Chapter Thirteen
In the day and age of heart transplants and helicopters on Mars, Spiker couldn’t explain why uncomfortable footwear like these designer duds existed.
He was confident that Vanka’s choice had been designed to blend in with the crowd more than to torture him.
Then again, when it came to his partner, there was no telling.
The heel-toe clip of her approach sounded from the second floor.
“Let’s see what you’ve got, princess,” Spiker called as he reviewed the new identification in his wallet and double-checked who he would be that evening. He casually strolled from the living room and stopped dead in his tracks.
Vanka struck a pose midway down the staircase.
Black fabric knotted around her neck and poured over her curves as if it were metallic black ink.
Her hair had been pinned up high on top of her head, and her bare arms left unadorned, as if one loose blond strand or jeweled bracelet would detract from sheer perfection.
He should have let out a low, prolonged whistle that would’ve earned him a verbal slap. Without that, Vanka couldn’t roll her eyes and lecture him on being a chauvinist pig, then inspect his clothes for invisible lint and wrinkles as he ensured her concealed carries blended in.
That was their black-tie routine, and he’d gone off script. He’d remained quiet, and now everything was screwed up.
Her glossy lipstick frown deepened, and she backtracked up a stair. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he managed.
“Something’s wrong.” She scrutinized her shoes and dress and then him. “You don’t have anything to say?”
Absolutely not. Spiker didn’t trust his voice. Instead, he offered a slow clap. Vanka hesitated, then lifted her skirt and cautiously descended the stairs. “Thank you.”
The polite thank you sucker-punched him in the gut. If he didn’t pull his act together, they might as well cancel their plans. They wouldn’t be able to maintain their covers. She stopped on the last step. Spiker cleared his throat and announced, “Ten out of ten.”
With an appreciative glance, she skipped the lecture and walked over. Vanka smoothed her palms over his shoulders and down the jacket’s lapels, and he wondered how he’d never noticed her perfume, and still, the scent was familiar.
Tonight, they weren’t armed with anything more than surreptitiously placed digital cameras, and he was grateful she didn’t require an intensive once-over. “We’re good to go?”
“We’re GTG,” she confirmed and headed into the dining room.
Spiker’s blood stopped as if some Cupid-turned-Grim-Reaper had crushed his heart in its hand. Nothing—absolutely nothing—covered her back. The dress was tied at the nape of her neck and disappeared until the swell of her ass. “Have I seen that dress before?”
She glanced over her shoulder and looked up at him through dark eyelashes. “Yes.”
“I don’t remember it.”
She smiled as if the admission pleased her. “That’s the point.”
“If I had made a billion or two in my twenties”—Spiker eased the Maserati off the exclusive road in McLean, Virginia—“I’m not sure that this is the mansion I would’ve picked as my DC metro residence.”
Vanka studied her updo in a small handheld mirror. “Not everyone has your impeccable taste.”
He grinned and braked, grateful that the night had become more manageable.
Spiker liked the sweet ride they’d picked up and, if he was being truthful, he found it hard to gawk at a beautiful woman when her biggest concern was if the McRib sandwiches he grabbed at McDonald’s would stain his tux.
They hadn’t, and everything had gone back to normal.
By design, they arrived before the crush of fashionably late guests but had to wait in a short line for a valet. The pause gave Spiker time to assess the mansion’s purplish stone facade. “What color would you call that?”
Vanka unfastened her seat belt and took a sweeping glance out the windshield. “What?”
“Everything.” He vaguely gestured at the expansive house and driveway. “All of the rocks.”
The line of cars progressed as she took her time answering. “Gray.”
“What? No.” He double-checked that she was serious. “It’s like a purple castle.”
Vanka snickered. “That might be the early-evening light playing tricks on you.”
“No way—maybe not every stone. But, it’s not gray.”
She checked again. “There may be a peach or rose undertone in some of the stones, but it’s not purple.”
“I’m going to write tonight’s report and call this place the purple castle.” He eased the Maserati forward and then parked as the next valet neared Vanka’s door.
“I’m sure Buck will be thrilled.”
