July 18, 2014

"It's a beautiful house," Elliot murmured as they lingered in a corner of the ballroom nursing glasses of champagne.

The house was a palatial townhome, a monstrous ode to wealth, if not to taste. Olivia much preferred the treatment of the home under its previous owner, Fitzwilliam Perkins, Sr., but she kept her opinions to herself. The younger Fitzwilliam was their host this evening, and he did not appreciate being compared to his father. He also had no idea just how much time Olivia had spent in this house in her youth, when his father was in residence, and she intended to keep it that way. Those days were long gone; Fitz Sr. had been dead for a decade, and Olivia wasn't seventeen any more, and she did not intend to become Fitz Jr.'s favorite girl, as she had been his father's. She could be more selective, now.

"It is," she answered.

Under different circumstances, she might even have enjoyed it, attending a party full of the glittering elite, surrounded by interesting conversation and Michelin star food. As it was, however, she felt herself forced into attending, and found no joy in it; she had to keep Perkins sweet, and that meant not slighting him or his friends, and she needed to continue to conduct her business as if nothing were amiss, as if she wasn't planning to pull up stakes and run in a few months' time. She had to be here, had to be seen here, and she had to look the part. The dress had been chosen with care, that deep red dress that revealed so much of her body, though a bit of lace around the back and her long hair disguised her tattoo, the one piece of herself she most wanted to hide. On any other night she would have thought nothing at all of going out in a dress cut so low, with a slit so high, her nipples clearly visible through the fabric, but she had felt a moment's hesitation when she first saw Elliot's face. Had wondered, for the first time in a very long while, what someone else might think of her. If he would like it, or if he would be disappointed in her, somehow. The expression he wore when he first laid eyes on her quieted those fears, however; evidently, Elliot liked the dress. Evidently, he liked it very much.

And so far he had been the perfect companion for the evening; he had remained a pace behind her, his hands caught behind his back, a soldier at ease, not touching her or demanding her attention. He had been quiet, all but invisible when Perkins greeted them upon their arrival, and he made no attempts to steer her one way or another, and he did not pepper her with questions, though she was certain he must have had plenty. About the guests, about the purpose of this party where men in fine suits and ladies in evening dresses were discussing the business of the city, about Noah. Christ, she hadn't meant for him to find out about Noah, and now that he knew she had no idea what he'd do with that information. Elliot was a father, though, and he'd sworn to keep her secret. Perhaps she would simply have to trust him, as impossible as that seemed.

"No one is paying any attention to you," Elliot observed after a moment. He was standing beside her and slightly back, affording her an unobscured view of the room, affording the room an unobscured view of her. He was keeping his voice down, his lips hardly moving; if anyone glanced at them, it would appear as if he hadn't spoken at all, but he had, and his words stirred up something petulant inside her.

"Should they be?" she asked, a little tartly.

"You're the prettiest woman here," he said, and that petulance turned to something soft and preening in an instant. Damn him. "And Perkins invited you. Figure he must have had a reason for that."

"He wants them to think he owns me," she explained. "Most of these people don't know who I am. The ones that do, though, they see me, and they know that he has enough clout to bring me here. It's like that painting over there," she gestured discreetly with her glass, "it doesn't look like much."

It really didn't, was just a few splashes of color on a large canvas, more blank space than anything else.

"But people who know what it is know that it cost millions of dollars. It communicates his wealth but only to people who've been initiated into this world."

The language these people spoke was loaded with symbols, and Olivia was a symbol herself, and she knew it. She didn't resent it though, not really. She'd spent too long in this business to pretend she was anything other than a commodity.

"Sounds like a bunch of bullshit posturing from people who have more money than sense," Elliot grumbled.

"Be nice," she chided him gently. "One of those people is coming this way."

While they'd been talking she'd been surveying the ballroom, her eyes constantly on the move, searching out familiar faces, waiting for the other shoe to drop, and drop it had. From across the room one of the guests had spotted her, and he was approaching lazily now, a smile tugging at his lips, a look in his eye like a lion who had just spied a gazelle.

