I’ve clearly been staring too long, because her head turns, and she makes eye contact with me. It lasts only a moment before she turns back to McCarter.
Well, that won’t do. I need her eyes back on me. I need to know her name. I need…more.
I should not walk over there. McCarter would not like it known that we know each other, but I seem to be walking over there against my will.
McCarter turns to see what or who caught his guest’s eye—his expression easy, eyes bright with mischief—until they land on me. His eyes widen, the mask faltering for the briefest moment.
“Good evening. Speaker Max McCarter, right?” I ask, pretending we don’t know each other. I surprise even myself. I wish I could explain it. I can’t. I just know I need to find out who this woman is.
“Yes, hi.” McCarter’s confusion is apparent as he shakes my hand.
“I’m Enzo Luciano. My family and I own this fine establishment.”
They both look at me like I have three heads.
It’s official, I’ve lost my damn mind. The Luciano familyowning The Vault is one of those horribly kept secrets. Everyone knows, but no one talks about it. We can’t have Washington elites frequenting a mafia-owned bar “knowingly.” Even if it is where they all come to get money laundered, unregistered weapons, extra protection, and various other illegal needs met.
Standing next to her, every part of my body feels chaotic and out of control. It feels like a spike of adrenaline has caused my pulse to race and my nerves to light on fire. I’ve never had a physical reaction like this to another person.
“I wanted to introduce myself and ensure you are both being taken care of.” I motion to the bartender to get them another round. It’s clear I’m grasping at straws.
The redhead barely acknowledges my existence.
I turn to shake her hand next, fooling no one as I ask, “And who is this lovely woman joining you tonight?”
She doesn’t extend her hand to shake mine; she tilts her head in challenge. “And why would you want to know that, Mr. Luciano?” Her raspy voice is intoxicating.
I offer a slow, charming grin. “Enzo. Please, call me Enzo. Mr. Luciano was my father.” I wait for the softening—the smile that usually comes when I try to endear people with this line.
It doesn’t come. She remains unaffected.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at my bar, and I make a point of knowing our VIPs. I assume if you’re here with the Speaker, I need to ensure my staff knows to take care of you.”
I’m just taking care of a VIP in my bar, that makes sense. I tell myself this isn’t simply about attraction—something is off. My instincts are screaming, and they’ve never been wrong. I need to know who she is and what she’s doing here with McCarter. Yes, that’s it. It has nothing to do with the fact that my pulse hasn’t slowed since I saw her from across the room.
She finally smiles and extends her hand. “Well, I am certainly not the VIP that the Speaker is, just a lowly overworked andunderpaid Washington staffer.” She pretends to defer to McCarter, but anyone who knows anything sees exactly who is in charge in their dynamic. And it’s not him.
At her touch, my skin sparks. Every neuron in my body wants more contact in more places. But too soon, she pulls her hand away.
“Yes, we are here on business.” McCarter interrupts, with a very clear undertone that it’s time for me to leave. Normally, I’d take his lead and be on my way, but I can’t leave yet. I don’t have her name.
“Of course. Have the two of you eaten? Can I send out any food?” I ask as the bartender delivers their next round. “Caleb, send me the bill for the Speaker and his guest, please.”
“Thank you so much, Mr. Luciano—” McCarter says with a curt politeness.
“Enzo. Call me Enzo, I insist.”
He continues, “Of course. No need for food, though, Miss Saint James and I are almost done here. We’ll finish this round and get out of your hair.”
Miss Saint James. Her name floats like poetry in my mind as I commit it to memory. And it tells me several things I need to know right now. He said “Miss,” not “Mrs.” Very important. And Saint James is not likely to be a common name on the Hill, so she will be easily identified by my team.
Lastly, the name is charming, regal, graceful, even.
Which makes it a lie. No one this composed—this precise and calculating—is just a demure staffer in DC.
No. She’s notjustanything. She’s strategy in stilettos.
I know danger when I see it. And Miss Saint James is the epitome of danger.
