Chapter 13
Thirteen
Alex
Ibreak the kiss as soon as it’s politic to do so.
“Don’t overstep yourself,” I hiss, ignoring the taste of her lips.
“I’m so sorry,” Rita responds. She reaches up and wipes a trace of her lipstick off my mouth with the ball of her thumb. It’s all I can do to not jerk my head back, especially when I know people are watching. “I lost myself in the moment. You truly are a superb dancer.”
“I’m getting a drink,” I say, walking off the dance floor and not waiting for her.
But she catches me up in two strides, hooking her arm through mine. “Play the role, Alex,” she murmurs as we walk. “Everyone else here is a couple, aren’t they?”
Irritatingly, she has a point.
The Metropolitan Club has several rooms, and for tonight, the Company has the use of all of them. Despite DeLuca’s claims, I could’ve come here and not danced; there’s enough going on in the other spaces. Yet everyone has brought their wives or husbands. In that, he’s not wrong.
In the bar, some men talk business over drinks and small tables in the corners, their wives notably absent, mingling elsewhere.
Here and there, a couple sits by themselves or with friends.
It looks like any other gathering, yet each and every one of these men—and some of the women—are employed by the Company.
They watched a man chop his own fingers off twelve nights ago.
I wonder if Dubois is here somewhere.
Fournier was on the dance floor; I recognized him because his was a face I took pains to remember.
Van Wyk too, and his face is indelibly etched into my mind.
A very dangerous man. DeLuca’s here, of course, and his charming wife Maria, who I quite like.
She took pains to come and find me as soon as the evening began, though she didn’t seem to care for Rita.
A few of the other wives have made themselves known to me, some of them with a touch that lingered in invitation.
Perhaps there’s some swinging or sharing going around, but that is one thing I have zero interest in.
Even if it was my kink, that strikes me as insanity beneath Fournier’s philosophy of married stability and Van Wyk’s karambit knife.
Rita leans against the bar, back arched, ass jutting out just enough to be suggestive.
Everything she does is so deliberate, right down to the complete lack of underwear breaking the lines of her dress.
She orders a champagne for herself and a whisky for me, without asking and with a degree of familiarity that raises no eyebrows from those that hear. It’s another smooth move on her part.
DeLuca wanders over with a man I don’t know, and I turn when I see them coming. “Alexander, this is Edward Haynes, your opposite number in Sentinel Risk.”
I shake the man’s hand while Rita takes the opportunity to press close to my other side, staking her claim. My arm slides around her waist, hand resting on her hip, because to not do so would be awkward. She’s playing the moment, as always.
“Edward’s area of specialty is finding people,” DeLuca tells me. “I understand you need some help tracking down some of the cousins on your latest project.”
He’s careful not to mention Greenstone, even in these trusted surroundings, and I reciprocate in kind. “How interesting. We’re working through it now, but it’s early days.”
“I gather timescales are tight,” Haynes says, his voice quiet and clipped, a trace of a British accent.
They are tight. Six months, to be exact.
I make a point of not looking at DeLuca, who I know is watching me. “Indeed. For now, we’re assessing the influence of the key players.” In other words, their voting rights in Greenstone, but I’m certain Haynes doesn’t need me to spell it out.
“Influence is such a fluid thing,” he replies, like he’s never met a man whose opinion couldn’t be swayed. There’s no emotion in his tone, his eyes perfectly flat. The skin tightens around my spine.
“A useful man to know,” I say lightly. “When we run into problems, you’ll be our first call.”
It’s a brush off, however delicate, but Haynes doesn’t seem to mind.
Perhaps he’s more certain than I am that I’ll be calling on his services in the next six months.
But I won’t, if I can help it. Greenstone isn’t such a difficult nut to crack that it would call for the methods of a man like Haynes.
Haynes leaves with a nod and without bothering to shake my hand again, but DeLuca stays.
“You’ve created quite a stir, Miss Lucero.”
Rita places her hand flat on my chest. “I’ve always enjoyed dancing, Mr. DeLuca.”
DeLuca chuckles. “I don’t think anyone will question your quick moves after tonight.” He gives me a nod then wanders off to a far table, joining the three men there.
Maybe I should be networking too, but for now I feel like keeping a low profile.
Or as low as I can, after Rita’s set the gossip flowing.
It’s a good reason to hang out here in the bar, when Fournier’s in the main hall.
