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“Yes.” He looks like a little boy who has been caught stealing candy but is feigning remorse.
“This is deranged,” I state.
“I have been called worse,” he jests, as his fingers dance up and down my rib cage and his other hand brushes over my knuckles still.
“It is manipulative.”
“Also true.”
“Absurd.”
“Certainly,” he states matter-of-factually.
“Expensive.”
“Painfully worth it for you.”
I should be furious. I am furious and yet, beneath the anger, something bright and unwanted glows. He did not interrupt my hunt, he became it. Lazarus leans closer, his voice dropping. “I wanted one evening where you were not chasing a monster, Olive. One evening where the deception ended with music instead of a corpse.”
My throat tightens and the room returns in fragments.
“You could have asked,” I say.
His smile turns rueful. “Would you have come?”
No.
The answer sits between us. I glance toward the balcony, down to all the guests crowding. Then toward the lavish room built upon lies and borrowed wealth. “Who are all these people?”
“Real criminals, mostly.”
My gaze snaps back at him as Lazarus grins.
“I said I wanted your attention. I did not say the evening could not be useful.”
Of course. Of course he would make a romantic trap out of a criminal gathering. I hate how pleased I am, and a tiny laugh escapes me.
He nods toward the upper balcony, “Several have ties to the Collector’s web. Not the grand party we want to attend, but threads. We will have names, weaknesses and a lesser rehearsal, perhaps.”
I study him. “Did Alcott assist?”
“He supplied the guest list and three forged seals.”
“Edward?”
His expression shifts as he purses his lips together. “No.”
The ache that follows is immediate. Annoying. Lazarus sees that too.
“Still fighting himself,” he says gently.
“I did not ask.”
“No. But your face did.” He retorts cunningly.
I look away discouraged, and his hand tightens lightly around mine. “Dance with me, Widow.”
“I am angry with you.”
