Chapter One
Isaac Baxter had been nursing the same glass of bourbon for forty minutes, and it was starting to taste like punishment.
The ballroom was doing what ballrooms did—crystal, candlelight, a string quartet playing something that wanted to be Vivaldi but wasn’t quite getting there. Three hundred guests in black tie, circulating between the bar and the silent auction tables with polished ease. Charity for children’s literacy. Or cancer. He’d read the invitation, but that had been two weeks ago.
He shifted against the pillar he’d claimed and made himself do the sweep. Exits: four, including the service corridor behind the kitchen. Security: two uniformed at the main entrance, one plainclothes near the auction tables who thought he was blending in but kept touching his earpiece. Staff-to-guest ratio suggested a competent event coordinator.
Nothing and nobody needed him. The whole evening hummed along on its own expensive momentum, and he was mere decoration.
Graham Ashford had asked him to be here at eight. It was eight forty-five, and the man had yet to surface. His son Trent was supposed to be here too—the whole point of the evening,professionally speaking. Graham had called Zodiac Tactical, concerned about some online threats Trent had been receiving. The kid was some sort of influencer with ten million followers, a talent for saying the wrong thing, and apparent zero interest in personal safety.
Graham had enough pull to be able to get ahold of Ian DeRose, Zodiac’s founder and owner, personally. Had probably expected Ian to do the security work himself, regardless of the fact that Ian had mostly retired from the field years ago after marrying Wavy.
Even if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have handled the Ashford family security on his own. Too much time spent at events like tonight had Ian wanting to punch someone in the mouth. He’d handed the intake to Isaac because Isaac could move through a room like this without looking like he was working.
That was because he’d grown up in rooms exactly like this one. Different city, same chandelier. Same conversation about someone’s boat or someone’s vineyard or someone’s kid at Exeter. He’d left that world deliberately, and he didn’t regret it.
But standing here in a tuxedo that fit like it belonged to him—because it did, because he knew exactly how a tuxedo should fit—the familiarity sat just under his skin tonight, an itch he couldn’t scratch. A frequency only he could hear.
He scanned the room again and straightened.
That’s when he spotted Trent.
The kid was at the far end of the bar, leaning in toward a woman who had her back to Isaac. Trent was twenty-three, blond, gym-built in a way that screamed personal trainer five days a week, and was currently using his height to crowd her space. His hand was on the bar beside her, boxing her in.
She shifted. Trent closed the gap.
Isaac set down his glass as a waiter passed by with a tray and moved toward the bar. Not to intervene. To get a betterlook at Trent in his natural habitat before they were formally introduced. Graham wanted Zodiac to protect this kid. Isaac wanted to know what they’d be dealing with.
He found a position along the near side of the bar, close enough to hear but angled away. Ordered a water he didn’t want so he had a reason to stand there.
Trent’s voice hit him first. “What, you’re too good for a free drink? That’s cute.” He said it loud enough that the couple beside them glanced over and then looked away. Trent didn’t notice. Or didn’t care.
The woman said something too low to catch. Calm. Measured. Whatever it was, it should have been a clear enough signal for anyone paying attention that she wasn’t interested.
Trent wasn’t paying attention. He laughed—big and hollow, aimed at the room more than at her—and leaned closer. “You’re here alone, right? So what’s the problem?”
Isaac watched. The smart play was to stay where he was. Let the interaction run its course, introduce himself to Trent later through Graham, keep the evening clean and professional. Inserting himself now meant Trent would remember his face, and that complicated the intake.
The woman shifted her weight away from Trent. Subtle. A half-step that created six inches of space between them. Trent closed it without hesitation, like the gap was an invitation.
Her shoulders tightened. Not fear. Irritation held on a leash. She wanted to shut this down—he could see it in the set of her jaw, the way her fingers curled against the edge of the bar—but she was choosing not to. That was the part that caught him. Not the situation, but her restraint. Whatever her reason for holding back, it was costing her.
Trent put his hand on her arm.
Isaac was already walking. He pulled on the smile he kept for situations exactly like this: warm, slightly apologetic, designedto defuse things before anyone realized there was anything to defuse.
“There you are.” He directed it at the woman, stepping in close enough that Trent had to shift back or get shoulder-checked. “I’ve been looking everywhere. Are we still doing dinner after this, or did you change your mind on me?”
She turned.
Gray eyes. Pale, sharp, almost silver under the ballroom lighting. They landed on him with a cool directness that most people couldn’t pull off with a stranger.
She held his gaze for exactly one second. He watched her take in the whole play—the positioning, the easy tone, the out he was handing her—and decide he was the lesser of two evils.
“You’re late,” she said. “I almost gave up on you.”
“Traffic was a nightmare. Forgive me?”
