This isn't weird.

Name Your Price

Millie ran as if she were being chased, not even stopping to apologize to the indignant strangers whose shoulders she bumped as she barrelled past. Why were there so many fucking people here? Were there really this many people obsessed with that stupid fucking book? She stumbled and shoved and weaved her way through the crowd, until at last, the door was in sight. Throwing it open, she burst out onto the street and into the rain with a gasp of relief, but just as she began to slow, she felt a firm hand grasp her shoulder.

"Fuck off, Noah!" she shouted, whirling around, but it wasn't Noah who stood before her. It was a woman—a beautiful woman—impeccably dressed in a tight, double breasted coat and heels, with a black umbrella resting against her shoulder with a preposterous amount of poise. She looked as if she had just stepped off of a movie set after a long day of playing the part of a sexy, high-powered business woman running a multimillion dollar fashion empire—in Paris, probably.

Confusion froze Millie in her tracks, and she stared at the stranger, openmouthed.

"Get out of the rain," the woman said flatly. Her voice was as chic as her appearance, sultry and low and carefully enunciated. "You'll catch your death." She flashed Millie a long-suffering look, taking her arm and tugging her beneath the umbrella, then she ushered her across the street, beneath the shelter of a covered bus stop. There, she closed her umbrella, giving it a brief shake before propping it against the plexiglass side of the enclosure and taking a seat on the bench. Posture rigid and ankles prettily crossed, she rummaged through her expensive-looking purse. "Do you smoke?" she asked without looking up.

"No," Millie replied.

"Neither do I." The woman produced a box of cigarettes, tapping it briskly against her wrist with the practiced fluidity of an experienced smoker. She slid a cigarette out with two fingers and placed it between her lips, then tucked the box back into her bag in exchange for a silver Zippo. A subtle thrust of her wrist flipped open the lid in an equally practiced motion, but when she raised it to the tip of her cigarette and flicked the wheel, it sparked and sputtered ineffectually. After three more failed attempts, Millie sat reluctantly down next to her and took the lighter, holding one hand up against the biting wind before giving it a flick. A little flame flickered to life, and as she flipped the top closed, the mentholated smoke from the woman's next exhale made her stomach queasy.

"You won't tell, will you?" the woman said, gesturing toward her cigarette.

"Tell who?" Millie asked.

"My husband."

"Ah." Millie looked away. "He doesn't know?"

"Heavens, no."

They were silent for a long moment, Millie staring through the wall of rain at nothing in particular as the smoke curled and filled their little shelter. "You're her, then?"

"I suppose I am. Rebecca Wexler. And you must be Camilla?"

"I prefer Millie."

"Hm. Cute. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Millie."

"Is it?"

"I suppose that remains to be seen."

Swallowing, Millie slowly turned her head to look the woman over. It must have been an easy choice for Noah to make. She was gorgeous, in a polished, glamorous, old Hollywood way. Even beneath the darkness of a stormy sky, her black hair seemed to catch sunlight that wasn't there, as if someone was standing just off screen, holding a ring light over her glossy tresses. It curled a little in the humidity, but they were sleek, weightless curls. The crimson stain on her lips couldn't be natural, but she made it look as if she were born with it, and seeing those dark, heavy-lidded eyes fixed on her own face, even Millie couldn't help feeling a slight flutter in her stomach.