Page 22 of Howl Lotta Love

She’d woken up furious about a guard outside her door. She was ending the day with a betting pool, a new lead, and a training bruise shaped suspiciously like a handprint on her hip. All things considered, an upgrade.

SEVEN

JACE

Gerri’s engagement party had lasted exactly two days as a plan before Jace killed it—too many guests, too many unscreened exits, and a guest list Kane’s people could study for a week before ever setting foot in the room. Gerri had sulked about the wasted venue deposits for one full afternoon before pivoting, with visible relish, to a new target. “Fine,” she’d said, already texting someone. “We use the enemy’s own party instead. Considerably more efficient, and I get to watch you both work a room I didn’t have to pay for.”

“Kane Foundation gala, Thursday night. Two hundred guests, half of them donors, half of them people who want to be seen donating.” Jace slapped the floor plan up on the wall screen, red pins marking exits, sightlines, the two staircases that mattered. “Perfect access to their offices and files.”

“You aren’t even sure Kane is behind all this yet,” Emma reminded him.

“My instincts say it’s him.” He turned back to the map. “We go in as a couple selling a story nobody’s supposed to question. You work the donor lists. I work the room. Neither of us wanders off alone.”

“I wander off alone constantly. It’s my whole professional method.” Emma leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, not remotely fazed by the floor plan or the two hundred strangers she was about to charm. “You’re describing my ordinary day.”

“Your ordinary day doesn’t usually end with someone photographing you from a rooftop.”

“Fair.”

Roman rose from his seat with the gravity of a man about to deliver a TED talk. “For the record, I want to formally offer my services demonstrating convincing fiancé behavior. Hand-holding. Meaningful eye contact. I took a class.”

“You didn’t take a class.”

“I watched several romantic comedies with real focus.” He advanced on Emma with both hands extended, palms up, doing his best impression of theatrical devotion. “May I demonstrate the⁠—”

The sound that ripped out of Jace wasn’t language. It came from somewhere low and old, a warning shot his body fired before his brain signed off on it, sharp enough that Roman’s hands dropped and every easy line of his stance went instantly, comically rigid.

“Noted.” Roman sat back down at double speed. “Boss has opinions. Duly noted and never repeated.”

Emma studied Jace with open, delighted interest, one eyebrow climbing toward her hairline, and he found his shirt sleeves suddenly fascinating rather than confirm anything with his face.

“Anyway.” He planted both hands on the table and leaned in, all business, though the growl was still humming somewhere under his ribs looking for an excuse to come back out. “Victor Kane’s hosting. Runs half the philanthropic circuit in this city, funds three of the charities on our list, and his security detail moves with military-contractor precision instead of event-staff shuffling, which tells me exactly who’s footing the bill. You mirror me. I mirror the room. We don’t split up.”

“We’re going to have to split up eventually if I want access to anything useful.”

“Not on night one.”

“Night one is when the guard’s lowest.”

“Night one is when I don’t know the room yet.” He held her gaze until she looked away first, which she did with visible reluctance. “We do this my way until I’ve mapped the exits myself. After that, negotiate.”

“Fine.” She said it in the tone of a woman banking the disagreement for later use, which was, he was learning fast, exactly what it was. “For the record, I’d rather be doing actual surveillance than pretending to enjoy the hors d’oeuvres for three hours while a string quartet murders Vivaldi.”

“You’ll survive the Vivaldi.”

“I’ll survive the Vivaldi. I make no promises about the shrimp.” She stood, reaching for her bag. “This whole operation is going to be surveillance with appetizers, isn’t it?”

“Accurate,” Tucker said, from behind his laptop, without looking up. “Putting that in the mission file.”

“Don’t.”

“Already did.”

Diesel looked up from the tactical vest he was inspecting. “I could come as backup catering staff. Nobody questions a man carrying a tray.”

“You’re six foot five and built out of muscle and bad decisions.”

“Doors carry trays too.”