Chapter 6
The ceremony happens without an assassination. Travers is unbearably pleased with himself.
Kane gets married beneath the arch Vesper photographed from inside my supposedly impenetrable perimeter. Hannah cries. Haverhill pretends he isn't going to, then loses that fight somewhere around the second paragraph of his vows.
Drew elbows me once when Kane's voice catches.
I ignore him.
My attention keeps moving.
Not obviously.
I've recovered enough self-respect for that.
But every woman becomes a possibility.
The harpist is too old.
One of the catering supervisors is too tall.
Three blondes sit together on Hannah's side, none matching anything I know about Vesper.
Caramel hair appears everywhere now that I'm looking for it.
Or maybe I only notice because hers has lived in my head for years.
Drew catches me checking a reflection in the polished silver champagne bucket near the aisle.
“Subtle.”
“Watch the wedding.”
“I am.”
“You're watching me.”
“You're more entertaining.”
I resist the urge to answer.
Vesper came.
That's the problem.
She was here long enough to get inside my perimeter, send Sergei through the main gate, photograph the ceremony arch, and apparently disappear into hundreds of guests and staff without leaving me one useful clue.
The ceremony ends.
Kane kisses Hannah.
Everyone cheers.
For several minutes the entire property becomes movement—champagne, congratulations, hugs, photographers authorized by Hannah, people crossing between the lawn and reception terrace.
Exactly the sort of chaos Vesper would use.
I don't.
Not immediately.
I promised Haverhill no visible escalation until after the vows.
Vows are over.
Now I start asking questions.
Quietly.
Catering staffing sheets first.
Florists.
Rental teams.
Musicians.
Temporary service hires.
I compare faces against credential photos and arrival logs.
Nothing.
Every worker who entered through the staff gate belongs somewhere.
Or appears to.
That's different.
“She's not staff.”
Drew's voice comes from behind me.
I turn.
He has champagne in one hand and his tuxedo jacket thrown over one shoulder.
“You suddenly work intelligence?”
“No. I work women.”
“That sentence alone should concern your wife.”
“Isa understands my skill set.”
“I doubt that.”
He grins. “You think Miss London Bridge crossed an ocean to spend Haverhill's wedding washing forks?”
“She already infiltrated the property.”
“Exactly. She's going to enjoy it.”
I look at him.
He gestures around us.
“Open bar. Famous people. Great food. She beat you. Why hide in a kitchen after?”
Because unlike Travers, Vesper understands risk.
Still—my gaze moves toward the reception tables.
Guests.
That possibility bothers me more.
Staff can be verified.
Guests are harder.
Families branch.
Friends bring spouses.
Professional athletes arrive with agents, girlfriends, relatives, people whose identities are legitimate enough that nobody questions whether anyone at the next table personally recognizes them.
I designed security around threats entering the wedding.
I didn't design it around someone who could become socially invisible once she was already inside.
Drew watches my face.
“See?”
“See what?”
“That little twitch.”
“I didn't twitch.”
“You're doing math.”
“I always do math.”
“She's a guest.”
“Maybe.”
His grin grows.
“Now you're learning.”
I leave him before he becomes more pleased with himself.
By the time dinner begins, I've questioned nineteen people.
Nothing.
By the speeches, thirty-four.
Still nothing.
Vale catches me outside the service corridor after I finish speaking to the catering director.
“Are you planning to interrogate the cake?”
“If necessary.”
“You're missing Haverhill's reception.”
“I can hear it.”
“You've known him long enough to know he'll notice.”
I glance through the open doors.
Kane has Hannah tucked against his side while Jalen says something into a microphone that makes half the room laugh and the other half cover their faces.
Haverhill looks happy.
Annoyingly happy.
“Five minutes,” I tell Vale.
“You said that twenty minutes ago.”
I look at him.
He lifts both hands.
“Not my problem.”
Then he walks away.
I finish checking the temporary florist list.
Nothing.
No Vesper.
No anomaly I can prove.
No woman with caramel hair appearing in the wrong place.
Maybe she's already gone.
That possibility twists something ugly inside me.
She came.
Saw me.
And left.
Again.
London Bridge with champagne.
I hate how much that thought gets under my skin.
I return to the reception.
The lights are lower now.
Candles flicker across the tables. Music drifts through open doors toward the terrace. The Pacific beyond the glass is nearly black, reflecting ribbons of gold from the estate.
My jacket isn't on the back of my chair.
I stop.
It was there.
I know exactly where I left it.
Folded over the chair beside my place setting before I went to speak with security.
Now it's draped neatly across the arm.
Different position.
My pulse changes.
Then I see the Scotch.
Untouched when I left.
Not untouched now.
A dark pink lipstick print marks the rim of the crystal.
Perfect.
Deliberate.
Beside it lies a single red rose.
Not one of the wedding roses.
Those are white.
This one is blood red.
My entire focus narrows.
Drew appears beside me.
“What?”
I don't answer.
He follows my gaze.
“Oh.”
His voice changes.
Then:
“Ohhh.”
“Don't.”
“She was here.”
I reach for the glass.
