16. Griffin
GRIFFIN
A nika’s been gone for five minutes, which shouldn’t worry me, but does. When she left so abruptly, I felt like I’d said something wrong, though I couldn’t figure out what.
Maybe my dancing skills weren’t as impressive as I thought? I should have gone with her, made sure she was okay. What kind of fake date am I? A pretty terrible one, apparently.
I decide to head to the bar. After all, if I’m playing spy for the night, I might as well lean into it fully. Nothing says I’m a super spy quite like ordering a martini at a fancy gala.
“Martini, please,” I tell the bartender, a stoic man with a waxed mustache. I lean in slightly. “Shaken, not stirred.” I’ve always wanted to say those words.
The bartender raises an eyebrow but nods without comment.
I resist the urge to adjust my bow tie or check for a hidden gun holster. Maybe I’m taking this spy thing a bit too seriously, but hey…When in Rome. Or rather, when in a billionaire’s secret mountain lair.
I drum my fingers against the polished bar top, my eyes constantly sweeping the room for Anika.
Once she gets back, I need to tell her the truth.
This whole investor party story isn’t going to hold water much longer, especially if Malcolm Chase starts acting suspicious.
Anika’s smart. Too smart to keep in the dark.
She deserves to know she’s at a party crawling with spies and possible criminals.
Plus, I’m betting those bartending skills of hers could come in handy.
People spill all kinds of secrets to their bartenders.
Something about the combination of alcohol and a sympathetic ear loosens even the tightest lips.
Maybe she could work her magic on some of Malcolm’s associates while I try to get closer to the man himself.
“Your martini, sir,” the bartender says, sliding the pristine glass toward me.
I take a sip, enjoying the crisp bite of gin and vermouth.
I like my beer just like any self-respecting Canadian, but I’d like to think I have a refined palate when the occasion calls for it.
And tonight, playing spy in a designer tux, definitely calls for it.
There’s something satisfying about sipping a fancy drink in a fancy place wearing a fancy suit.
Makes me feel sophisticated, like I belong among these high rollers instead of just being the guy who makes them all rich by winning hockey games.
“You look like a man with secrets.”
The voice is like warm honey, accent vaguely European but impossible to place.
I turn to find myself face-to-face with a knockout in a red velvet dress so form-fitting it defies physics and a neckline that plunges somewhere south of decency.
Her dark hair cascades over one shoulder, and her eyes, almost black in this lighting, study me with amused interest.
“Nope,” I reply, raising my martini slightly. “I’m an open book.”
She laughs, a musical sound that seems to dance above the ambient noise of the party. “Let me guess. Shaken, not stirred?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Just a hunch.” She slides onto the barstool next to mine, crossing legs that seem to go on for days.
The bartender appears without being summoned. “Negroni,” she orders, not taking her eyes off me. “With an extra dash of Campari.” Then she leans in slightly and says with a dainty laugh, “Actually, I overheard you place your order.”
My face turns hot. I am that obvious.
I take another sip of my martini. It tastes like what I imagine James Bond’s cologne smells like. Smooth, sophisticated, and slightly dangerous.
“The trick is to pretend you like it until you actually do.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
She nods at my glass. “Gin. Although I imagine that philosophy can be applied to many things.”
“Oh? Like what?”
“Only unpleasant things.” Her gaze rakes over me. “The pleasant ones require no pretending.”
Her eyes hold mine a beat too long, and I clear my throat.
I’ve seen this look before in VIP sections, at after-parties, in hotel lobbies.
I’ve been around beautiful women my entire career.
The hockey world is full of gorgeous women who hang around players, hoping for…
well, whatever it is they’re hoping for.
A good time, Instagram photos, free drinks, or sometimes just the thrill of bagging an athlete.
I’ve learned to spot the ones with agendas.
This woman definitely has an agenda.
The bartender delivers her drink, and she raises it in a toast. “To new friends.”
I clink my glass against hers, studying her over the rim as I take a sip. She’s gorgeous, sure, but there’s something calculated about her charm.
“I’m Elodie,” she says, extending a hand adorned with a single ruby ring.
“Griffin,” I reply, shaking her hand briefly and then shift slightly, creating a bit more space between us. “I should mention I’m here with someone.”
“Of course you are,” she says, not moving away at all. “The lovely blonde in the stunning blue dress? I noticed you dancing. Not bad.”
“Thanks.” I glance toward the hallway where Anika disappeared. “She should be back any minute.”
