The whole overall effect is that she looks very little like herself and very much like someone else.
She gives them a twirl. “What do you think?”
Monroe’s mouth has dropped open. He doesn’t seem capable of saying a word.
“Sexy,” says Leo in a perfectly professional tone.
She rolls her eyes. “Not that. Do I remind you of anyone?”
“You look remarkably like Lynesse Jones,” says Storm. “I assume that’s the effect you were going for?”
“Don’t men always want what they can’t have?” she retorts. “I’ll wager any woman who looks like Lynesse is likely to catch Caprio’s eye.”
“I’ve had my fill of wagers,” says Storm.
“You look great,” says Monroe.
Remi blushes ever so slightly. “You don’t look so bad yourself,” she says, eyeing up the tux that Monroe has changed into.
“Enough flirting, kids,” says Leo. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
Monroe is more than ready to do so. Storm can’t tell if the kid is more excited about a date with Remi, or being undercover, or the fact that he will be driving Remi to the embassy in a newly-minted blue Jaguar E-type Zero loaned from the Agency.
Leo and Storm follow the Jaguar in separate surveillance vans. On arrival, Remi and Monroe toss their keys to a parking valet and head inside, her arm tucked into his as she navigates the red-carpeted entryway stairs in her high heels.
Storm finds a spot to park his van near the front entrance. Leo drives his around to cover the back. Storm keeps his ear on the audio feed from Remi and Monroe’s wires. Shortly after entering, Monroe murmurs into his hidden mike, “We’ve got eyes on the prize.”
Storm grins. He knew Caprio had to be in there.
“Gonna walk right by him,” murmurs Remi. Then a minute later, “Done. The bee has noticed the honey.” She sounds amused.
“Hard not to notice when you gave him that look,” says Monroe, sounding a little sulky.
“That’s right, baby,” she purrs at him. “Act all jealous and I bet it’ll make him more determined to win me over.”
The couple spend all of ten minutes flirting and laughing over glasses of champagne at a prominent position at the bar before Caprio comes over to buy Remi a drink.
“But I’ve got one right here,” Remi says, giggling.
“Yeah, she’s already got one,” says Monroe, trying to sound threatening.
Storm wishes there was a hidden camera to keep an eye on the scene, but conducting video surveillance inside the embassy would have been a step too far. His imagination fills in the blanks. He imagines Remi is batting those ridiculously large false lashes at Caprio.
“A lady like you deserves a special drink,” Caprio says to her. “Not that swill.” He arrogantly orders the barman to make up a drink to his specifications.
“So tell me,” he says to Remi. “You must be a succubus, am I right?”
“Nuh-uh,” she says in a teasing voice. “Guess again.”
“It’s none of your damn business what she is!” snaps Monroe.
“Oh hush, darling,” she chides Monroe. “Let the nice man guess.”
“Well, in that case you’re a sprite. You look delicious enough to be one. Water sprite, right?”
“Nope.”
“Not a wood sprite. Can’t be one of those. You’re too foxy.”
Remi must be slapping his wrist. “Don’t be like that, silly! I know one or two gorgeous wood sprites.”
“Yeah, but wood. It’s so boring.”
“Maybe I’m a goblin,” she coos. “How would you like that?”
Caprio bursts into laughter. “Nice one. That makes me need another drink. Barkeep! get me another one of these.”
“Oh hush. You’re terrible, you are.”
“You sure you don’t have succubus blood? You look like someone I know.”
“Is that right? Anyone I know?”
“Take a guess… No?… Let me give you a clue… Lyn-es—”
“Lynesse Jones!” she screeches. “Oh my gosh! People tell me that all the time! And you knew her? Oh my gosh, isn’t it terrible what happened to her? The Devil Claw Killer as well. How exciting.”
“I suppose you could say that,” Caprio says smarmily. “I’ve had an interesting few days.”
“Oh my gosh. Tell me everything,” she demands in a scandalized voice.
“Maybe later,” he says.
“You can’t tease me like that!” she squeals in excitement. “Was she having an affair with Devil Claw? Do you know who he is?”
Caprio chuckles. “If I did, do you think I’d be alive right now?”
“Gosh, how scary. So did you know Lynesse well? Don’t tell me you dated her? I bet you dated her!”
“Nah, she wasn’t my type. And anyway, wouldn’t want to trespass on my best bud’s territory. The bro code, you know?” There is a puffed up bragging tone in his voice when mentioning his famous pal.
Remi knows exactly what to do with it. “I knew I recognized you!” she shrieks. “You’re Jared Everett’s best friend! It must be so exciting. Are you an actor too?”
“I might have dabbled a little bit here and there,” Caprio says in a smug voice.
Within minutes Remi has gotten rid of Monroe, who departs loudly sulking in the manner of a not-quite-new-boyfriend with a severely bruised ego.
