Chapter Thirteen #3
Spiker tensed. Maybe he shouldn’t have needled the guy, but she acted as though he needed the wound bandaged.
The conversation continued as if they were old friends—or old flames.
Spiker didn’t have anything to say beyond ‘back off my wife’, but Vanka was clearly on a mission to extract information that GSI might want.
Once again, Spiker wanted to tell Buck to screw off.
Spiker refocused his attention on the guests. Alec Oliver was the center of everyone’s attention. Faces kept glancing their way, putting Spiker in the best spot for taking photographs.
Oliver made a joke. Vanka laughed, slightly repositioning and shifting their group to give Spiker a new angle.
They had a limited amount of time in Oliver’s spotlight, but they could capitalize on ordinary occurrences.
Waitstaff offered fresh drinks; they readjusted.
Oliver told another stupid joke, and their arrangement altered again.
The two-step continued until they’d spun Oliver 360 degrees.
Spiker signaled they had what they’d come for.
“It’s been a pleasure,” Vanka offered. “We should—”
“Tell me something.” Oliver inclined his head toward her. “Do you actually find capital investments as interesting as you let on?”
“That’s not a question I can answer.”
“Why?” Alec asked.
“I’m not in your head.” She inched toward Spiker’s side. “I haven’t a clue how interested you think I am.”
Oliver gestured to an open space in front of the string quartet. “Mrs. Fagan, would you like to dance?”
Spiker’s mouth slackened.
Genuine surprise widened Vanka’s eyes. “Sorry?”
“No one has danced,” Oliver explained.
They wouldn’t be the ones to buck the trend. Possessively, Spiker placed a hand at the small of Vanka’s back and, in an instant, saw that the gesture had been the wrong move. Veiled delight danced in Oliver’s eyes. Spiker struggled to find the right words—hell, any words—to facilitate their exit.
“No one will,” Vanka carefully replied, “until the host dances first.”
Spiker gritted his teeth.
Oliver grinned. “The birthday cake rule.”
Her gaze flitted. She didn’t understand the comparison. If present circumstances had been different, Spiker would’ve chuckled at the fact that Vanka, of all people, was unaware of a specific manner, rule, or protocol.
Oliver explained, “No one takes a bite before the birthday kid.”
“Oh.” She rebounded. “I’d call that simple manners.”
Oliver offered Spiker an insincere grin. “Would you mind if I dance with your wife?”
Fuck yes, I do, my friend. “Be my guest.”
Alec Oliver led Vanka toward the dance floor.
The string quartet transitioned from background music to a perky three-beat waltz.
With a quick, pompous bow, he took Vanka’s hand.
Spiker’s jaw ached. His molars clenched.
He should see this as an honor, as an opportunity to gather better angles, but he didn’t.
Vanka and Oliver danced. His right hand rested high on her bare, strong back.
The position of their arms was formal, elevated and angled, cultivating minimal body contact.
To everyone but Spiker, Alec and Vanka looked professional and well-practiced.
Just as Vanka could make anyone talk, she could make them dance, even as Oliver led.
A dull, serrated dagger lodged into Spiker’s chest. He focused on his job and turned to covertly photograph the onlooking wallflowers.
The waltz’s triple beat bomm-bomm-bahed in three-quarter time. The seconds crawled impossibly slowly, as though the quartet played to a perverse metronome that moved with the speed of cold molasses.
Spiker couldn’t look away. Vanka danced like an angel while she siphoned wisps of intel from Oliver.
Oliver did nothing to ruin the propriety of the amicable dance.
But Spiker saw through the fancy footwork and proper holds.
Alec Oliver wanted Spiker’s wife—and he took that moment to circle Vanka in a sweeping move, which elicited a polite golf clap from onlookers.
Grandstanding jackass.
Oliver preened and added a triumphant swagger to his moves. His high, angled arms softened, bringing their bodies closer, and the fingers on Vanka’s back splayed possessively.
Spiker wanted to kill him. The pain in his chest deepened. His lungs throbbed, and he cleared his throat as though he might choke. A cold sweat dusted the back of his neck. The confines of his tuxedo tightened like a silk straightjacket. What the hell was happening?
He glanced at his half-empty champagne flute. Goddamn it. Had he been poisoned? What was this, an acute heart attack? Panic interwove with his weak-link theory. Buck hadn’t learned his lesson from the Jason Green fiasco last year.
Other couples joined Oliver and Vanka on the dance floor, obscuring Spiker’s direct line of sight. He needed to signal Vanka and get the hell out of this place. He refused to fall over dead in a purple fucking castle.
He lost sight of Vanka, and the pain changed, as though distress had climbed into his lungs. A knot formed in his trachea. She could hold her own while waltzing—what the hell was the matter with him?
Then Spiker saw them among the tight crowd of dancers. The formal waltz had given way to a more personal hold. Vanka had Oliver’s avid, lurid attention. The cold sweat on Spiker’s neck climbed to his temples and pounded them like a kettle drum. He wasn’t dying. This was jealousy.