Desire & Blood - The Thorne Siblings

6. Curiosity Tends to Kill the Cat

Thomas Thorne had left the stage, and two stagehands carried away the lectern. The illumination changed, focusing on three women stepping onto the podium, two of them clad in white overalls while the other one's was black. They stood in a pool of harsh light, still as statues, each one facing the center of the triangle they formed. Then they started to move in a pantomime, slowly circling, eyeing each other, hands held up defensively—all of it in heavy silence.

Three distrustful creatures, two of them Whites, one Black. I wondered what they were about to do and what they stood for. There had to be some meaning.

Quite a stilted performance for a company event.

I was still mulling over Thomas Thorne's words. "What a speech," I said, sipping from a glass of champagne while watching the actors.

"Yes, what a speech," Camille replied. "Thierry has such a sense of humor and wit."

I scoffed. "I was talking about Thomas Thorne, not about your Thierry."

"Ah." She shrugged.

One of the Whites moved in on Black, touching, caressing her tentatively. The other White froze and watched. The touching grew more confident, and Black caressed back. A white-gloved hand moved along Black's body, from her knee up to her shoulder. White's fingers explored, along the way, while Black moved into the touch, offering herself to it, her eyes on White, her lips parted.

There was nothing indecent there, yet the scene was acutely sensual, erotic.

I tore my gaze away from the stage, wondering if others found it as arousing as I did. But most of the people were chatting or busy stuffing themselves with food and alcohol. Camille was eyeing the crowd, moving her head like a submarine's periscope seeking out friends and enemies.

My eyes were drawn back to the actors. The first White continued to explore Black's body—her breasts and then her face until, suddenly, she pushed Black away, sending her stumbling. Black fell and coiled up on the floor. Now the two Whites faced each other, arms angled, ready to strike, circling.

Yet slowly, the language of the Whites' bodies changed. They relaxed, bent their heads, and closed in until their foreheads touched.

I didn't get what it was about—some love triangle, maybe. Way too artsy for me. Yet seeing the black one on the floor, drawn into a tight ball of misery, while the others were now standing above her, arms linked, just watching her, made my throat constrict. I felt sorry for her.

The light on the stage was switched off, then a curtain like a giant's veil fell from the ceiling, making the scene disappear.

Some people were clapping, breaking the spell of the final scene. I joined.

Drumbeats washed over from the other end of the hall, some disco tune from the 80s. An unwelcome, almost jarring contrast to the beauty of the silent acting.

My glass was empty.

Camille was still scanning the crowd.

"Camille," I said, "are you looking for someone?" Her inattention to the acting irked me. Blame it on the alcohol, but I felt like teasing her on her eagerness to hook Thierry Thorne.

"Yes, I'm still looking for the Thornes. I saw Theresa, a moment ago, over there." She waved at a melee of people laying siege to a falafel stand. "But her brother wasn't with her."

"Maybe he has snatched himself some female TCorpses and is now busy doing... unholy things to them." TCorpse was our code for any employee of TCorp.

Sandra touched Camille's shoulder. "You know that Thierry isn't the only male in here, don't you? That guy from payroll, the one you talked to just before... Jake... he keeps staring at you."

Camille sighed.

Bob materialized at my side and nudged me with an elbow. "You're obviously not that infatuated with Thierry Thorne, are you?"

Not a topic I wanted to discuss with Bob. Especially not with a drunken version of the man.

Bob ignored my silence or interpreted it as consent to continue. "He's a bit young, don't you think so?"

I shrugged, tempted to ask him if he thought himself to be of a more suitable age for me. He was probably in his late thirties, so he was more than ten years older than I. But I bit back my retort. "Excuse me." I stepped away from the group and headed for a table loaded with canapés, leaving him behind. Escape seemed like the best option for dealing with Bob, and, besides, I felt hungry.

I loved my job and didn't want to report my boss to human resources, which had recently circulated a memo about sexual harassment at the workplace. Nor did I want to confront Bob directly as long as his advances were so vague—telling him off might make things awkward between us. Maybe, I could go looking for Lawrence—spending some time with him might show Bob that I wasn't available.

The thought of Lawrence made me grin.

My eyes searched the jungle for a parrot, but I didn't see him. Maybe he had flown off, to someplace safer.

I decided to go looking for the man, but first my stomach was in need of attention. I picked up a slab of pumpernickel covered by a slice of salmon and pimple of horseradish sauce.

My gaze went back to my colleagues. Bob was now busy talking up Camille—they were sufficiently far away, and I enjoyed not having to hear what he said.

Camille didn't seem very interested in Bob either—her eyes were still on the crowd. Suddenly, her face lit up, and she waved a hand. I followed her gaze.

There, threading his way through a throng beleaguering a BBQ stand, was Thierry Thorne. He was trailed by the blonde hyena.

The man had seen Camille and smiled at her.

He approached, stopped a step before the emerald-flaming coal woman, said something and... actually reached for her hand to give it a kiss in a single, elegant flourish.

Hyena glowered.

Camille was in overdrive, smiling and blushing, behaving like an infatuated teenager. Why was it irking me?

The conversation now included Bob and Sandra. I couldn't hear them. Thierry said something. Bob shrugged, then he ogled hyena. Sandra answered while looking around, neck stretched long like a turtle's. When she saw me, her face lit up, and she waved me over.

Had Thierry Thorne asked for me?

The urge to flee, to go looking for Lawrence as planned, was a strong one. Yet it battled with curiosity to find out what Thierry Thorne wanted from me.

Curiosity won.

And, yes, I knew—curiosity tends to kill the cat.

But I wasn't a cat, was I?