Chapter 3 #2
“Central Kingdom,” Maaz confirmed with a curt nod of greeting, which she returned, wondering when Papà had become friends with a Saudi crown prince.
Through the years, Galtieri money had forged connections with many important friends and business partners.
The Saudis were powerful and influential.
The two kingdoms had made nice with the American president in the last year, which altered some of the tension emanating throughout the Middle East. It made sense that Papà would recruit a country known for having trillions and a love of technology.
“Will we see you on the runway again soon?” Claude asked.
“No, I…” Saying she quit because her grief over Mamma’s death felt smothering was probably too much information. “I decided I liked food too much to continue starving myself.”
Claude and Papà laughed, but the prince eyed her warily. There was something quite unnerving about him. Had Papà invited him? She certainly had not, and she controlled the attendee list. Maybe she could work her way around the party, see if she could overhear his conversations.
“Enjoy yourself, gentlemen.” Cove gave Papà a kiss on the cheek and left to wander and greet the other guests.
Mingle and hopefully pick up tidbits. Eavesdropping was not something she was proud of, but she was adept at absorbing what others were careless with.
The skills were a bit mercenary, but necessary.
She must prove Papà’s innocence before his trial in a few months.
“What of Yemen?” a man asked, his low, brusque voice drifting from where two men stood all but hidden in shadow.
Cove deliberately slowed, nodding to guests, while training her ears on the men.
“Volatile.”
“I meant triggers,” the first hissed.
“That is what I meant as well.”
She slid her gaze toward the well-dressed men talking by a boxed tree.
One had a head of near-white, a thick black unibrow, and a salt-and-pepper beard.
She did not recognize him, but the man with him—the one with balding hair, a white beard, gray mustache, and two brows—she did know.
And he’d noticed that they’d drawn her attention.
Not wanting to appear caught at listening in, Cove smiled and moved toward him.
Besides, she needed to ingratiate herself and learn the man’s identity.
“Minister Abashidze,” she said and inclined her head.
Papà had spoken fondly of him, despite their political differences. “Glad you were able to make it.”
The Georgian political adviser had his work cut out for him back home since his country had entered a constitutional crisis. But the man held more power and influence in his little finger than most had in a lifetime.
“It is truly my pleasure, Miss Galtieri,” the white-bearded minister said. “As always, your father has outdone himself.”
It did not bother her that Papà received compliments for her work, because she had done this to honor him, to support him.
What better compliment could there be? “You know him—he will go to great lengths to ensure his allies know they are appreciated.” She considered the other man as she replied.
Since neither had introduced him, she must insist by extending her hand. “I do not believe we have met, Mr.…”
“Ah,” Zviad Abashidze said, touching the man’s shoulder. “This is Yusif Rasulov.”
The unibrow man gave her a gap-toothed smile but said nothing as they shook hands.
“He does not speak English well.”
And yet, Rasulov had spoken English quite smoothly when they were not aware of her presence.
Mentally logging the name, Cove wondered at his tight grip.
It might be acceptable in patriarchally dominated cultures, but in her circle…
a man kissed a woman’s hand or shook it lightly, not crushed it—especially with a look that made her feel like he wished it had been her neck.
“Welcome to the GIS Meeting of Minds, Mr. Rasulov.” Something about this man urged her to move on. She offered Abashidze another smile. “Please, be sure to say hello to my father, Minister. I know he would be pleased to talk with you tonight.”
Abashidze looked in Papà’s direction, his smile wavering. “Of course.”
Why was he nervous?
Even as she walked away with their well-wishes, she drew over to the side and opened her clutch to make a note of Rasulov’s name.
When she tugged out her phone, she accidentally flipped Mr. Dark Eyes’ device out.
It clattered to the walkway. She quickly retrieved it, checked for damage, then returned it to her clutch, which she tucked under her arm.
In her phone, she typed “Yusif Rasulov” into her Notes folder, then into her browser.
Huh. There was a Yusif Rasulov serving as Chairman of the National Assembly in— “Azerbaijan.”
Santo cielo. A Georgian minister bringing an Azerbaijani… That could be a really interesting conversation.
Did Papà know Abashidze had brought this man?
Looking up, she sought Papà, wanting to be there when the three of them talked.
Or at least closer to listen in. But her heart fell when she spotted Papà motioning the four men—Claude, the prince, the minister, and Rasulov—through a side door that led to a bar. Likely to talk.
Hm, I am suddenly thirsty… Even as she took the first step in that direction, a vise clamped onto her arm. Startled, she glowered at the person who’d waylaid her.
“S’il te pla?t, s’il te pla?t,” hissed Adelaide, begging as she touched their cheeks and dug her sharp fingernails into Cove’s bicep.
“Ow!”
“Who is he?” rasped Adelaide hungrily. “You must tell me who he is, s’il te pla?t.”
Cove scowled at the socialite and tugged free, no idea who she meant. “Who?” she balked, rubbing her aching arm.
“That.” Adelaide pointed between two magnolia trees near the fountain. “That delicious piece of art.”
Cove spotted Flavio and Izetta chatting with a couple. “I don’t—”
But then she did—past the foursome. In a dark gray coat that looked too big, black shirt, and slacks, he held a glass of champagne as he scanned the party. Those brooding eyes swung around to her, stealing the breath from her lungs. It was him—Dark Eyes.