Behind her Elliot drew in a sharp breath.

"Is that-"

He didn't have enough time to finish his question, and rather than answer him directly Olivia simply held out her hand to the newcomer.

"Mr. Wheatley," she said, trying not to recoil when the smug son of a bitch took her hand and kissed it.

"Miss Benson," Richard Wheatley said. "I was beginning to think this party would be a waste of my time. I can't tell you how happy I am to see you here. You're the only person in this room worth talking to."

Privately Olivia agreed; he certainly wasn't worth talking to. It made her nervous, being seen in public with him; Wheatley was a front runner to take over his father's empire when Sinatra finally died, but father and son had fallen out years before, and Richard was not welcome in her house so long as his father was a customer. Until the line of succession was set in stone she needed to remain neutral where he was concerned; offering him her favor now might have disastrous results if someone else took over for Sinatra and felt slighted by Olivia's treatment of his rival. There were all sorts of rumors about Wheatley, about his business affairs, about his ruthlessness, and that made her nervous, too. The man had taken pains to present himself as a legit businessman, even changed his name to avoid being connected to his father's unsavory legacy, but everyone who mattered knew what Wheatley was. A monster in a suit.

"It is nice to see a familiar face," Olivia allowed carefully.

"I was hoping you'd be here. There's something I'd like to discuss with you," he added conspiratorially, leaning towards her as if he were letting her in on a secret, but then his eyes flickered over Olivia's shoulder, landed on Elliot, and fear gripped her. Whatever Wheatley wanted to talk about Olivia wanted no part of it, but him taking note of Elliot was somehow worse. What if he recognized her date? What if he stored this encounter away in his memory, what if it came back to bite her later?

"I don't believe we've met," Wheatley said, extending his hand to Elliot. "Richard Wheatley."

"Eddie Wagner," Elliot said smoothly, stepping up a little closer to Olivia as he took Wheatley's hand and shook it, squeezing just a little harder than was necessary.

"And you are?" Wheatley prompted him. There was an insult in the question, his way of saying that he had no idea who Eddie Wagner was, his way of asking what made Eddie think he belonged in this place.

"My escort for the evening," Olivia said quickly. "A friend."

"Ah."

Wheatley's eyes roved over Elliot, taking in every inch of his appearance, calculating his wealth, his worth, in just a glance. He really was one of those people, the ones who wrote the rules of engagement, and he could read the language of status and class better than anyone.

"My compliments to your tailor," he said with an air of appreciation. "I like a man who knows how to dress."

Elliot's suit was nice, and he filled it out well, but Olivia didn't dare hope that Wheatley was being sincere, and in a moment he proved her right.

"I have the name of a good cobbler, though, if you're in the market for a new pair of shoes."

Of course he had chosen to follow his compliment with an insult, however passively couched the phrasing might have been. The suit was fine, but Elliot's shoes weren't handmade, or designer like everyone else's. They were clean, and recently polished, but terribly ordinary, and Wheatley, a man of details and observations, had taken note of it at once, and used that information like a weapon to remind Elliot of his place.

"I've always preferred comfort over style," Elliot said easily. "A real man decides his preferences for himself, he doesn't wait for someone else to tell him what he should wear."

Point, Stabler, Olivia thought. For a working class boy from Queens Elliot was holding his own, undaunted by Wheatley's arrogance, by his power or wealth or worldly experience. Elliot had heard the insult, and returned one of his own in kind, but she really, really wished he hadn't. The last thing she needed was for him to get into a pissing contest with Wheatley; the only reason she'd brought him instead of Brian was because she thought he'd behave like a gentleman. She didn't want to be proven wrong.

Wheatley laughed, deflecting the barb with grace.

"Good man," he said. "I like a man who can think for himself. I'm a self-made man myself, and I respect it. But as I said, I have some business to discuss with your lovely date. You don't mind if I steal her for a dance, do you?"