There’s no doubt in my mind word will get back to him that Alexander Reyes, engaged to one Victoria Callahan, not only recently joined his secret little clique but turned up with a different woman, then kissed her in public.
As first impressions go, that’s not the best.
I wonder what the record is for the shortest tenure at the Company, and how that came to be, when DeLuca made it clear no one ever leaves. The mental image of Van Wyk’s karambit intrudes, slicing open a throat as easily as it severs a finger, but I didn’t need that prompt to figure it out.
Rita presses my whisky into my hand, and I drink without even thinking about it, my eyes still on DeLuca’s table.
“How long are you planning to stay tonight?” Rita asks in a low murmur.
“It wouldn’t be wise to be the first to leave.”
“I suppose not.” She picks up her glass of champagne then presses herself back against my side. There are people watching us—maybe not us specifically, but they can still see. I’d only be compounding my mistakes if I pushed her away now. I’ve kissed the woman; I have to follow through.
My hand slides around her waist, and she purrs low in her throat.
“I wouldn’t say no to another dance,” she murmurs. “I love the feel of you moving against me.”
It’s so predictable it’s almost repugnant. Where’s the challenge? Where’s the chase? It’s too easy, too banal.
I knock back my whisky and turn to the bar, if only to disengage myself. The barman’s too efficient; it takes him barely a moment to put another glass before me.
“Why do you keep resisting me?” Rita asks, her voice low, pitched only for my ears.
“I have a fiancée.”
It’s a copout and we both know it, but what can I say that won’t upset the delicate balance of our work relationship?
There may come a time when Rita and I part ways, but it won’t be before the Greenstone deal is done.
The disruption of having to replace her would be fatal to the timelines DeLuca’s put on me.
And she knows it.
I consider—briefly—whether sleeping with her would solve the problem or create a worse one.
The answer thuds in the center of my chest: she’s not Vicky.
“And where is your vapid little private investigator tonight?” Rita says, intruding on my thoughts. “Not here, clearly.”
“She’s not been well.”
“Oh, such a shame. Does that mean she’s back at Westchester?”
I shift against the bar. “Why do you ask?”
“Checking she’s not in your Manhattan apartment. Though we can use my place if she is.”
I almost tell her to leave me and just go. The words are on the tip of my tongue. But that would be career suicide. There’s no way I’d Greenstone done in six months without her, and she knows it.
“Alex, my dear. There you are.”
Maria’s interruption is the perfect excuse, and she’s come to the bar from my left side. I turn toward her, putting my back to Rita, who takes barely a moment to slip herself beneath my arm again.
“Were you looking for me?”
“No, I’ve been quite entertained, thank you.” She signals the bartender and orders a champagne.
“I’m so glad you’re having such a wonderful evening,” I say dryly.
Maria’s an interesting character, a good match for DeLuca, and I believe them to be genuinely happy—proof that even twisted souls can find their match.
But I suspect the only thing Maria truly enjoys on a night like this is drama.
She wants me to ask, of course. “What’s the diversion? ”
She meets my gaze with the corner of her mouth curving in smug triumph. “Your delightful choice in women.”
Rita preens beside me, even though Maria hasn’t looked her way.
“Kind of you.” I try and keep it polite, but the ripples of our single kiss are beginning to irritate me. More than beginning.
“Yes, she’s so intriguing,” Maria continues, amusement dancing in her eyes. “A wonderful mind and a delightful conversationist. Winning over so many people.”
Rita stills, or I do. Perhaps both of us. Something’s missing here, and Maria’s playing games. Rita’s been with me all night, and when we spoke to Maria earlier, it was me she focused on. Just as she’s doing now.
For once, I’m not sure what to say. Nothing that comes to mind makes sense.
Maria enjoys my silence. “Truth be told, I was loath to leave her side, but she’s having a dance. So I thought I’d come and get a drink.” She toasts me with her flute.
“What?” The word slips out, sharp in my confusion.
She can’t possibly be implying what it seems she’s implying.
“So bold of you, Alex, you dog you,” Maria says playfully, reaching out to touch my arm. “Bringing two ladies to the ball. I can’t help but wonder what Fournier would think, if he knew.”
Vicky. She’s here. She’s fucking here.
I need to find her. I set my whisky on the bar and straighten. Rita lets go of me, sensing the danger too. She glances involuntarily about the bar, but I know Vicky’s not in this room.
She’s on the floor. Having a dance. With someone else.