“Is making you nervous,” Viktor continued. “Because he does not need you to navigate this. He is managing fine alone.”
“I'm not nervous.”
“You are very nervous. Is why you have not blinked in thirty seconds while watching him talk to that judge.” Viktor's comm crackled again. He listened, expression shifting. “Blyad. French ambassador now throwing wine. Must go. You stay. Watch your investigator. Try not to be obvious about it.”
He left, moving quickly toward whatever diplomatic incident was unfolding. I stayed, telling myself I was covering the ballroom, knowing I was really just continuing to watch Cal work.
He'd moved to a different group now. Shook hands with someone I recognised as a senior prosecutor. Made some comment that had the man nodding thoughtfully. Cal's expression stayed pleasant, interested, giving nothing away about what he was really doing.
Which was gathering intelligence. Observing connections. Building a map of who talked to whom, who looked comfortable together, who avoided each other. All of it filed away in that photographic memory he claimed to have.
I should have been angry he'd infiltrated a palace function without warning me. Should have been concerned about the breach of protocol.
Instead I was watching the way his suit jacket pulled across his shoulders when he gestured, the way his mouth curved when he smiled at something the prosecutor said, the way he commanded space without seeming to try.
My comm crackled. “Dom. Need you at east entrance. Guest trying to leave with palace silverware in her handbag.”
I forced myself to move, to do my actual job instead of standing here like an idiot watching Cal work. But even as I dealt with the kleptomaniac socialite, part of my attention stayed locked on his position across the room.
Twenty minutes later,Viktor and Sebastian cornered me near the portrait gallery.
“Ken Hartley doesn't exist,” Sebastian said quietly. “At least not in any official capacity. Which means your consultant is using a false identity at a palace function.”
My jaw tightened. “It's handled.”
“Is it?” Sebastian's gaze cut across the room to where Cal was currently laughing at something a diplomat's wife had said. “Because Viktor seems to think this might be someone else entirely.”
Viktor's mouth curved slightly. “Dmitri mentioned name. Cal Mercer. Private investigator. Very good at finding things people want buried. This the same person?”
Of course Dmitri would mention it.
“Yes,” I said.
“And you let him come here because?” Sebastian's voice stayed level but steel ran underneath.
“I didn't let him do anything. He showed up with forged credentials.”
“With forged credentials. At a diplomatic function.” Sebastian's fingers tapped once against his champagne glass. “Dominic, I need to know this won't become a problem.”
“It won't. He's investigating corruption, not causing it.”
“Investigating by infiltrating palace events sounds remarkably like causing problems.” But Sebastian's expression had shifted slightly. Less angry. More curious. “What's he after?”
“Connections. Between prosecutors and judges. People who might be protecting someone he's hunting.”
Viktor's eyes narrowed. “Who?”
“Elliot Harrow.”
Understanding passed between them. Sebastian nodded slowly. “The prosecutor who covers his tracks with legal paperwork and charming smiles.”
“Yeah.”
“And you trust this investigator?”
I looked across the room at Cal, watched him navigate the crowd with cold confidence and dangerous competence. “I trust him to be good at what he does.”
“That is not same as trusting him,” Viktor observed.
