shouldn’t just go for basic black?”

      “You should never wear black.” Cam put a fingertip against Margrit’s bare shoulder, leaving a white mark against cafe-latte skin when she released the pressure. “Not with skin tones like that. You’ve got drama inherent in your coloring. Crimson and cream, that’s what you should wear.”

      “I have a lot of those in my wardrobe,” Margrit admitted. “I always thought of them as being battle colors, though, not playing up my skin.”

      “Really.” Cameron’s eyebrows quirked, a smile darting into place. “You have a lot of wars to fight, Margrit?”

      “Against the man, every day, sistah.” Margrit made a fist and thrust it toward the sky. Cameron laughed then Cam caught Margit’s hand to study the slight point the dress’s long sleeve came to over Margrit’s wrist.

      “You need a ring. How much time do we have?” She looked for a clock, then clucked her tongue. “I know a great costume jewelry place a couple blocks from here. Let’s pay for this and go.”

      “I like how you say that like we’re both paying for it. It’s seven-thirty,” Margrit said in despair. “I’ll be late.”

      “Nobody expects you to be on time,” Cameron repeated. “And we are both paying for it. See?” She ushered Margrit to the saleswoman and handed over Margrit’s credit card as if it were her own. “You’ll show up at eight-thirty and make an entrance. It’s what all the stars would do.”

      And it was what she had done. The evening had passed in an exhausting, exciting blur. Margrit proved a terrible New Yorker, blushing and stuttering at coming face-to-face with a handful of genuine celebrities. Tony caught her once, his wink making her blush harder.

      He could have been a celebrity himself, wearing a tuxedo that made his shoulders a dark block of strength, as if he’d stepped out of a Bond film. Genuine delight had lit his eyes when Governor Stanton, arriving without his wife, had squired Margrit around the room for half an hour, making introductions.

      She liked the tall, unhandsome politician, their camaraderie genuine. They’d greeted Mayor Leighton together, Margrit focusing hard not to wipe her hand on her dress after she extracted her fingers from his clammy grip. Stanton had pursed his mouth curiously at her expression, but said nothing, his silence conveying a subtle sense of agreement with her feelings toward the mayor.

      He introduced her to Kaimana Kaaiai before excusing himself. The philanthropist struck her as Daisani’s