Yardley was not surprised. KC had performed at a level of consistent excellence throughout the mission, and today was no exception. What did surprise Yardley was her reaction to KC’s performance, which was to be just as consistently impressed, delighted, and aroused by her breathtaking competence. Except forthat dreadful moment when Dr. Brown had jump-scared her at Mirabel’s, Yardley was having a fantastic time.
Yardley was jubilant that KC was finally out of the basement and getting to do the work she should have been able to do all along.
“These men are so excited to have the salty American who probably stole the device show up at their shindig, they’re acting like it was engraved on the invitation,” Julia said, glancing over her shoulder at the party. “Watching them swarm around her, likely dumping a war brief’s worth of intel into her cute little ears, has got me emerald green with jealousy. Once you go in, Max, it’s going to be a mosh pit of piping-hot goss while they try to figure out if you’re there to negotiate a deal and who for.”
Yardley laughed. “I’ve missed you, Jules. What about Miller?”
“The driver reports that he’s still waiting outside Miller’s girlfriend’s daughter’s private school, where the girl is performing her recital. He’ll ping me once they’re ten minutes away.”
CIA officer David Miller had been ignoring their signals all day. Either he had his own agenda—probably bad—or he was part of Dr. Brown’s nihilistic army. Whenever Yardley thought about pregnant Kris in an over-air-conditioned, dim room in Sweden, coding against the wind while David Miller carried on his cushy life as a deep embed in a London social club, her pique dialed up another notch. God help the world if there were ever a general strike by everyone whowasn’ta white cis-het male. The planet would wobble off its orbit and tumble across the galaxy in free fall.
“Any sign of Dr. Brown?” she asked.
Ordinarily, Yardley loved a good honey trap, but she had every one of her antennae up for this one. If the Palace Club’s dinnerparty drew out Dr. Brown, the only option would be to secure him. Anything else would likely incite him to detonate the device.
After the time she and KC had spent together last night—the questions and the kisses that ruptured Yardley’s last shreds of self-protective resistance and left her defenseless against the enormity of her feelings—she felt confident that she would personally take Dr. Brown apart with her bare hands if he attempted to harm one hair on KC Nolan’s beautiful head.
“No sign of him,” Julia said. “And I haven’t heard a thing, either. Makes me suspicious, taken with the fact that Miller has been ignoring you. Something’s up.”
“Then we find out what it is,” Yardley said. “I’m ready, if you’ll escort me in, Miss Taffy Burton.”
“I love your Eurotrash accent. It makes me feel like a college girl abroad all over again.”
Yardley laughed and took her arm.
In the low, incandescent light of the chandeliers hanging from an airy domed ceiling, every woman’s jewelry sparkled, and every man’s tuxedo blurred into an expensive shadow. The air smelled like champagne and the umami aromas floating off the circulating small bites, with an undercurrent of the Ambroxan, amber, and powdery scents of expensive perfume.
The entrance of Max Konstantopoulos created the desired stir. The murmur of conversation dropped low enough that she could hear renowned cellist Alisa Weilerstein’s mournful, postmodern improvisations drifting over from where she played on a marble dais in the corner.
Yardley grounded herself into her polished wingtips and stalked toward the club president, who owned slightly less land than the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds but had a greatdeal more ready cash due to lucrative investments in gambling apps. He watched her approach under a hedge of white eyebrows while sipping his tumbler of scotch.
“Ms. Konstantopoulos. Rumored you’d be joining us, and I couldn’t imagine why until that American strolled through the doors without an invitation.”
“Why would you correlate my arrival with your party crasher?” Yardley lifted a finger and was handed a champagne from a server’s tray.
“My understanding is she’s here to advertise her wares to any resident arms dealers.” He lifted a shaggy brow, indicating his knowledge of Max’s line of work.
“Always straight to the point.” Yardley lifted her flute. “I notice you haven’t removed either one of us.”
“I’ve become indulgent at my great age, but behave yourself.”
“That’s not what you really want.” Yardley caught the gleam of KC’s silver minidress across the room. “Let me know if you’re interested in buying anything.”
She strode away, the ambient conversations rising in volume around her. She had nearly made it to a massive bronze plinth holding an arrangement of orchids and roses where KC was talking animatedly to a member of the prime minister’s cabinet when she was touched on the elbow.
She turned to see Jack Tremblay, the Canadian spy.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
He frowned. “I would have thought you would be glad to see me.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re on the same side! My god. I saved your girl’s bacon back in Lidingö when you folks were gagging for a diversion.”
“Canadians don’t have real bacon.”
“Is there some reason for the lack of congeniality?” Jack raised his eyebrows, free of smeared gel this time.
