“That’s… uh…” Sarah glances around, makes a face of warning at Tilly, and takes my arm, pulling me aside. “Is everything okay? I don’t want to pry, but I thought…” her eyes flick down to the giant diamond on my finger.
I’m going to kill Madison.
My cheeks feel so hot that I know I’m blushing at least four shades of red to pink right now. At least embarrassment fits the story. “I just need to talk to him. Really quickly.”
“Yeah, okay. You’ll be discreet?”
I nod and duck my head. Picking the tray back up, I head back into the party. “The reason didnothave to be that dramatic,” I grumble under my breath, knowing the incredible little devices will still pick up the sound.
Madison chuckles in my ear.“Yeah, but it’s way more fun for me that it was.”
The launch party is a tasteful event. About a hundred people are milling around between black tablecloth-covered high-tops and the low, circular tables where they’ll have dinner in about an hour, after the presentation. The screensaver on the display has been cycling through a slideshow with the presentation schedule, pictures of smiling business executives on some kind of retreat where they had to wear matching green t-shirts, and stock photos of people working at computers. Music drifts softly through the air from the speakers in the four corners—something jazzy and light that doesn’t compete with chatter. People are dressed to impress, and there’s a buzz of excitement in the room.
“There he is. Up ahead. He’s the one with the blue tie. See him?”
I take it back. I’m not going to kill her—I’m glad she’s in my ear. Because even though I stared at his picture long enough to convince myself I had it memorized, he looks different in person. Way more tan.
I sidle up to the group, grabbing the tray to hold it with both hands when it starts to shake. “Champagne cocktail?” I interrupt politely.
The man and woman across from me take a glass and place their empties on the tray. Fred, who is in the middle of a story, is gesturing with his nearly empty flute. We’re trained to ask once and leave, but I can’t leave.
My heart is going to pound out of my chest. I hold out the tray towards him, the slightly fuller glass closest to him.
“Sir? Would you like a drink?”
Take it. Oh my God, take it. Please take the right one. That one. Take it!
He frowns at the interruption, then realizes what I said. For a single, suspended second, I have the completely irrational intrusive thought that I’m mentally pleading with him to take the right champagne flute so hard that he can actually hear me.
Then he launches back into his story, giving me the almost-empty and taking the glass closest to him. He drains half the flute in a single massive gulp, making a face at either the faint taste of sedative or the burning sensation of bubbles in the back of his throat.
My knees nearly give out with relief as I head over to the last person in the group to offer a flute.
“Tag, you’re it,” I whisper as Nicole takes a flute off my tray and gestures at me with it, a cheers of acknowledgment.
Nicole
If I have to listen to this absolutetooltell one more story about the kind of yacht he plans to buy after Safe-T Keeper goes live, I’m going to shove more sedative down his throat.
Luckily, I don’t have to.
Fred goes down like something out of a cartoon. He’s in the middle of his sentence, then he grimaces and shakes his head, like he’s trying to clear the sudden disorientation. Etorphine works pretty fast, and this guy can really shotgun a champagne cocktail.
One second he’s upright and slurring about how he doesn’t feel good, and the next he pitches forward. The woman he almost falls on screams, and a glass shatters at their feet as he knocks it out of her hand on the way down.
In the panic that ensues, I lift my voice and spring into action. “I’m a nurse!”
Tossing my skirts aside, I kneel down next to him. “Sir,” I say, speaking loudly and clearly. “Can you hear me? What’s his name?” I ask the group of people huddling over us with panicked expressions.
“Oh, nice touch. She’s a natural,”Wesley approves.
“Fred Harvey!” someone in the audience volunteers.
“Everyone, please give us space,” I say. Dutifully, the crowd immediately nearby takes a few shuffling steps back. I lean over Fred and tap his shoulders. “Fred, can you speak? Mr. Harvey? Can you tell me what’s wrong?”
Fred’s eyes flutter but don’t open completely, and he makes a garbled noise.
“Does anyone know this man? Does he have a medical condition?”
