That and the part where my body clearly hadn’t gotten the memo that fury and desire were supposed to be mutually exclusive.
I drained my champagne and grabbed another from a passing server, then began my circuit of the room. The key to investigative journalism wasn’t dramatic confrontations — it was patience. Listening. Being invisible enough that people forgot you were there.
I was very good at invisible. Tonight, I needed to be invisible and nothing else.
The ballroom glittered around me — crystal chandeliers scattering light across three hundred of Chicago’s most influential citizens, all arranged at tables that probably cost more than my car. Women draped in jewelry. Men draped in self-importance. Everyone draped in money they probably hadn’t earned ethically.
And somewhere in this glittering circus, there was more evidence to find. I had a story to build. I had a source to protect and a corruption network to unravel and a career that dependedon my ability to remain professional in the presence of a man who had been anything but.
Focus.
Near the silent auction, I found my first opportunity. Two men in suits that screamed “board member” had positioned themselves by a display of sports memorabilia, voices low but not low enough.
“These environmental reports,” one of them muttered, adjusting his cufflinks, “they’re just formalities. What matters is the bottom line.”
His companion nodded, swirling his drink. “The wetland mitigation was a joke. Nobody’s actually checking those numbers.”
“Laurent’s people handled it. That’s all I needed to know.”
I pretended to examine a signed baseball, angling my clutch toward them. The recorder would pick this up. Every damning word.
“Besides,” the first man continued, “the permits were approved months ago. Even if someone raised questions now, it’s too late to stop construction.”
“That journalist poking around — the one from the Tribune — she’s harmless. No one reads newspapers anymore.”
My jaw tightened. Harmless. I’d show them harmless.
I moved on before they noticed my interest, weaving through clusters of donors and socialites. A woman in a gown that looked painted on was loudly discussing her yacht renovation. Three developers compared golf handicaps. Someone’s wife complained about the difficulty of finding good help these days.
None of it was useful. All of it made me want to scream.
The string quartet shifted into something classical and tedious as I approached a side table near the bar. Someone had left documents there — actual printed documents, like wewere living in the stone age — partially obscured by a floral centerpiece.
I glanced around. No one was watching.
My phone came out, and I snapped photos as quickly as I could without looking suspicious. Environmental impact assessments with questionable signatures. A construction timeline that didn’t match public records. A list of subcontractors I’d need to research.
Pure investigative gold.
The feeling of being watched slid down my spine a half second before he spoke.
I didn’t jump. I had better training than that. But my grip tightened on my phone as I turned to face Sebastian Laurent.
He stood three feet away, champagne in hand, looking at me like I was the most entertaining thing at his own party. Up close, he was exactly as I remembered from the balcony — taller than the ballroom lights suggested, broad enough that he crowded the air around him. The same beard. The same jaw. The same watch catching the light, indifferent to the fact that I now knew what his voice sounded like when it came undone.
And those storm-gray eyes, tracking everything — my phone, my clutch, the documents I’d been photographing — with the same focused attention that had cataloged every gasp, every sharp inhale, every moment I’d come apart under his hands.
I hated that I was thinking about that. I hated it with impressive ferocity.
“Research,” I said, forcing my voice steady. “I’m thorough.”
“I noticed.” He didn’t sound angry. He sounded curious, which was somehow worse. “Most journalists would have left after the keynote. They got their sound bites, their photo ops. But you’re still here.”
“Maybe I just really like champagne.”
“It’s mediocre champagne.”
“Then maybe I really like mediocre champagne.”
