At the moment, all I want is five minutes alone to check my makeup and tell Marina to get down here so I don’t have to socialize alone.
Even the bathrooms are over the top. Taking a seat on what looks like a literalfainting couchfrom the 18th century, I flick open my evening bag and retrieve a small tube of concealer and the pocket square from the handsome man at the bar.
In the fifteen years since Max saved me, I’ve had exactly zero romantic relationships. Real ones, anyway. When you have to hide everything about who you are, it’s damn hard to trust anyone enough to get close to them.
Shit. The mirror behind the couch reveals a hint of the yellowing bruise just under my right eye. Carefully dabbing at the exposed skin, I do my best to cover the damage, then pull out my phone to text Marina.
Get down here! The party’s started and I’m hiding in the bathroom.
After a minute, Marina’s response pops up.
On my way, sweetie. I hope I don’t break my neck in these heels.
As if. Marina’s been in this business longer than I have, and though she’s almost always behind the scenes, her stint atVoguerequired her to schmooze at more than one party.
Taking a couple of deep breaths, I apply a fresh coat of lip dye, tuck everything back in my evening bag and try for another pep talk.
You can do this. Put on a show. Smile, laugh at every joke—good and bad—air kiss everyone. This trip, this cover? They’re everything you ever wanted.
At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
Chapter Nine
Griff
At the doors to the Baur au Lac Pavilion, two guys in tuxes try—unsuccessfully—notto look like bodyguards. “Harry Griffin,” I say, producing an embossed ticket from my jacket pocket.“WithBeauty and StyleMagazine.”
One of them looks it over carefully, then checks his tablet. “Welcome, Mr. Griffin. Coat check is right inside the doors. Enjoy your evening.”
I’d feel better if they’d asked to see my ID, but knowing there’s at leastsomesecurity at this event is reassuring. The crowd inside the room? That bothers me.
Four ways in and out. The main entrance, two sets of French doors that lead to a covered patio, and one fire exit.
My glasses are largely useless with the crowd and the music playing, so I tap the temple to turn the voice-to-text functionality off. In this mode, it’ll alert me if it hears any variations on my name as well as loud, recognizable sounds like sirens, alarms, or shots, but I won’t be bothered by endless unintelligible banter that means nothing scrolling across the lenses.
I put the crowd at close to eighty people, and tonight’s party is only for the VIPs and investors. Sloane’s at the center of the room, surrounded by men in suits and tuxes. A petite, dark-haired woman stands at her side, and though I can’t see the other woman’s face, I think that’s Clive’s cousin, Marina.
Max is nowhere to be found, and I check my watch, hoping for a message from Clive.
Calm down, idiot. It’s been all of ten minutes. Wren’s amazing, but she’s not a machine.
Staff circulate with plates of appetizers, and after I snag a small cheese-stuffed pastry on a toothpick, I weave through the crowd to reach one of the four bars in the room. “Club soda and lime,” I say, hating that I have to take my eyes off of Sloane to hear the bartender’s reply.
“Coming right up, sir. We also have a selection of mocktails for the evening if you’d care to peruse the menu.”
“Maybe later.”
The man’s eyes widen at the overly generous tip I drop into the silver carafe on the corner of the bar. “Thank you, sir. If there’s anything else I can do for you, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Much obliged.” After raising the rocks glass in a quick air toast to him, I retreat to the side of the room, close to a long row of floor-to-ceiling windows. A post wrapped in fancy silver netting stands between me and Sloane, but it’s narrow enough I can keep an eye on her without her noticing my stare.
If I still had my hearing, I’d have asked Dax for a parabolic mic—or gotten here early enough to bug the room. But as great as his software is, it maxes out at four voices.
Instead, I study body language. While I can’t detect subtle changes in a person’s voice any longer, the rest of my training—micro-expressions, fidgeting, sweat and breathing patterns?—those I can still read.
By the time I’ve polished off the club soda, I’ve eliminated a third of the room as potential threats. Most are in the industry. They’re easy to spot. They put on a show, strutting around like they own the room, but there’s no deception beneath the surface.
Others? They’re here to gawk. Stare. Ogle. Three different men have been hanging on Sloane’s every word for half an hour, and while they seem harmless, she’s not comfortable with the attention. Ifsomeonehad told her why I was here, I’d have rescued her by now.
