Accidentally Marrying the Spy (Accidentally Marrying #4)

Chapter 1

IRIS

As I enter the hotel ballroom, I take a deep breath and give myself a tiny moment to panic. Just to get it out of my system.

A server glides by gracefully with a tray full of champagne glasses, and I interrupt my panic plan, briefly, to grab a beverage. But then I proceed with my freakout.

I allow the fact that I’m about to attend a glitzy gala hosted by the US Embassy in San Isidro to hit me with all the weight a moment like this carries. Gripping the champagne flute tightly, like it’s a life preserver, I quietly reassess the decisions that led me here.

Since I gave myself only a moment, I can’t go too far back in my history of questionable choices.

That would take longer than this entire event.

I start with going to university for a degree in literature and then deciding to go to journalism school, but only being offered and accepting a job with a glitzy fashion magazine.

Next is saying yes to this assignment, even though I have no idea what the hell I’m doing.

But some of the blame for that lies with Dave, my ex-boyfriend, who put a ring on another woman’s finger before he broke up with me.

I jumped into this job because I needed to get away from my small town and his betrayal.

Finally, I end my self-flagellation with allowing my best friend April to talk me into spending more money than I should on the fabulous dress I’m wearing.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, count backward from five, and open my eyes again.

Okay. That’s enough. Time to act like the grownup I pretend I am.

I straighten my spine, lift my chin, and remind myself I belong here. Even if my trip to this small island in the Indian Ocean is the first time I’ve left the US.

Even if my pulse is racing like I’ve committed a crime.

Even if everyone else in this room looks like they were born with a hefty bank account and I’m still getting used to having a monthly income.

This is my first proper assignment.

In a foreign country that’s a political powder keg because the haves keep grabbing more resources from the have-nots. I learned that while researching San Isidro, but as much as I’d like to report on the inequality, it’s not part of the story I’m working on.

I’m here to report on the glamorous wedding between the country’s princess and her American billionaire groom.

Unfortunately, the couple will not be at tonight’s event. As I handed my invitation to the man at the door who checked my name off a list, he told me the groom’s private jet had some sort of mechanical trouble, and the glamorous couple are stuck until someone finds a spare part.

So now I’m at a super fancy party with no idea what to do.

The ballroom glows in the golden light spilling from crystal chandeliers and bouncing off marble floors and satin gowns.

The air smells like citrus, expensive perfume, and power.

Men in tuxedos cluster near the bar, laughing too loudly.

Women glide past like they’ve practiced this walk in mirrors their whole lives.

San Isidro doesn’t do subtle. Or, at least the US Embassy in this tiny South American country doesn’t. They’re the host of this evening’s extravagant event.

I smooth my hands over my dress and try not to fidget.

The emerald silk drapes my body in expertly tailored folds.

The skirt is slit high enough to feel daring, but it has a neckline modest enough to feel safe.

This garment cost me an alarming chunk of my savings and one mild existential crisis in a boutique dressing room, but April said it makes me look like someone who knows what she’s doing.

I don’t.

I scan the room for anyone worth interviewing or anything worth reporting.

The ambassador stands near the dais. Security personnel are spaced evenly along the walls.

Everywhere else is filled with beautiful people in gorgeous clothes.

My editor’s voice rings in my head. Get texture. Get access. Don’t be boring.

Right.

I lift my champagne flute, take a sip, and experience instant regret. The beverage is sharp, and probably very expensive, but it makes my eyes tear up.

“First gala?” The voice comes from my right. It’s low, smooth, unmistakably British, and causes my brain to do a small flip. I quickly blink my tears away and turn, pasting on my best unbothered professional smile, and…

Oh.

He’s tall.

My gaze hits the button just under his bow tie and travels up to broad shoulders that fill out a perfectly tailored tux.

His dark hair is brushed back like he doesn’t need a mirror to get it right.

His jaw is sharp, his mouth dangerous, and his intense blue gaze is focused, alert, and a little too observant.

It flicks over me, but not in an objectifying way.

More like he’s cataloging details he’ll remember later.

I swallow. “Is it that obvious?” I ask.

His mouth curves, slow and knowing. “Your reaction to the drink gave me a hint.”

I glance down at my glass, then back up at him. “Maybe I just have very discerning taste in sparkling wine.”

“Or you don’t know how to brace yourself when served something chosen for cost more than flavor.”

“Or the sip reminded me of all my bad life choices.”

“That was my second guess.” His eyes are warm, and I feel the heat of his gaze sizzle across my skin, making the space between my legs damp. It’s been a long time since I felt this attracted to a man. And never this quickly. I don’t even know his name.

“I’m Julian Cross,” he says, as if reading my mind, extending a hand. “British delegation.”

I take it. His grip is firm, confident, lingering just long enough to feel intentional. My pulse stutters like it’s forgotten how to do its job properly.

“Iris Brooks,” I say. “If we’re going to use both first and last names. Most people call me only by my first name.”

“Do they?” he asks lightly.

“Only if they want me to answer since using both names usually means I’m in trouble.”

That gets a quiet laugh out of him. It’s low and intimate, like it’s just for me. And it does even more dangerous things to my body. I squeeze my legs together, but it only heightens the ache this man has created at my core. “Good to know,” he says. “I’d hate make you think you’re in trouble.”

My eyebrows lift, and I echo his words. “Good to know.” But then I have to look away, because I am definitely in trouble. And this guy has trouble written all over him.