Stop before touching the rim.
Lipstick.
Saliva.
DNA.
For the first time in years, Vesper has deliberately left me something biological.
My pulse kicks harder.
Too easy.
Which means she wants me to take it.
That realization should make me cautious.
It doesn't stop me.
A folded piece of cream stationery rests beneath the base of the Scotch.
I slide it free.
One line.
Handwritten.
Elegant.
No block letters.
No attempt to hide feminine script.
I am not what I am.
Below it:
—V
I stare at the words.
Shakespeare. Othello.
Naturally.
Drew reads over my shoulder.
“That's romantic.”
“It absolutely is not.”
“She drank your Scotch, left you a red rose, and quoted Shakespeare.”
“It's a warning.”
“Sexy warning.”
I look at him.
He shrugs.
“Still counts.”
Something catches my attention.
My jacket.
I lift it from the chair.
Nothing missing.
Pockets untouched.
Secure devices still present.
Then I smell it.
Faint.
Almost gone.
Something warm and floral buried beneath my cologne.
Not one of Hannah's wedding arrangements.
Not the rose.
Something else.
She wore my jacket.
Or held it close enough to leave perfume behind.
I bring the collar nearer before I can stop myself.
Orange blossom.
Maybe.
Something Mediterranean.
Clean and soft.
I close my eyes for half a second.
Vesper stood here.
At my chair.
Drank from my glass.
Touched my clothes.
Maybe lifted the jacket around her shoulders.
Maybe—
No.
Don't invent things.
Drew is watching me.
His expression slowly transforms into obscene delight.
“You just smelled your jacket.”
“I was identifying a fragrance.”
“You inhaled that thing like it was oxygen.”
“I did not.”
“Blackwell.”
“Stop.”
He presses both hands over his heart.
“This is better than France.”
I tuck the note into my inside pocket.
“Where were you twenty minutes ago?”
“At the bar.”
“Who was here?”
He looks toward the room.
“Everybody.”
“Who touched this table?”
“I wasn't conducting surveillance.”
“Try remembering.”
He sees my expression and finally thinks.
“Wait.”
I go still.
“What?”
“There was a blonde.”
My pulse moves.
“Describe her.”
Drew's grin returns immediately.
“Ah.”
“Travers.”
“Right. Serious.”
He looks toward the bar.
“California blonde.”
“That means nothing.”
“It means a lot.”
“Describe her.”
“Big hair.”
I stare.
“Expensive big hair. Like Malibu. Blowout. Whatever women call it.”
“Height.”
“Maybe five-five?”
Too tall?
No.
Vesper's photograph gives me limited scale.
“Eyes?”
“Blue.”
My attention sharpens.
“Blue how?”
Drew thinks.
“Big. Baby blue, maybe. Bright.”
Vesper has never sent me her eyes.
My brain supplies them instantly anyway.
Blue above the mouth from the photograph.
Wrong.
Possibly.
“Skin?”
“Tan.”
“Hair shade?”
“Blonde.”
“I gathered that.”
He takes a drink.
“Long. Expensive. California. Like she spends summers on yachts and winters destroying divorce settlements.”
I glare.
“Anything useful?”
“She was hot.”
“Excellent forensic description.”
“No, I mean really hot.”
“Drew.”
“I'm trying to help.”
“How?”
He gestures vaguely toward his chest.
“She had…”
I wait.
He appears to realize he's speaking to me, not Jalen.
“Curves.”
I continue staring.
He sighs.
“Big boobs, Blackwell. Is that medically precise enough?”
My brain stalls.
I hadn't imagined that.
Not once.
Vesper in my head has always been fragments.
Caramel hair.
A mouth.
Bare shoulder.
Slim line of thigh.
Nothing assembled.
Never enough to construct the whole woman.
Now Drew has handed me a California blonde with bright blue eyes, tanned skin, and a body apparently memorable enough to defeat his vocabulary.
That can't be right.
“Are you sure?”
He laughs.
“About breasts?”
“About the woman.”
“Yeah.”
“What was she doing?”
“Standing at the bar.”
“Alone?”
“Mostly.”
“Talking to anyone?”
“Everybody.”
My brows draw together.
Drew nods as he remembers.
“Actually, she floated around.”
“Meaning?”
“One table, then another. Talked to somebody's aunt. Then she was with those people from Chicago. Then I saw her laughing with one of Vale's European relatives.”
“Which relative?”
“No idea.”
“Did anyone seem to know her?”
“That's the weird part.”
He stops.
“Everyone acted like somebody else did.”
There.
Smart.
Very smart.
No forged staff credential necessary once she's inside.
Become socially legitimate.
Let assumptions authenticate her.
My gaze moves through the room.
“She said she was somebody's cousin?”
“Maybe. I heard her tell one woman she knew Stella.”
“Stella knows half of Europe.”
“Exactly.”
“Accent?”
Drew smiles.
“Malibu.”
“That is not a recognized linguistic category.”
“You know what I mean.”
“American?”
“Definitely.”
No French.
No Italian.
Nothing matching the woman I've imagined behind Vesper.