“I have an idea,” I say to Beckett and then leave him questioning as I quietly approach a waiter walking in our direction. They aren'tusing the same catering company that had employed me, but I have been around enough catering staff to know how to get what I need.
“Excuse me. Can I borrow this tray? We have a lot of guests at our table. I’ll give it back when we’re done.” I am polite and offer a big smile as the caterer hands me the tray with a look of confusion.
“Sure, just find me later,” he says and goes back to the kitchen.
Beckett takes one look at me and knows exactly what I am planning. He gives me a smile and a nod of his head. I walk toward Carl and the men carrying the tray as if I am a catering staff member. I approach their group and listen to their conversation.
Carl has never met me. He’d seen me from afar and had heard about me. I figure he assumes I am a dancer and that I am young. He doesn't know exactly what I look like. I have my hair tucked up into a bun and am wearing a tuxedo and a silver mask.
“He’s being resistant, but we have…” They stop talking as I present the tray of caviar, crème fraîche, and crackers.
“Caviar,” I say politely.
Without even acknowledging me all of them start preparing their wafers. The tray consists of a gold ramekin of caviar surrounded by a silver bowl of ice, with a small ramekin of crème fraîche. There is a line of thinly sliced lemons, capers piled in a neat stack in the middle, as well as rounds of toasted baguette. Around the tray are metal bowls of chives, minced garlic, and hardboiled eggs. As the men put together their toasts I hand each a small silver hors d'oeuvre plate. I then wait for the men to eat and return their metal plates to the tray.
“It doesn’t matter. We can stage someone at each hospital. Eventually, they’ll get him.”
The men return their plates to the tray and I turn and leave them without incident, my heart racing the entire time. I then approach Beckett.
“Caviar?” I stare at him, with the dirty plates littering the tray.
“You clever little ballerina,” he says and takes the tray from me as we make our way out of the ballroom and up to our suite without incident.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Beckett
Watching Scarlett steal the catering tray feels exhilarating. She is turning out to be a very good spy. But I don't want her around Carl long enough for him to figure out who she is. It was genius to pretend to be one of the catering staff, but what is more brilliant is the fact that she’d collected everyone’s fingerprints. This will allow me to find out who Carl is doing business with. Back in our suite, we set the tray down and I text Griffin who is downstairs.
“What do you want me to do now?” Scarlett asks, looking a bit jittery.
“Change out of that horrible outfit and put on something comfortable. You’re not going back downstairs. I’ll have something delivered for us.” I give her a loving look because I know that she is on edge.
I have grown up with the Christopher Street Society and a cold, unfeeling father. She has a loving mother despite the circumstances of her existence, and my sister as her constants. She isn't used to being around ruthless people.
“I don’t get to do any more spying?” she teases. I love how she is comfortable enough to do so.
No one teases me. I am always serious and steadfast, and most of my conversations are short and succinct. She is youthful and beautiful and has an effervescence that I didn't realize I was missing in my life.
“No more spying, you got us what we needed.”
Griffin sends me a text; he is at the door.
“So are you going to tell me why you’ve stolen a catering tray that you need prints from?” he says as he bounds in and then acknowledges Scarlett.
“Mrs. Myers.” He nods to her, and she smiles at him.
“Griffin.”
“Go change, love. We’re going to be a minute.” I don’t want to have to explain to Griffin why I didn’t mind having my newly acquired wife listen in on secret society affairs.
“So, married life?” he asks as soon as we are alone.
“Is lovely.” I don’t lie.
“And so very unexpected. You're not the type to ever want to get married. I've known you for a long time, Beck; something's up. I’ve been helping you with all of this, but you have to be honest with me.” Griffin plants himself in a chair near a picture window, sipping on the cocktail he has with him. “I need you to spill it.”
“What do you want me to spill exactly? That I knocked up somebody by accident? She may or may not have taken her birth control. I got married because I don't have bastards.” I make myself a drink and sit down across from him.