The words might as well have been a gauntlet thrown down on the marble floor, the way they echoed through Olivia's heart. It was a challenge, plain and simple, Wheatley once more asserting himself over Elliot. The rules of the evening were clear; whatever appearances might have been Elliot was there as her bodyguard, not her date. It wasn't in his purview to stop her dancing, and he certainly didn't get a say in who she chose to spend her time with. A good bodyguard, a smart one, would have ignored the insult and demurred, allowed Olivia to conduct herself as she saw fit. But Elliot was only playing a role tonight, a role he was unaccustomed to, and it was clear he and Wheatley disliked one another already. As much as Olivia loathed the prospect of Wheatley's hands on her, she really ought to dance with him. She ought to soothe his pride, not wound it, and she was just a little bit curious about the business he seemed so intent to discuss with her. If he wanted something from her, she needed to know what that something was before she could decide her next move.

All Elliot had to say was that the choice wasn't up to him. All he had to do was step back, and allow Olivia to take Wheatley's hand or not as she saw fit. All he had to do was be quiet.

He couldn't fucking do it.

"Actually," he said, reaching out to take Olivia's elbow, touching her for the first time all evening. "We were just about to dance before you came by. I'm afraid I'm first up on her dance card."

Motherfucker, she thought. Wheatley's eyes had narrowed, and Elliot was holding tight to her elbow, and tension was simmering between the pair of them. It would be up to her to choose who to spurn. Whether to embarrass Elliot by turning him down and taking Wheatley's hand, or to deliver a blow to Wheatley's pride by accepting Elliot and walking away from Wheatley.

It would be good business sense to go with Wheatley. He was a powerful enemy to have, and she needed to get a feel for how the winds might be blowing in Sinatra's operation. But she also didn't want to be seen dancing with him, and she really, really didn't want him to hold her. For so long, too long, she'd been accepting the touch of men she didn't want, and a dance wasn't a fuck but still she just…she just wanted to choose. Wanted to choose what was best for her, and not for the business. She just wanted to be a woman, out with a man who interested her, who didn't look at her like she was nothing more than a means to an end.

"Maybe next time," she said to Wheatley, and then she gently covered Elliot's hand with her own, and let him lead her away, out towards the middle of the ballroom where several other couples were dancing sedately to the strains of a string quartet while her heart pounded in her chest, adrenaline coursing through her as if she had just survived a fight to the death, and not a simple conversation.

For a cop Elliot moved surprisingly gracefully; someone had taught him to dance, she thought as he slid in front of her, one of his hands dropping to her waist while with the other he threaded their fingers together. He pulled her in close but not too close, kept his hips a respectful distance from hers, and the grip of his fingers was gentle, not possessive, despite his display with Wheatley. The thought of someone teaching him to dance conjured images of teenage Elliot in the rec hall of his parish church, trying not to grind on his date where the priest could see, and Olivia smiled despite herself. Even with her stilettos Elliot was still a little taller than her, and she looked up into his face, saw his jaw tight with tension beneath his beard though his blue eyes softened when they landed on her.

"You've just made yourself a very powerful enemy," she told him softly as they began to sway together.

"I don't really care," Elliot said bluntly. "I didn't like the way he was looking at you. He doesn't get to touch you just 'cause he's rich."

Elliot didn't think Whealty deserved to touch her, but Elliot had touched her himself without hesitation, and the thought sent a frisson of something like need coursing through her. Elliot wanted to touch her, and she wanted him to want it. Wanted to be someone he could want. For most of her life now she had been in the business of making men want her, not because she felt any particular attraction to them but because she desperately needed their money. With Elliot everything was different. With Elliot, she just wanted him. His strength, his sly humor, his soft smile. Christ, she wanted him to touch her. With no ulterior motives, with no strategy, compelled by nothing more than his own heart, she wanted him to touch her.

And he was, now, touching her, holding her, and so she allowed herself to sink against him, allowed herself to feel the warmth of him, to enjoy it for its own sake. There was no doubt Wheatley was angry, and he might cause trouble later, but for now, just for this one moment, Olivia didn't want to be the madam. She just wanted to be a woman, in the arms of a man, dancing in a beautiful room, and so she gave in. Just this once, she gave in, and chose.