Her eyes narrow, but there’s a flicker there she can’t bury fast enough.
I check the gold watch strapped to my wrist. “Are you ready to play the part?”
“I’m good at pretending.” Katana quips, her voice pitched low so only I can hear. “Let’s go, Hubby.”
My mouth pulls into a grin, “The bar’s set low.”
“Then let’s hope you can clear it.” She fires back without missing a beat. Classic Katana, never letting me have the last word and damned if I don’t like it more than I should.
The room shifts into motion, the Royal Harlots spilling out first. Katana brushes past me, her arm grazing my hand on purpose this time. She glances back, a quick spark in her eye daring me to call her on it.
I follow her out the door, watching her slide into the back of the rented town car. I climb in after her, and Meadow catches my eye in the rearview, her face set, hands steady on the wheel. The door shuts with a heavy click that seals us in.
Outside, engines turn over in the lot, one after another, a chorus of deep-throated growls that vibrate the air. Headlights cut through the dark, sweeping across brick as bikes line up in formation, chrome glinting. A couple of SUVs fall in behind them ready to run escort.
Katana doesn’t give me space even as she leans back into the seat. She sits close, her thigh brushing mine as the car pulls away. My jaw tightens.
Up front, Meadow starts running over the plan again. “Once you’re inside, stay with the crowd. Keep your eyes open for any secondary access points. I’ll be parked in rotation with the other cars, ready to pull you out when you signal.”
Katana nods like she’s taking it all in. “What’s the signal if we’re in trouble?”
“Three clicks on the push-to-talk,” Meadow confirms.
I should be listening. I should be burning every detail into my head. But I’m not. I’m watching the way Katana’s lips move when she talks, the way her voice drops into something cool and professional when she’s focused. Her arm shifts again, brushing the back of my hand, and this time I know she feels it because the corner of her mouth twitches.
My hand stays locked on my thigh, but every mile that passes, every bump in the road, I imagine shifting just an inch closer. Imagining what she’d do if I let my hand slide to her leg, if I press my palm against the heat I can feel radiating through the fabric of her suit.
By the time the wrought-iron gates of the Bellwether House rise into view, the space between us is thick with heat, charged enough to choke on. Katana’s been testing me the whole ride, brushing her sleeve against my hand, tossing barbs sharp enough to draw blood. Every inch of me is too aware of her.
Meadow eases us into line with the other town cars and limos, her face set in stone. The iron gates swing inward and weidle forward in a procession along the long driveway, swallowed by a ragged row of twisted, thick-barked pitch pines. Their dark limbs drag the night in, turning the path into a corridor of shadows, squeezing the city out behind us.
The car slows at the front. Katana slides the mask over her face, the lace brushing her cheekbones, and angles a look my way. “Time to show me what you’ve got.”
I settle mine into place, hiding my grin. “Careful what you ask for. I’ve got more than you can handle.”
Katana steps out first, catching sparks of light with every motion. For a second, even I forget we’re here for Serrano.
I step out behind her and place my hand at the small of her back. The shiver that runs through her is immediate, a flash of static that climbs up my arm.
Her stride doesn’t break. She glances back just once, her eyes catching mine, a hint of a smile tugging at her mouth before it’s gone. “You’ll be lucky if I don’t gut you before the night’s over.”
“Can’t wait,” I mutter coyly as an attendant dressed in black, his face hidden behind a black-and-white mask, steps up.
I flash the tickets. The scanner blips once, over the embossed QR code.
“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Hale.” The attendant says glancing up from the device in his hand, “No weapons, no recording devices, masks on at all times.”
I expected to be searched and stripped of my phone and the knife tucked into my pant leg but another attendant just motions us forward in line.
The doors of the Bellwether House swing open and we step through. Inside, the main showroom gleams with polished marble floors and chandeliers that drip crystal light around us. Every wall is dressed in velvet and gold, every corner lined with curated displays of art work, and priceless antiques. Rows of plush velvet chairs face a raised platform, where the items arebidded on with the hush of paddles and whispers by faceless men and women with deep pockets and masks.
Attendants slip through the crowd, trays of champagne balanced on gloved hands. Katana doesn’t so much as glance at them. I take one flute just to keep my free hand busy, though the fire in my veins tonight won’t come from liquor.
I mark the exits. Two stand out, one on each side of the room. A set of double doors at the back that probably leads to the service hall.
Katana slows as we pass a painting perched under its own spotlight. Her head tilts in its direction, her eyes narrowing on it for a long minute.
She turns into my body, her face tilting up just enough that if I lower my head the space between us would be gone. My lips ache to close that gap, to taste her once and for all and see if she’s as lethal as she seems.