“I’m sure she will.” She leans in, her perfume enveloping me…something exotic and spicy. “But she doesn’t know why you’re really here.”
My spine stiffens. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“We don’t have much time,” she murmurs, lowering her voice.
“Excuse me?”
She glances around casually, then meets my eyes with sudden intensity. “Malcolm’s inner circle is gathering in the east wing library in twenty minutes. If you want in, you need to be there.”
My heart rate kicks up a notch. She must be one of the operatives Showalter mentioned. The agents did say they’d have people here, but they never mentioned who. I study her more carefully now, trying to determine if she’s legitimate.
“You’re with FIS?”
“Don’t worry,” she whispers. “We’re on the same team. Just keep acting natural.”
“I was told there would be agents here,” I say carefully.
“And here I am.” She takes a delicate sip of her negroni. “The question is, are you ready to do what needs to be done?”
I hesitate, looking around for Anika again. “I should wait for my date.”
Elodie’s perfectly manicured hand lands on my forearm. “Time is not a luxury we have, Mr. McGregor. Connections are being made as we speak. If you delay, you’ll miss your opportunity.”
But something feels off. Maybe it’s the way she’s looking at me, or maybe it’s just that Anika’s disappearance has me on edge.
“Malcolm doesn’t strike me as the type to just let a hockey player into his secret meetings,” I say.
“He’s not. But lucky for you, I can be quite persuasive.” She gestures to herself with a wry smile. “I can get you in. The rest is up to you.”
“I need to at least find my date first,” I say, standing up.
Elodie rises with me, her movements fluid and graceful. “Oh, I believe I saw her stepping outside for some air.”
That doesn’t sound like Anika. She was going to the bathroom, not the terrace.
“Don’t worry,” says Elodie, probably seeing the concern on my face. “See that man by the arching windows? The one with the gold-sequined suit jacket.”
“Unfortunately, yes.” What an eyesore.
“That’s Cain Fawkes. He’s Malcolm’s loyal attack dog. If we want to get into that private meeting, you need to make a good first impression.”
“I’ve never seen that man before in all my years with the Titans.”
Elodie arches a brow. “Trust me. His job has nothing to do with hockey.”
That thought is slightly unsettling, which means this Cain guy deals with Malcolm’s illegal business.
“And how do you suggest we butter him up? Or am I going to regret asking?”
Her grin turns a little witchy. “Oh, I’m way ahead of you. Come on. I’ll introduce you.”
“But…Anika”
“We need to move now. Unless you’re not as committed to this mission as your superiors suggested.”
That stings my pride a bit. “I’m committed. But I need to let my date know where I’m going.”
“No time,” she insists, her hand now resting on my forearm. “And no phones. Malcolm has signal jammers throughout the building. Old-school paranoia.”
I drain the last of my martini, still scanning the room for any sign of Anika. My gut is telling me to find her first, but my head is reminding me why we’re here. Get close to Malcolm. Find out what he’s up to.
“Five minutes,” I tell Elodie firmly. “I’ll give you five minutes, and then I’m finding my date.”
She smiles, victorious. “That’s all I need. Follow me.”
I follow Elodie across the ballroom, weaving through clusters of Switzerland’s elite while trying not to look like I’m being led to my execution.
Cain Fawkes stands by a massive window framed by velvet drapes, surveying the party like he’s mentally calculating who to throw off the mountain first. Something about this whole situation feels off, like when you know a slap shot is coming but can’t quite track where it’s headed.
Every few steps, I glance over my shoulder, hoping to spot Anika. Nothing. Where did she go?
“Eyes forward, hockey boy,” Elodie murmurs, her fingers digging into my arm like she’s afraid I might bolt. Which, to be fair, I’m considering. “And smile. You look like you’re marching to the penalty box.”
“That’s my concentration face,” I protest but paste on what I hope is a charming grin.
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile. “Just follow my lead and try not to say anything…hockey-ish.”
“Hockey-ish? What does that even mean?”
“Cain!” Elodie’s voice transforms into a light cadence as we approach Gold Sequin Jacket Guy. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
Cain Fawkes turns, and I immediately understand why Malcolm keeps him around.
Despite the ridiculous jacket, everything about him screams that he breaks kneecaps for fun.
His face has that particular hardness you only get from years of making people regret looking at him the wrong way.
He’s shorter than me by a good three inches, but the way he carries himself suggests he doesn’t consider this a disadvantage.