One more reason to dislike Buck Baer. The asshole never found Spiker funny. Hell, Buck never found anyone funny. Spiker should’ve flagged that as a risk from day one.
He unfastened his seatbelt and waited until Vanka gave him a nod.
At that moment, she was casual and not yet playing her part, and she blew him away again.
Could he actually quit GSI and risk never seeing her again?
Tonight could be the last time he stepped out with her on his arm.
Their roles weren’t real. They played pretend.
But while they worked, she was his as much as he was hers.
That was why they were so damn good. When he quit, their game would end. “You ready, princess?”
A heavy pause and nod preceded the moment when she stepped into character. The real woman he wanted to keep by his side was temporarily gone. Vanka’s perfect, practiced expression said it was time to go. She rested her hand on the door handle. “As ready as I can be.”
Wasn’t that the truth? Spiker opened his door and traded spots with the valet. Vanka waited for him to round the front of the Maserati. She took his breath away.
“It’s more of a weathered aubergine.” She offered her arm.
He took it and pulled Vanka to his side. “Eggplants are purple. No matter the weather.”
Regardless of what shades of purple stone covered the exterior of Alec Oliver’s mansion, the interior was all one color: marbled white. The floors, walls, stairs, and even (at times) the ceiling gleamed with a modern shininess that got under Spiker’s skin.
All in all, the place fit squarely into his moneyed-class theory; the old-money criminal sects’ real estate and architectural choices were far more palatable than those of new-money grifters.
Whether Alec Oliver was a grifter or not wasn’t the point.
Anyone who threw a few lines of code together and gamed the stock market was one in Spiker’s book.
He could pinpoint those born into wealth from those who accidentally shit out a gold-striking app, no matter their location or list of crimes.
They stepped through an entryway, which allowed them to begin the night’s assignment: photograph and speak with as many targets as possible, including Oliver.
Vanka’s effortless small talk made strangers believe they were old friends.
Spiker played his role, glad-handing and backslapping, and noted every second glance Vanka garnered.
The foyer reached three stories high and curved until it opened in a large reception area. Spiker had his chin up and shoulders back. He disliked the assignment, but wasn’t faking his confident aura. He didn’t have to with Vanka by his side.
They reached a bottleneck where guests were subtly vetted against an invitation list. A man in a black suit, shirt, and tie offered a champagne flute and a formal, “Welcome to Chateau de Oliver.”
Spiker noted the fake accent and thanked him as they took their drinks and continued on.
He discreetly photographed every person they passed.
The waitstaff, dressed in black, wasn’t exempt from scrutiny, nor were the stooges staged as security—both of those groups interested Spiker far more than the actual guest list.
“Do you know what I noticed?” He guided Vanka into a side room with oversized white leather loungers and white marble tables of matching height.
In his expert opinion, it looked like crap.
Whatever design effect they’d tried for had been lost on him.
The more he studied the setup, the more the furniture reminded Spiker of the bench-and-table combinations bolted to the floor at airport gates.
She sipped from her glass and positioned herself at his side. Their plan to arrive early worked. They photographed a majority of the guests as they walked by. “Hm, what’s that?”
“Everyone on Oliver’s payroll is dressed in black.”
The corners of her lips curled. “Does this have anything to do with your old-new money argument?”
“Yeah. Of course it does.” He smiled at a guest who waved as they passed, as if they traveled in the same circles. “Old money doesn’t want you to see the help. New money wants you to know how many are employed.”
“More or less,” she agreed. “And neither care if their friends have decorated their homes with stolen art.”
He shrugged. “How many are friends, and how many are shareholders?”
“Too many.” She held the champagne flute to her lips and pretended to sip the bubbly. “Do you know what I noticed?”
“A thousand things to every single one that I did.”
That time, she didn’t hide her smile. “I noticed that we haven’t yet seen our host.”
“Let’s fix that.” He took her elbow and led them farther into the house. “Photograph the hell out of everyone and hightail out of here.”
Music and voices grew louder as they explored. The marble halls and soaring ceilings amplified and distorted the sound. Spiker wasn’t sure whether the event would have 150 or 550 attendees.