She scanned for his shadows. No thugs lurked nearby. No muscle skulked in the corners. No obvious security.
It was unsettling. Men like Viktor had enemies. They had enough money to buy silence and smooth over atrocities, but that was never guaranteed.
“I don’t see security or cameras,” Gaby murmured.
“But they’re here,” Rhys replied just as quiet. “Fortunately for us, the good guys are too.”
He guided her to a table with a clear line of sight to their target. As she sat, a waitress swept in wearing a low-cut top more appropriate for a nightclub than an elite hotel. The lace of herbra showed clearly through the sheer material. Her name tag—Liana—practically pointed at her cleavage.
“Welcome to the Ellington,” she said, smile bright—and aimed entirely at Rhys.
Of course it was.
Rhys radiated command without trying, elegance without effort. He was a force people moved toward without realizing it—especially women, who were hard-pressed to look away from those incredible eyes and that damn sculpted suit.
She couldn’t really blame the waitress. But still. She was sittingright herenext to him.
“Macallan twenty-five, neat,” Rhys said. “Vodka tonic with a twist of lime for the lady.”
“Yes, sir,” the waitress purred, before moving away, hips swaying in her short skirt, as good as strutting, not having spared her so much as a glance.
An unwelcome pang caught Gaby under the ribs. That polite smile he’d given the woman was more than she’d gotten in weeks.
“Does that happen often?” she asked before she could stop herself.
He looked over. “Does what happen often?”
There was no guile, just curiosity. He hadn’t even noticed Liana-Lowcut, which eased the sting of being ignored.
“I... uh... nothing,” she muttered, forcing herself to focus on Viktor again.
The pianist moved into the haunting second movement. Their target inhaled, fingers tapping against the stem of his martini glass, thoroughly immersed in the music.
Then the elevator behind him chimed. His eyes snapped open, his entire demeanor changing as a man stepped out.
He was older, wearing a bolo tie, massive belt buckle, belly straining the buttons of his Western shirt, Stetson pulled low. In his hand, he carried a large silver case.
Gaby went cold. Her throat closed around a whisper. “Oh my God. We were right.”
Rhys’s hand closed over hers, firm and anchoring. “Breathe,” he said, eyes forward. “What do you see?”
“Big Tex, one of Enzo’s VIP buyers.” Her voice barely made it out. “He’s heading straight for Viktor.”
“You sure?” he asked.
“One hundred percent. He’s a caricature of a billionaire Texas oil man, and impossible to forget.”
“Perfect,” Rhys said, shifting closer. His arm slid around her waist, an intimate gesture to onlookers, but also a tactical shield that created a pocket of privacy.
The two men greeted each other—no handshake, their words too low to hear. As if suddenly in a hurry, Viktor gestured toward a hallway off the back of the lobby.
Trapped in the booth by Rhys’s body, as they moved away, urgency spiked through her. “Aren’t we following them?”
“Damn right we are.” He waited until the men were nearly out of sight then rose smoothly.
He took her hand, pulling her to her feet. Together, they moved, quick enough to track, slow enough not to draw notice.
Guests flowed around them as the pianist played on, unaware of the darkness nearby. They reached the hall just as Viktor waved Tex through a door midway down the corridor.
