His mouth quirked, almost, but not quite, a smile. “Looks like you and I have a date at the Ellington.”
Her stomach dipped, and she warned herself to keep it professional. It had to be.
“Briefing in twenty,” he said, already turning toward the hall.
She nodded, but he was already gone,
Gaby exhaled, pressing a hand to her desk.
Get it together.
Tonight wasn’t about her. Or Rhys. Tonight was about Viktor Leonovich and, hopefully, finally, getting Natalie back.
She pictured the Ellington: polished marble floors, elite clientele, a world that demanded extravagance and perfection. “That’s just great,” she muttered to the empty room, “What the heck am I gonna wear?”
***
The lobby was a tribute to excess: marble polished to a mirror shine, palms brushing the lowest tiers of the chandeliers, the air scented with citrus oil. To a middle-class girl not used to this world, it didn’t feel welcoming. It left her cold. The farther she walked, the more she sensed the power and old money in the air. The kind she couldn’t begin to fathom. That could swallow girls like Natalie without a second thought.
Gaby’s fingers rested in the crook of Rhys’s arm—light, casual, playing her part. Inside, she was coiled tighter than a spring. Not with nerves or fear, though she felt a bit of both. With awareness. Of heat, longing, and regret. All the things she’d spent the afternoon trying to lock down. Clearly, it hadn’t worked.
Cari had swept into headquarters like a fairy godmother with a makeup kit, humidity-defying hair product, and a garment bag.
“Tonight, you’re going to look like you crawled out of a bank vault,” she’d announced.
They took over the men’s locker room. An hour later, Gaby emerged in a midnight-blue column dress, four-inch Manolo Blahnik heels that fit like they were made for her, and makeup in soft, peachy tones, all thanks to Cari’s expert touch.
Even Rhys’s eyes had glinted with appreciation when she stepped into Dev’s office for the final briefing. A tiny reaction. Barely there, but unmistakable.
“You’re quiet. Talk to me.”
Laced with a concern he rarely showed, Rhys’s voice snapped her back into the present.
She glanced up at him, the steel blue of his eyes made even bluer by his dove-gray suit that fit like it had been sculpted, not tailored. She stilled, air snagging in her lungs.
Stay professional. Focus on the op.
“I’m fine,” she said, too fast.
Rhys’s head angled toward her, a subtle tilt signaling his skepticism.“Try again, Gaby. Check in.”
God help her, that low, resonant tone slid down her spine exactly the way it had when he’d murmured status checks against her mist-damp skin. Dominance and command, yes, but also assessing to ensure they moved as one.
She inhaled once, controlled. “I’m resetting. But I’m good. Promise.”
His hand brushed her lower back, guiding her forward. A touch meant for cover, but one she felt everywhere.
“Chin up. You’re with me,” he murmured near her ear.
Like she could forget.
They approached the piano bar, though the termbarseemed grossly inadequate, with a rare baby grand commanding the center of the high-ceilinged open space. Music unfurled from its strings, lush and stirring as the pianist played with a lively touch.
And there he was. Viktor Leonovich.
Gaby had imagined a predator built like a wall. Instead, the man in the plush booth was small, almost delicate. His hair had silvered at the temples. Gold and diamonds winked on his fingers. His linen jacket was so expertly pressed it looked like a valet might appear out of thin air to whisk away the first hint of a wrinkle.
He sat alone, eyes closed, posture loose—utterly at ease while the opening movement of Beethoven’s Concerto No. 5 played.
