90. Gabriel
GAbrIEL
Mandy Reed is paranoid—this is not new information.
It's one of her more endearing qualities, somewhere below her loyalty and considerably above her habit of calling me when she needs something—like someone kidnapped.
Technically, she hasn't asked me to kidnap Clara Whitlock, but she did ask me to make sure she's safe. And also technically, I didn’t agree to do it, but I did say I’d look into it.
Which is why I'm standing in a museum full of Montana's wealthiest people pretending to give a shit about contemporary art.
I tug down my sleeves, checking my cufflinks as I scope the lobby.
Inside it’s all soaring ceilings and polished marble floors that throw back the light of three modern chandeliers.
They’ve tried to doll it up to make it look special, but it just looks like a museum with a liquor license and delusions of grandeur.
I take a glass of mediocre champagne from a passing tray and scan the room. Clara Whitlock wasn’t on the guest list, but I have it on good authority that she’s going to be here tonight. No sign of her yet.
Plenty of other rich-as-fuck people though. Lots of old money in Montana, and it has a posture that’s easy to recognize. They stand in front of ridiculously priced art in thousand-dollar shoes looking mildly disappointed by everything.
My family does the same thing. We're just usually more unhinged.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
I pull it out.
Mandy.
I decline the call. I'll call her when I'm done proving she dragged me across the state for nothing.
I return my attention to the room.
Two entrances.
Three exits available to guests. One service corridor behind the temporary wall near the bar. Elevators on the north side. Stairs opposite.
Security cameras cover every public approach except the west hallway. That has a blind spot. It’s a small one, but it’s still there.
While I’m studying it, a waiter with a stack of toilet paper push through a service door at the end. The door swings closed behind him.
Almost. The latch catches on a folded piece of cardboard wedged into the strike plate.
I pause with my glass halfway to my lips. Interesting. Security is set up by human beings, and human beings are exceptionally talented at being mediocre. I should know. I've made a very good living exploiting that particular character flaw.
Casually, I look around. Most men are wearing dark suits or tuxes, but bodyguards are easy to pick out, mostly because they look like they have sticks up their asses.
I clock two at the edge of one of the galleries, not because they look uncomfortable but because there’s no way they haven’t noticed the door wedged open.
The first one sees it and turns his back. The second one sees it, checks his phone, then the west hallway, and then his watch.
Huh.
I meander their way and into the gallery, stopping in front of the painting closest to them. It’s one my older brother would hang in his bedroom, of a naked woman holding a knife behind her back.
He has a type.
I sip my champagne, pretending I’m into the painting. It gives me cover to watch the two bodyguards as well as search the crowd for a woman with red hair.
My phone vibrates again.
Mandy. Persistent woman. I silence it and put it back in my coat pocket. I’m scanning the room again when both bodyguards straighten. I’m not surprised when the crowd parts and I see her.
Clara Whitlock.
I go still.
Fuck.
The picture Mandy sent me didn’t do her justice. In it, she looked young enough that I dismissed her immediately. Too young for me.
Seeing her in person, I have no idea how I made that mistake. There is nothing girlish about this Clara Whitlock. Red hair swept up off her neck. An understated black gown with a suite of emeralds that are anything but understated. The slit that bares a long length of creamy thigh.
She's smiling at an elderly man beside her. Not the polite society smile everyone else in the room has perfected—a real one.
Her head tips back when she laughs.
I forget what I'm doing for approximately two seconds.
Shaking my head, I focus on the two additional bodyguards who enter behind her. One scans the room. The other checks the guy posted at the door, who seems more interested in the time than the woman he’s supposed to protect.
Then he checks his own watch.
Interesting.
Three men. Same detail. Two of them watching the clock instead of the room.
Taking another sip of champagne, I watch Clara stop to speak to a woman. I glance up as Watch Guy turns, and our eyes meet.
His expression doesn't change, but I see something there I didn’t expect. Recognition.
He knows who I am.
That's not particularly unusual. The Reyes name opens doors, closes others, and occasionally gets people shot.
But this isn't social recognition—it's calculation. His eyes flick to Clara, and then back to me.
He’s not surprised I’m here, and he’s not disturbed by it.
That’s wrong.
Her detail would be trained to recognize every Reyes on sight and ordered to keep us away.
Well.
Mandy’s right. Someone’s going to make a move on Clara Whitlock tonight. And at least one of them doesn’t seem particularly bothered that I’m here.
That leaves two possibilities: he’s very stupid, or I’m part of the plan.
Normally, this is the point where I pass the problem to someone who gets paid to care. Unfortunately, I’m beginning to suspect that person is me.
I could tell her.
I could alert the rest of her security, assuming I knew which ones weren't involved.
I could call her family.
Assuming whoever planned this hasn't already accounted for that.
Or I could do what I do best: take advantage of someone else's mistake.
As Mom used to say, in for a penny, in for a pound. I set the champagne glass on a passing tray and cross the room.
Clara sees me coming. Her smile fades as I approach.
I stop in front of her. “Clara Whitlock.”
Her gaze moves over my face, and her eyes widen as recognition hits. They’re as green as the emeralds she’s wearing. “You’re a Reyes.”
The way she says it, you’d think it was a communicable disease.
One of her bodyguards appears at her shoulder. “Miss Whitlock?”
She doesn’t take her eyes off me. “It’s fine.”
He hesitates.
Clara gives him a look. She waits until he backs off before returning her attention to me.
“Good help is hard to find.” I smile, flashing my dimples. My mom used to say they’re the devil’s fingerprints. God gave me my face, but the devil added the charm.
She snorts. “What do you want, Reyes?”
I hold out my hand. “At the moment? You.”
Her eyes narrow.
I crook my fingers at her. “Try not to make it weird, sweetheart. I’m rescuing you.”