I shake the man’s hand while Rita takes the opportunity to press close to my other side, staking her claim. My arm slides around her waist, hand resting on her hip, because to not do so would be awkward. She’s playing the moment, as always.
“Edward’s area of specialty is finding people,” DeLuca tells me. “I understand you need some help tracking down some of the cousins on your latest project.”
He’s careful not to mention Greenstone, even in these trusted surroundings, and I reciprocate in kind. “How interesting. We’re working through it now, but it’s early days.”
“I gather timescales are tight,” Haynes says, his voice quiet and clipped, a trace of a British accent.
They are tight. Six months, to be exact.
I make a point of not looking at DeLuca, who I know is watching me. “Indeed. For now, we’re assessing the influence of the key players.” In otherwords, their voting rights in Greenstone, but I’m certain Haynes doesn’t need me to spell it out.
“Influence is such a fluid thing,” he replies, like he’s never met a man whose opinion couldn’t be swayed. There’s no emotion in his tone, his eyes perfectly flat. The skin tightens around my spine.
“A useful man to know,” I say lightly. “When we run into problems, you’ll be our first call.”
It’s a brush off, however delicate, but Haynes doesn’t seem to mind. Perhaps he’s more certain than I am that I’ll be calling on his services in the next six months. But I won’t, if I can help it. Greenstone isn’t such a difficult nut to crack that it would call for the methods of a man like Haynes.
Haynes leaves with a nod and without bothering to shake my hand again, but DeLuca stays.
“You’ve created quite a stir, Miss Lucero.”
Rita places her hand flat on my chest. “I’ve always enjoyed dancing, Mr. DeLuca.”
DeLuca chuckles. “I don’t think anyone will question your quick moves after tonight.” He gives me a nod then wanders off to a far table, joining the three men there.
Maybe I should be networking too, but for now I feel like keeping a low profile. Or as low as I can, after Rita’s set the gossip flowing. It’s a good reason to hang out here in the bar, when Fournier’s in the main hall. There’s no doubt in my mind word will get back to him that Alexander Reyes, engaged to one Victoria Callahan, not only recently joined his secret little clique but turned up with a different woman, thenkissed her in public. As first impressions go, that’s not the best.
I wonder what the record is for the shortest tenure at the Company, and how that came to be, when DeLuca made it clear no one ever leaves. The mental image of Van Wyk’s karambit intrudes, slicing open a throat as easily as it severs a finger, but I didn’t need that prompt to figure it out.
Rita presses my whisky into my hand, and I drink without even thinking about it, my eyes still on DeLuca’s table.
“How long are you planning to stay tonight?” Rita asks in a low murmur.
“It wouldn’t be wise to be the first to leave.”
“I suppose not.” She picks up her glass of champagne then presses herself back against my side. There are people watching us—maybe not us specifically, but they can still see. I’d only be compounding my mistakes if I pushed her away now. I’ve kissed the woman; I have to follow through.
My hand slides around her waist, and she purrs low in her throat.
“I wouldn’t say no to another dance,” she murmurs. “I love the feel of you moving against me.”
It’s so predictable it’s almost repugnant. Where’s the challenge? Where’s the chase? It’s too easy, too banal.
I knock back my whisky and turn to the bar, if only to disengage myself. The barman’s too efficient; it takes him barely a moment to put another glass before me.
“Why do you keep resisting me?” Rita asks, her voice low, pitched only for my ears.
“I have a fiancée.”
It’s a copout and we both know it, but what can I say that won’t upset the delicate balance of our work relationship? There may come a time when Rita and I part ways, but it won’t be before the Greenstone deal is done. The disruption of having to replace her would be fatal to the timelines DeLuca’s put on me.
And she knows it.
I consider—briefly—whether sleeping with her would solve the problem or create a worse one.
The answer thuds in the center of my chest: she’s not Vicky.
“And where is your vapid little private investigator tonight?” Rita says, intruding on my thoughts. “Not here, clearly.”
