“I beg to differ.”
Peter rolled his green eyes. “That’s boring, man.” He took a long drink and surveyed the room. “Hell of a setup this year. The Volkov brothers really outdid themselves.”
Jack said nothing.
“Speaking of which, where’s the third one? I’ve seen Stone and Ash, but Hunter’s gone to ground.”
“I’m sure he’ll make an appearance.”
Peter snorted. “Word is he’s gone soft. Shacked up with some woman and playing house while his brothers do all the work.”
Jack wasn’t touching that, so he simply held Peter’s stare until the younger man buckled under the intensity of silence.
Shrewdness flickered behind his easy smile. “You know, Thorne, I can never quite figure you out. You show up every year, drink the champagne, mingle with a few hunters, but never chase a single doe. What’s your angle?”
“Is that not appropriate behavior for a party?”
“Party? The party’s foreplay.” Peter drained his glass and set it on a nearby table. “The hunt’s the main event. Get in the game.”
Before Jack could respond, a commotion near the entrance drew their attention. The cluster of hunters surrounding Hadrian had doubled.
“What do you mean he’s not coming? Saint-Clair was confirmed. I spoke to him two weeks ago.”
“Uninvited,” someone murmured. “Had his access pulled at the last minute.”
“On what grounds?”
“No one knows. You know how it is. Invitation at the host’s discretion.”
Hadrian’s jaw tightened. “Since when are the Volkovs picky?”
Silence. Most people knew better than to toss around the Volkov name, especially while standing in their grand ballroom.
Hadrian tossed back the rest of his drink. Little did he know he might be standing on the Volkov Preserve, but it was Jack’s liquor he drank. “Saint-Clair’s a prick, but he’s our prick. Someone should demand answers.”
No one volunteered.
Jack turned away, sure in the fact that Saint-Clair would never set foot on these grounds again. Let Hadrian question him or the Volkovs. They would gladly reacquaint him with Saint-Clair in an instant.
As Jack moved toward the bar, waving a finger at the bartender. “Three fingers of Mad Hatter.”
The servant nodded. “Here you are, Mr. Thorne,” he said, setting the crystal glass on a black napkin.
“Thank you, Russel.”
“My pleasure.”
Hadrian’s voice carried louder, emboldened by scotch and his audience of sycophants. “Honestly, I don’t know why we bother with all this theater. The dancing, the debuts, the bloody masquerade. Most of us just want to get what we paid for. Skip the niceties and rut into the does.” He laughed at his own crudeness.
Jack inhaled slowly, letting the cold settle into his chest before he changed direction without taking a sip.
“Actually,” Jack said, approaching the circle as he swirled the Mad Hatter in his glass. “The tradition of the tango has nothing to do with women at all.”
Hadrian stilled mid-laugh and raised a brow. “Didn’t realize you had opinions on dance, Thorne.”
“I have opinions on history.” Jack’s voice remained calm and measured. “The tango, specifically. Do you know where it originated?”
Hadrian’s smile thinned. “Argentina. Everyone knows that.”
