Exiled (A Madame X Novel) by Jasinda Wilder Page B

flush against him. Held up by him. His arm goes around my waist, almost inappropriately low. Claiming me as his.
    “You are exquisite, Isabel,” he murmurs in my ear. “The loveliest woman in any room. And you’re on
my
arm. Makes me the luckiest man in any room.”
    “Thank you, Logan.”
    “I love that you can take a compliment with grace,” he remarks.
    I’m unsure how I should respond, so I don’t.
    A maître d’ greets Logan by name, guides us to a booth in a shadowed corner of the back of the restaurant. A single candle provides some illumination, but not much. All the other tables are similarly cloaked in shadow, providing privacy for each booth.
    I am uneasy. Off balance. This feels right, but . . . something is off. Within me.
    I ignore it.
    Peruse the menu.
    Logan does not suggest anything, and when the server appears to take our orders, Logan allows me to speak for myself. I like that. Deciding what I want, making my own decisions.
    Dinner is long, broken into several courses. I refuse wine, whichperplexes Logan, but he doesn’t push it, and also does not order anything for himself.
    And he doesn’t ask why.
    I wonder if he will begin to suspect what I fear.
    When dinner is over, we return to the limo, which drives only a couple of blocks and then slides to a halt in front of a grand building, soaring arched windows gleaming with blazing light in the night. Red ropes, red carpet laid over the stairs. Someone opens the door, and Logan emerges. Camera flashes sparkle blindingly. He waves, smiles, and then assists me out of the limo. I try to smile, cling to his arm, and tell myself to breathe.
    Logan, Logan, who’s your date?
    What’s your name, sweetheart?
    Who is she?
    Are you two an item?
    What are you wearing?
    Questions come hard and fast, and Logan ignores them all, nudges me into a walk.
    Who is she?
    What’s your name, sweetheart?
    I do not have a real, legal identity. I have no ID card. No social security number. I suppose that information exists somewhere, but I don’t know where. Or how to get hold of it. Some research online told me these are the basic ways to establish one’s identity. And I do not possess that information.
    Who is she?
    How would he answer that?
    Am I his girlfriend? Are we an item?
    This is utter foolishness. Appearing in public, with Logan, where there is media, press. Cameras. Questions.
    Former clients, even, perhaps.
    In the theater lobby itself, there are more cameras. More posing.
    I barely put on makeup.
    I’m not wearing panties.
    I did my hair hours and hours ago, and I only ran some light mousse through it, finger-styled it. Not expecting to go anywhere, to meet anyone, much less appear at a very public event where I would have my photograph taken a hundred and fifty times per second.
    I’m panicking.
    Grip Logan’s arm with all the strength in my hand, and force breath into my lungs. Force myself to breathe. Expand chest, contract. Breathe in, breathe out.
    “You’re okay.”
    “What the
fuck
were you thinking, Logan?” I hiss this, nearly sotto voce.
    “Fake it, Is. You’re gorgeous. Flawless.”
    “I am utterly unprepared for this. What if someone recognizes me as Madame X?”
    “We’re together now, Isabel. Your name is Isabel de la Vega. That’s all that matters now. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
    I feel the back of my neck prickle. Turn, and there is Jonathan. A former client, and sort of friend. Tall, handsome, in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, with a stunning blonde clinging possessively.
    A shocked expression mars Jonathan’s handsome face.
    Moves to stand in front of Logan and me. Mouth works, but no sound comes out.
    “Hello, Jonathan.” I smile. Pretend to be at ease. Fake it till I make it.
    “Madame—”
    “I go by Isabel now.” I speak over Jonathan.
    More shocked silence. “Isabel.” Extends a hand, ingrained manners taking over.
    I take the proffered hand, intending to shake it, but Jonathan turns my hand palm