He smiles and leans in. “Unless you like trouble.” The way he looks at me, like he’s amused and curious and very aware of how close we’re standing, in combination with his deep British voice, makes my skin feel suddenly too tight. “Do you?”

“Isn’t it a bit early in our acquaintance to get that personal?” I try for a casual tone, but I’m blushing beet read.

“You’re right. How rude of me.” He sips his champagne and studies me over the rim. “My apologies if I made you uncomfortable.” His face doesn’t look sorry at all. It looks cocky. Like he knows that his words and gaze make my entire body tingle.

“You didn’t,” I say. Unless he means uncomfortably hot and turned on, but I will not say that out loud. It’s definitely too early in our acquaintance for that. Instead, I gesture vaguely around us. “Are you enjoying the glittering spread before us tonight?”

“Immensely,” he replies dryly. “Nothing thrills me like forced small talk and strategic smiling.”

I snort before I can stop myself. “You’re terrible at pretending.”

“I don’t pretend,” he says. “I deflect.” His eyes widen briefly before he looks down at his own drink. Like he surprised himself by confessing something. I file that away. “And what about you?” he asks. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“I’m working,” I say. “Journalist. Just graduated.” I mentally kick myself for letting that last part spill out. Way to make him see you as a na?ve newbie instead of the sophisticated temptress you want to project, Iris.

“Congratulations.” His incredible eyes sparkle with amusement.

“Thank you.” I lift my glass to my lips, but then remember what it tastes like and lower my hand, trying to hide the small shudder the memory caused.

He smiles then, a big proper grin, and it hits me hard. “First big assignment?”

“Is it written all over my face?”

“Not written,” he says. “But implied.” His gaze scans the ballroom, briefly stopping at uneven intervals, as if he’s cataloging what he sees.

“Fantastic. I radiate rookie energy.” My tone is flirty, but inside a cringe.

“You radiate ambition,” Julian corrects, his eyes back on me, and I try to ignore how good that feels. “There’s a difference.”

I tilt my head. “You’re very good at this.”

“At what?” He quirks an eyebrow.

“Putting people at ease.”

“I don’t usually,” he says. “But you seem… receptive.”

I laugh softly. “That might be the nerves.”

Or the way he’s standing close enough that I can feel the heat from his body, which is weirdly comforting while also turning me on. So close that I can smell his cologne, which is clean and subtle and unfairly intoxicating.

“Do you enjoy going to events like these?” I ask, clearing my throat when the words come out a little squeaky.

His gaze drifts over the room again, sharp and assessing. “I enjoy observing them.”

“That’s a politician’s answer.”

“Isn’t it, though?” He gives me that infectious smile again.

I smile despite myself.

“I’m supposed to be networking,” I admit. “But everyone here is very intimidating. Although I’ve studied up on who’s who, I definitely feel like an outsider.”

Julian leans in slightly, his shoulder brushing mine. The contact is casual, but sends sizzles throughout my body. “Rule one,” he murmurs, “no one wants to be here as much as they pretend they do.”

“Even you?”

“Especially me.”

That makes me grin. “That helps. A little.”

“Rule two,” he continues, voice even lower now, “if you look like you belong, most people won’t question it.”

“And if they do?”

“Smile,” he says. “Ask them a question. People love talking about themselves.”

I glance up at him. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”

“I’ve survived worse.”

Before I can ask what that means, a loud voice with a German accent cuts in. “Julian. There you are.”

A red-faced man claps Julian on the shoulder. “Ambassador Klein’s says he can meet with you on Monday.” His gaze flicks to me. “Oh! And who’s this?”

I straighten instinctively. “Iris Brooks. Journalist.”

“Ah, the press,” he says, chuckling like it’s charming. “Well, enjoy the evening. And be gentle when you write about us, won’t you?”

I smile sweetly. “No promises.”

He laughs, shakes his finger at me, and moves on, his eyes looking past Julian’s shoulder, as if there are more important people to chat with.

Julian exhales softly. “Impressive.”

“I smiled and pretended I belonged here,” I reply. “Years of training.”

“Dangerous skill.”

“So I’ve been told.” I watch the red-faced man as he moves through the crowd. “Who is he?” My list of people who would be at this event didn’t include the boisterous man whose booming voice we can hear even though he’s almost at the other side of the dance floor.

“One of the German ambassador’s counselors. He’s junior staff but has senior ego.”

The music swells nearby, and the crowd shifts. For a moment, it feels like the room rearranges itself so we’re standing in our own private pocket of space.

“Dance with me,” Julian says suddenly.

I blink. “Is that a request or a command?”

“A suggestion,” he says. “One you’ll enjoy.”

His confidence should turn me off, but it doesn’t. I should hesitate to accept his invitation, but I know I won’t.

“Fine,” I say. “But if I step on your foot, that’s on you.”

“I’ll take the risk.” There’s that smile again. He grabs my hand and leads me onto the dance floor.

My heart beats loudly in my ears as I step closer to him.

His hand settles at my waist, warm and sure, like it belongs there. My hand rests on his shoulder, and we move together easily, like we’ve danced together before. Julian moves me around the dance floor and murmurs people’s names as we pass by them.

“This feels very strategic,” I murmur.

“Everything is,” he replies. “Doesn’t mean it can’t be pleasurable.”

I look up at him. “You’re trouble.”

His smile is slow, knowing. “You have no idea.”

And just like that, I know.

This man is going to ruin me in the best possible way.

And I’m going to let him.