Free Too Wild to Hold by Julie Leto

temperamental directors—were masters of the lie. It was second nature for them to fool audiences into believing truths that did not exist. Trouble was, they often transferred their talent into real life. When her parents were around, Claire wasn’t sure which parts of her childhood were real and which had been staged for a maximum emotional response.
    Luckily for her, she’d gravitated to the stage crews: the carpenters and production hands and costumers like Clarice whose jobs depended on understanding both the magic of make-believe and the very real limitations that reality brought into the world.
    Without a doubt, Michael Murrieta would have fit in well with them. Even now he radiated the character traits she’d associate with an early eighteenth century man of means in New Orleans: confidence, power and sensuality. As they passed people in the halls, he gave the men superior, knowing nods and charmed the ladies with saucy winks or cryptic half smiles. They were halfway across the dance floor, heading toward the verandah that wrapped around the back of the house, when she couldn’t take it any longer and stopped his flirting with a smack of her aunt’s fan to his shoulder.
    “Cut it out,” she said.
    He swallowed his laughter even as he patted her hand. “Excuse me?”
    “You’re drawing too much attention,” she admonished, not exaggerating. Scores of gazes followed them as they moved across the room, sidestepping dancers and avoiding the small groups of men and women who had clustered together while they sipped brandy or noshed on canapés delivered by white-gloved waiters.
    “They’re looking at you, not me,” he replied.
    She snorted, then covered her unladylike response with a flutter of her fan.
    “Are you always this smooth?” she asked.
    “Actually, I don’t think anyone’s ever called me smooth.”
    His chest had puffed up. Claire liked that she’d done that to him—and that it mattered.
    “I can’t imagine,” she replied. “You’ve blended in here without a seam showing.”
    They arrived at the tall paned doors that opened out onto the covered porch. When Michael focused his charismatic smile solely on her, her knees wavered.
    “That remains to be seen.”
    Clarice, who’d been following unobtrusively behind them, pointed out the direction Josslyn had gone.
    “Thank you,” Claire said to her aunt, then kissed her on each cheek. “You still have my phone and my keys?”
    “Yes, of course.”
    “Good. Now, go home. I’ll call you once we’re done.”
    “What? I will n—”
    Michael slid his hand over her aunt’s shoulder. “Trust me, madame. Your charge is in safe hands with me. From this point, she’s under my protection. Nothing will happen to her.”
    Clarice narrowed her dark eyes at him, then with a huff, accepted their orders and bustled her way back across the dance floor.
    Though September, the weather was sultry. Few couples had ventured outside, where the music from the six-piece orchestra surrendered to the sounds of the Louisiana countryside—the chirp and whine of crickets, the rustle of Spanish moss in the towering oaks, the occasional booming croak of a bullfrog lazing in the center of a glossy pool. In the distance, they heard the distinct sound of a woman’s throaty laughter.
    They followed, their footsteps muffled by the grassy moss that had grown over the lopsided tiles leading from the house into the maze of tall, trimmed hedges. As they moved farther away from the light, Claire felt Michael’s muscles tense.
    She glanced behind them. No one was following. No one was even watching. She had no reason to continue holding on to him, and yet pulling away had to be the hardest thing she’d done all night.
    After another couple of steps, Michael grabbed her. In the darkness, she nearly gasped, but he pressed a finger to her mouth, stifling the sound. The moon, more than half full, provided just enough light for her to see him nod his head to the left. They