Hey—I see you have the Commonwealth Club auction next Friday. Want me to set something up from the database for that night? Two birds, one stone.
She sent it and put the phone face-down. Then stared at the ceiling, waiting.
Her phone buzzed.
Grant Knight
Actually, I'm already bringing someone.
Emmy sat up.
Emmy
From Elite Connections? I didn't send you anyone new?—
Grant Knight
No. I met her last week. She was visiting one of the team physicians at the stadium. Her name's Bailey.
Emmy read the words twice. Three times.
Emmy
That's great. I can't wait to meet her.
The laptop glowed in the dark, Grant's calendar still open on the screen.
She closed it.
The apartment was quiet. The hollow feeling in her chest had a name now, but she still wouldn't say it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Commonwealth Club looked like someone had taxidermied the nineteenth century and hung it on the walls—but tonight, the old money had invited the new chaos in.
Dark wood paneling absorbed what little light the brass sconces provided. Leather armchairs clustered in corners like conspirators. The photographs lining the hallways still showed men in hunting gear, men with cigars, men shaking hands over deals that probably violated several modern regulations. But weaving through the inherited wealth and overapplication of potpourri was something sharper: the chemical flash of cameras, the circling of journalists in cocktail attire, the particular electricity of people who made their living turning private moments into public consumption.
Someone had been tipped off.
Emmy spotted three photographers in the first thirty seconds. One near the bar, lens aimed at the VIP section. One by the silent auction, pretending to examine a hand-thrown vase painted with what looked like a liberal interpretation of Charlie Chaplin. One near the entrance, capturing flashy-looking arrivals with the efficiency of a machine.
This wasn't just a charity auction. This was a hunting ground.
"Stop fidgeting," Tyce said, his hand warm on the small of her back. "You look incredible."
She'd dressed very carefully, visions of both clients dancing in her head like cross-dressing behemoth sugar-plum fairies. Black sheath dress, structured shoulders, modest neckline. The kind of thing you wore when you wanted to be taken seriously, not ogled. Except for the shoes, which were neither modest nor businesslike—strappy black heels with tiny silky bows at each ankle she'd pulled from the back of her closet. Her hair was down, loose around her shoulders, which she'd told herself was because the chignon she'd tried made her look like an assistant principal.
"I'm not fidgeting."
"You're holding that champagne like you want to show it a good time." He winked at her. "I don't mind a bit of choking myself."
Any ease she'd managed to achieve wilted like the week-old spinach in her fridge. "Mr. Duke," she finally managed in her most censorious tone.
"Oh, I like that too. Don't stop now." His dimples were working overtime. But underneath the merriment, there was a certain flatness to his gaze, almost... boredom.
She almost didn't see it. Such a small thing—a flicker behind the performance, like a projector skipping a frame. But now that she had, it was all she could see. Is this what Grant had noticed? The thing he'd tried to warn her about, that day at Antonio's? A cat playing with the mouse he planned to eat for dinner. Strangely, she felt no real danger. Just a mild, detached interest.
"Do you ever get tired of it?" she said.
