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I wish I could see that face up close. Without the mask. What does he think of my lovely little Jack of Hearts? Does he realize how easily I got past his defenses, how easily it could have been his wallet, ID, cash, the damned dog tags around his neck, just puckering the collar of his dress shirt.

Maybe he thinks I didn’t notice.

Damn straight I did. Military, that fucker. Shoulda known.

“Is that your friend?”

I almost startle as Rachel slips up next to me—a sure sign that I’ve been way, way too focused on something I shouldn’t have been. I’m supposed to be Mr. Charming and Mr. Observant, while also keeping eyes out for Nick’s boys, and on every other person here, plus figuring out what they’re all doing and what they’re after and who all is involved and up to shenanigans—

I can’t be any of those things if I’m ogling a mysterious man in a fedora and a mask, can I? “Is who my what now?”

She’s homed in on said mysterious man across the room, still studying the playing card perched betwixt his fingers. “The friend you came here for? That him? The blond guy?”

“Oh.” I let my shoulders relax against the wall beside her. “No. He’s a new friend. Hot, right? Haven’t seen Nick yet, though.”

Which means he’s either working another area of the house, or he’s planning to sneak in the back. I don’t like not knowing what he’s doing. I mean, sure, it’s part of the fun, but—

“A new friend?” Rachel nudges her shoulder against mine and shoots me a very particular Look. “He is hot . . . Maybe he’s more than a friend? You taking him home tonight?”

“Shut it, Rach,” I say—nay, growl—which naturally makes Rachel laugh with delight. I shoo her off. “You’re distracting me.”

“From studying Hot Blondie over there?”

“From looking for my actual friend.” And keeping an eye on his for-the-night friends. ’Cause it’s gotta be getting close to make-a-move time. And soon as one of ’em puts even a pinkie out of place, I gotta be ready.

I’m the watcher on the wall, like the blond man across the room. Except I know who my prey is.

I just don’t know what he’s doing. And I don’t like that.

“Right.” Rachel tilts her head against mine, following my gaze, so we realize in the same moment . . . “You’re still staring at Blondie.”

Goddammit!

She’s not wrong. I am staring at him again. Dude hasn’t moved. Like, so much as a muscle. But just ’cause his body’s still, don’t mean his eyeballs—and his brain—aren’t working overtime to make up for it.

I get the feeling that dude sees a whole lot more than he lets on, leaves no stone of observation unturned. He’s not unlike me, I’d wager, except he’s probably not trying to determine the best ways to play people.

Weapons. That man’s thinking about where everybody’s got their weapons stashed—me too probably. I almost grin at the idea of him trying to virtually place a gun under my very fitted suit jacket.

Nah, man. My weapon ain’t anything you can touch or feel. Means it ain’t anything you can take away either.

“Jax, are you in love?” Rachel murmurs, directly into my ear.

I nearly jump out of my damned skin. Fuck! Has she been here the whole time?

“Don’t you have better places to be?” I shove her off, uncharacteristically grumpy. “You’re cramping my style.”

“Your perv-spy style—”

“I’m looking at him ’cause he’s shady—”

Rachel waves me off, a grin slashed across her face. “Sure, sure. Like the waiters.”

“I’m serious. Look at him.” I resist the urge to flap my hand in his direction. “He’s a Fed or something. For sure.”

“For sure.” Rachel grins, then tilts her head. “Oh, speaking of! Your oh-so-sketchy waiter friend is on his way over here!”

And there he is, the Angry Silverback, stomping on by with a tray of champagne glasses. I swipe one off the platter, give him a far too toothy grin. “Oh, I’m parched, thank you!”