Chapter 1
IRIS
As I enter the hotel ballroom, I take a deep breath and give myself a tiny moment to panic. Just to get it out of my system.
A server glides by gracefully with a tray full of champagne glasses, and I interrupt my panic plan, briefly, to grab a beverage. But then I proceed with my freakout.
I allow the fact that I’m about to attend a glitzy gala hosted by the US Embassy in San Isidro to hit me with all the weight a moment like this carries. Gripping the champagne flute tightly, like it’s a life preserver, I quietly reassess the decisions that led me here.
Since I gave myself only a moment, I can’t go too far back in my history of questionable choices. That would take longer than this entire event. I start with going to university for a degree in literature and then deciding to go to journalism school, but only being offered and accepting a job with a glitzy fashion magazine.
Next is saying yes to this assignment, even though I have no idea what the hell I’m doing. But some of the blame for that lies with Dave, my ex-boyfriend, who put a ring on another woman’s finger before he broke up with me. I jumped into this job because I needed to get away from my small town and hisbetrayal. Finally, I end my self-flagellation with allowing my best friend April to talk me into spending more money than I should on the fabulous dress I’m wearing.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, count backward from five, and open my eyes again.
Okay. That’s enough. Time to act like the grownup I pretend I am.
I straighten my spine, lift my chin, and remind myself I belong here. Even if my trip to this small island in the Indian Ocean is the first time I’ve left the US.
Even if my pulse is racing like I’ve committed a crime.
Even if everyone else in this room looks like they were born with a hefty bank account and I’m still getting used to having a monthly income.
This is my first proper assignment.
In a foreign country that’s a political powder keg because the haves keep grabbing more resources from the have-nots. I learned that while researching San Isidro, but as much as I’d like to report on the inequality, it’s not part of the story I’m working on.
I’m here to report on the glamorous wedding between the country’s princess and her American billionaire groom.
Unfortunately, the couple will not be at tonight’s event. As I handed my invitation to the man at the door who checked my name off a list, he told me the groom’s private jet had some sort of mechanical trouble, and the glamorous couple are stuck until someone finds a spare part.
So now I’m at a super fancy party with no idea what to do.
The ballroom glows in the golden light spilling from crystal chandeliers and bouncing off marble floors and satin gowns. The air smells like citrus, expensive perfume, and power. Men in tuxedos cluster near the bar, laughing too loudly. Women glide past like they’ve practiced this walk in mirrors their whole lives.
San Isidro doesn’t do subtle. Or, at least the US Embassy in this tiny South American country doesn’t. They’re the host of this evening’s extravagant event.
I smooth my hands over my dress and try not to fidget. The emerald silk drapes my body in expertly tailored folds. The skirt is slit high enough to feel daring, but it has a neckline modest enough to feel safe. This garment cost me an alarming chunk of my savings and one mild existential crisis in a boutique dressing room, but April said it makes me look like someone who knows what she’s doing.
I don’t.
I scan the room for anyone worth interviewing or anything worth reporting. The ambassador stands near the dais. Security personnel are spaced evenly along the walls. Everywhere else is filled with beautiful people in gorgeous clothes. My editor’s voice rings in my head.Get texture. Get access. Don’t be boring.
Right.
I lift my champagne flute, take a sip, and experience instant regret. The beverage is sharp, and probably very expensive, but it makes my eyes tear up.
“First gala?” The voice comes from my right. It’s low, smooth, unmistakably British, and causes my brain to do a small flip. I quickly blink my tears away and turn, pasting on my bestunbothered professionalsmile, and…
Oh.
He’s tall.
My gaze hits the button just under his bow tie and travels up to broad shoulders that fill out a perfectly tailored tux. His dark hair is brushed back like he doesn’t need a mirror to get it right. His jaw is sharp, his mouth dangerous, and his intense blue gaze is focused, alert, and a little too observant. It flicks over me, but not in an objectifying way. More like he’s cataloging details he’ll remember later.
I swallow. “Is it that obvious?” I ask.
His mouth curves, slow and knowing. “Your reaction to the drink gave me a hint.”
