She tips her head to one side. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
Fuck. She’s a little too sharp this one.
“Look, it’s nothing to be concerned about. As you say, this place is vast. I need to know where you are in case I need you for anything.”
When her eyes narrow further, I add, “It’s no big deal. I can put a tracker on my phone, for you. How does that sound?”
Her face lights up. “That soundsfun.”
I refrain from rolling my eyes. “Believe me, you won’t find anything fun in my whereabouts.”
“I have to be able to getsomethingout of this,” she says, handing me her cell. “Like stalking but totally permissible. No restraining orders necessary.”
I dart her a look. “Is there somethingyou’renot tellingme?”
She simply runs her tongue along her top teeth and arches a brow.
Holding the phone at my lap, I get to work.
“There,” I say, handing it back. “Now you can stalk me.”
Her blue eyes roll a little when she snatches it back. “And there I was thinking romance was dead.”
The rest of dinner is uneventful. I coast my gaze every so often across the other tables and diners, but so far no one is obviously Bratva, apart from perhaps the man sitting across from me with a wife who doesn’t speak English. The names Nicholas and Anna are generic enough, but they’re also popular Russian names if spelled a certain way.
Thankfully, my distraction goes unnoticed because Erin—my wife—is dazzling.
Her interactions over the course of the evening are light and warm, not letting conversation become too heavy or stale, keeping it moving with witty one-liners and astute observations.
I’m almost disappointed when guests begin to retire for the evening, ready for a day of briefings, covert examinations and assessments, and laying the groundwork for negotiations. I’m not the only one.
I’ve noticed the sidelong glances and lingering looks all directed at my so-called wife, and I have to admit, it makes my hairs bristle, and my tux feel tight and uncomfortable.
But then I remember,I’mthe one taking Erin back to my room. My chest expands at the thought of getting one over on these assholes. No one needs to know we’re about to sleep with a railroad of pillows between us.
“Well, that was interesting,” Erin says back in the suite, removing a set of gold droplet earrings.
“What was?”
“Dinner.”
“What was so interesting about it?”
“Just, a very eclectic group of people, that’s all.”
I loosen my bowtie, sliding it free from my collar. After her intelligent interactions over dinner, I’m interested to hear her thoughts. “Can you elaborate?”
“Todd and Janey seem to be terribly out of their depth. Todd kept fiddling with his cufflinks like he was super nervous.”
I shake off my jacket, laying it to rest on the back of a chair. “Go on.”
“On a few occasions I noticed him glug back his drink, then stop abruptly as if he’d forgotten himself. And Janey watched him closely all through dinner, hardly saying a word.”
Removing my own cufflinks, I walk into the bedroom and place them by the bed. Erin leans against the doorframe to remove her heels.
This information is useful. As per my own observation, Todd isn’t a criminal by trade—he’s too shit-scared for that. His waxy skin is that of someone who works in an office, with people who are compliant, bored and demotivated. He’s here not because he’s powerful, but because he’s desperate.
“And the British couple,” Erin continues, “they hardly looked around the room when they arrived. I thought they would havebeen more curious about the other guests, but they didn’t seem to care who else was there.”
