“Are you ready, my wife?” she jokes with that tone that both fascinates and irritates me.
“As ready as you can be to voluntarily enter a psychopath's house,” I respond, forcing a smile.
Her fingers intertwine with mine as we walk toward the main entrance.
“If something goes wrong,” she whispers, “if they discover us, let me talk.”
“It's not my first party with criminals,” I reply. “I know how to behave.”
Voronov's mansion is so lit up it looks like a Christmas tree. He must think he's some kind of Hollywood star, because he's even placed a red carpet that extends from the door to the entrance of the driveway. Several security guards check invitations, and a real army of waiters with trays of champagne and canapés circulate among the guests.
Sabina leans toward me until her lips graze my ear.
“Smile, Caroline. We're supposed to be madly in love,” she murmurs with a perfectly simulated Russian accent.
I force myself to relax, though every atom of my body screams that I shouldn't enter.
“Natasha Petrova and Caroline Spencer,” she announces, handing the invitations to one of the security guards in an almost aristocratic tone. “My wife and I are delighted to attend this marvelous evening,” she adds, squeezing my hand.
The guard checks his list, looks us up and down, and nods, allowing us to enter. Sabina guides me toward the interior, resting a hand on the small of my back and making me way too nervous.
“Althea's already in position,” she whispers, listening to something through the earpiece she's wearing. “Sylara is near the main entrance.”
“Good,” I respond in a low voice. “How long should we wait before heading to the room?”
“Voronov will give a toast in approximately twenty minutes. That will be our moment. Be patient.”
We move through the party as if we belonged to this world, smiling at strangers, accepting glasses of champagne we don't drink and maintaining trivial conversations with guests who mistake us for people in their social circle.
At one point, Althea passes by us with a tray of canapés.
“The guy with the mustache by the fireplace won't stop staring at Nell,” she murmurs discreetly, leaning toward us as if offering us food.
We turn slightly and my blood freezes. Grigore Voronov, with a glass of whiskey in his hand, watches me with intensity. His brow is furrowed, as if trying to remember where he's seen me before.
“Shit,” I whisper. “I think he's recognized me.”
Without warning, Sabina places her hands on my waist and turns me toward her. Her face is so close to mine I can count the tiny golden flecks in her eyes.
“Follow my lead,” she whispers against my lips before kissing me.
The small moan I let escape is absolutely embarrassing, but time stops. Literally. I immediately forget where we are or why we came here. The world shrinks to the sensation of the impossible softness of those lips, to her tongue exploring mine or the brush of our breasts.
It's not just a kiss. It's like diving into deep waters, where the pressure changes everything: the sounds, the sensations, even the rhythm of my heartbeat. It's a perfect kiss for lack of a better word to describe it. So perfect that my body reacts in ways it shouldn't and the new moan that escapes me is nothing compared to what I feel between my legs.
“Can you stop and focus on the mission?” Sylara growls through the earpieces. “Voronov's about to give his speech.”
We separate slowly, and for an instant, I see in Sabina's eyes the same confusion that must reflect in mine. What just happened? Was it just part of the role for her or was there something more? Because my knees are still shaking.
“I think he's not looking at you anymore,” she whispers, smoothing her dress with the palm of her hand.
Indeed, Voronov heads to the center of the room, where a waiter hands him a microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he begins, his Russian accent more pronounced than the last time I heard him. “I want to thank you all for your presence in my humble abode.”
“Humble?” I murmur with sarcasm. “This place is bigger than a football field.”
Sabina gives me a slight elbow in the ribs, though she smiles.
