Инстинкт Зла. Возрожденная. Марина Суржевская

assaulted by a wash of colors, conversations and smells. She hovered by the back of the room, starting when someone pressed a cold glass into her hand.

      “I thought you’d made a run for it.” Mark flashed his own tumbler and raised it to his lips. “Drink up. You’ll feel better.”

      She doubted that very much but did as instructed. She cringed at the burn of the liquid. “Rum and Coke?”

      “Diet Coke. Finish it. It’ll put some hair on your chest.”

      “Not the look I was going for.” She lowered the glass to her waist, happy to at least have something besides her clutch to hold on to. Being empty-handed felt so awkward.

      Mark issued a shrug that told her she could suit herself. Then he leaned forward until his breath was in her ear. “I know this isn’t easy for you. But you should at least pretend you’re enjoying yourself. Do it for Lena.”

      Her gut still tensed at the mention of her sister. “Are you trying to motivate me, or make me feel guilty?”

      He straightened. “Whatever works at this point. You can’t hide in the bathroom. You’re a guest of honor, and it’s undignified. People here are excited about your triumphant return to the spotlight.”

      “I’ve never sought the spotlight,” she said wryly.

      “But the spotlight sure found you, Dr. Perez.”

      Mark Lewis would know about minor celebrity. He’d sought and found it as a young entrepreneur. Now he was a millionaire many times over, and his construction company, Eminence Corp, was poised to break ground on what would become the city’s tallest skyscraper. He lived in a penthouse at the Ritz-Carlton next to some of Boston’s athletic heroes, and he had standing invitations to the most exclusive events in the area.

      All of it fascinated Mia, who had less than no desire to actually live such a life. Growing up the daughter of a father who taught high school and a mother who sold an occasional painting, she hadn’t learned a thing about high-fashion designers, crystal or silver. His was a foreign lifestyle. But since Lena’s murder, she and Mark each understood what the other felt in a way almost no one else in the world could. They’d each lost one of the people they’d loved the most, because before she’d vanished, Mark and Lena had been engaged.

      Mia smoothed a clammy palm down the front of her dress before remembering how much it had cost her. Wouldn’t Lena have loved to see her older sister in a designer gown? Mia must have selected the garment in a weak moment, because when she’d put it on that evening, she’d been appalled to see how the dress she’d convinced herself was tasteful and modest was actually quite sexy. The shimmering steel-blue fabric clung to places her other clothes normally smoothed over, and the slit up the left side was much higher than she’d appreciated at first. She took another sip of her drink, and her face puckered again.

      “You look beautiful,” said Mark. “Try to enjoy yourself.”

      “I am enjoying myself.”

      “And I’m Santa Claus.” With a flick of his wrist, he lifted the drink from her hand and helped himself to a generous gulp. “What can I give you that you’ll actually drink? I need to get you from completely frozen to thawed around the edges before your speech begins.”

      She smiled. Mark wasn’t one of the people who spoke in ellipses, and she’d always appreciated that about him. She touched him lightly on the arm. “I’ll get my own drink. Can I get you a seltzer water?”

      His face soured. “Is that a hint?”

      “We’re both dropping them.”

      She didn’t bother to wait for a response. She’d get him a seltzer with a dash of cranberry juice and a twist of lime. For herself...she didn’t much feel like drinking as she approached the bar, but then she thought of the night ahead, with all of the handshakes and pictures that would be taken. Then she thought of her sister and how there were a hundred reasons Mia would give anything to not be where she was at the moment. When the bartender asked her what she’d have to drink, Mia said, “Vodka tonic.”

      While she waited, she traced her fingernails against the gleaming surface of the bar, admiring the red-and-gold flecks of the wood. Such rich colors, especially when compared to the dull yellow oak desk that sat in her office. She smiled to herself. What was it that Lena had called the desk when Mia first showed it to her? Utilitarian.

      “Beautiful bar.”

      Mia jumped at the masculine voice by her ear, reflexively placing a hand over her heart. Her gaze turned to the left, where Lieutenant Gray Bartlett stood watching her with slight alarm.

      “Sorry,” she said, not sure what she was apologizing for.

      “No, I startled you. I didn’t mean to.” The gentleness of his tone belied the edgy look of his five-o’clock shadow and slick dark hair. “I was just making conversation.”

      Gray regarded her with concern, and annoyance bubbled into her chest. Everyone was so concerned all the time.

      “Don’t mention it,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I was just wondering how this bar would look chopped up and reconstructed into a desk for my office.”

      “Mahogany,” he mused, rubbing long fingers smoothly against the grain. “You have good taste.”

      He didn’t mean it to come across as a compliment, she was sure. He was just being polite, and yet a burning flush crept into Mia’s face and momentarily consumed her breath. “Well, taste is one thing, and ability to pay is another.” She shook her head when she realized she was talking about money with a complete stranger. How tacky. “I’m a professor,” she nearly stammered in her own defense. “Associate professor. I don’t... We don’t earn enough to be able to afford mahogany.”

      He rose to his full height and regarded her with dark, stormy eyes. Gray eyes. How funny that they matched his name. “I know, Dr. Perez. I have your business card, remember? And now I know all about you.”

      She was sure he noticed her entire body burning under the intensity of his gaze. The bartender placed her drink in front of her, and she reached for it gratefully, hoping Gray didn’t notice the tremor in her fingers. “A lot of women might find that kind of statement creepy, you know.”

      “I would think you’d be flattered that I’d bothered to read the program,” he said. “Your picture is in it. So is your biography.”

      Of course they were. Because that was what happened when a prominent nonprofit honored you with an award. “Right. Well, now you know that I haven’t bothered to read the program. Don’t tell anyone.” She gripped the tumbler in one hand and wiped the other palm down the side of her dress, again forgetting that this was expensive fabric, not made for hand wiping. “I should get back to my friend.”

      He turned his head to toss a glance in Mark’s direction. “Your boyfriend?”

      “What? No. More like a brother. He was Lena’s fiancé.” As if being a hot cop entitled him to an explanation.

      He didn’t move to the side to allow Mia to pass. “The Nelson Seaver Award,” he murmured. “That must be for your work for the Boston P.D., correct?”

      The Seaver Award was given by the Boston Victims’ Rights Coalition at their annual awards night to recognize excellence in law enforcement on behalf of victims. “Yes. Like I’ve told you before, I’ve helped with quite a few cold cases.”

      “Ironic that you’ve helped so many victims’ families find their justice, and no one’s helped you find yours.”

      She halted, unsure of where he was going. “I don’t believe that meets the definition of irony, no.”

      His mouth tightened into a small smile. “Charming. Tell me, is this how all child prodigies are? Always the smartest person in the room? Fine, then, it’s not ironic. But it’s unfortunate that you don’t have an answer.”

      “These