Remi continues to massage Caprio’s ego for a mere tantalizing two minutes before pretending to lose interest. She complains that the party is a bit boring. She moans that she really could do with a smoke.
Keen to revive her interest, Caprio offers to escort her to the special smoking area in the embassy gardens but she whines that she likes a particular luxury brand and that she’s left them at home. Then, as if a naughty idea has occurred to her, she says her apartment is not too far, and would he be a darling and drive her there? Her car is right outside.
She whispers in his ear that she wouldn’t mind the extra privacy either.
Caprio hesitates. “I have a great room here,” he says. “It’ll give us all the privacy we want.”
She gives a disparaging laugh. “No darling, not without my cigarettes. But if you can’t help, I’ll just have to find someone else.”
She must have made a move to leave because Caprio says, “Not so fast. I can drive you there.”
“Oh goodie,” she purrs. “I’ll even fix you my own special drink as a thanks.”
Storm is not surprised when, less than five minutes later, Remi and Caprio emerge from the front entrance of the embassy and traipse down the stairs, arm in arm. Storm waits for her to follow the plan and lead Caprio towards his surveillance van.
“Come on,” Storm whispers. The plan is to wait until they have safely left the embassy’s entry way.
At the bottom of the stairs Remi strains her neck, supposedly trying to remember where she parked her car. “Erm, I think it’s over there,” she says, vaguely pointing in Storm’s direction.
But Caprio has other things on his mind. He pushes her up against the wall, moving in for a kiss. It takes Remi by surprise. She gives a cry of dismay as the wall hits her back, and Storm instantly knows what has happened. The bulletproof bracelets had fired their magic to cushion her from the unexpected impact at her back. Caprio is close enough to have felt it.
“What was that?” he says, sounding confused. And then. “What the fuck? Are you wearing protection?”
“What are you talking about, baby?”
“Yes you are! You’re a cop!”
“Special Agent, actually, baby,” she retorts, all pretense gone. “And I’m taking you in for questioning.” She grabs hold of his arm, twisting it behind his back.
The strength of Remi’s grip catches Caprio by surprise. He tries to twist away but is unable to break her hold. Then he stomps on her foot at an angle that causes her heel to break. She falls back as her foot gives way. The momentary lapse gives him the leverage to break free. H
e rushes back up the embassy stairs, taking them three at a time, and then freezes when he sees Monroe blocking the way.
Cursing, Caprio turns tail and sprints full-tilt down the road, right towards Storm’s van. Storm waits until the very last moment before opening his door. Caprio slams into it with rib-bruising force. He collapses, stunned.
Storm whips out his restraints and cuffs him. “Kris Caprio, you’re under arrest for assaulting Special Agent Remi Bronwyn.”
Chapter 21
DIANA
I had waited a full fifteen minutes after Beatrice and the ambassador had left the bathroom before I emerged from it. I’d headed towards the ballroom, and stood in a doorway for some time watching the crowds of elegantly dressed people arriving.
Everyone is in their finest outfits, greeting the ambassador and Beatrice with great joy. All so pleased to have been invited to the top society event in London this month. The arriving guests are still high on the red carpet buzz that had been outside, with numerous TV crews filming the arrivals.
A stage has been set up to one side of the large ballroom, ready for a lineup of singers who have yet to arrive, including a world famous jazz crooner and an even more famous big-voiced diva who is guaranteed to hype the crowd up later with her incredible vocals and her shaking, shimmying dance moves.
In the meantime it is occupied by a live band cranking out some well-known classics. People are already dancing, enjoying the music and glasses of champagne from silver trays smoothly navigated around the room by my colleagues.
Smithers is just one of many catering managers tonight keeping watch over things. I can see him hovering off to one side, his eagle eyes scanning the staff for any mistakes. I sense he is also keeping an eye open for me and that dance I had promised him that I have no intention of giving.
Worried? asks the little voice. I’ll take over if you like.
“No, I’ve got this.”
Beatrice is holding court near the main entrance, her one hand propping the ambassador up by his elbow, and her other hand proffered to the arriving guests, to be kissed by the gallant among the men and to be clutched by the ladies while they plant kisses on her cheeks. Caroline and Xander are with them, as if they are prime attractions on show.
A new group of guests arrives, including a famous celebrity couple and an angelus prince and princess from Otherworld. The ambassador revels in their presence, regaling them with some tale that has everyone laughing, Xander and Caroline included.
It is a long time before Beatrice murmurs something to the ambassador and slips away from the group. She hurries, clutching her little purse to her side, seemingly intent on some urgent task.
Even in her rush she skips as gracefully as a little fawn, every once in a while rising on tiptoe either to check if she is headed in the right direction or to try to catch sight of someone in the crowd.
I hurry to intercept her. This might be my one chance to catch her alone. “Mrs Grictor?” I call.
She turns on her heel towards me, looking startled, especially when she recognises it is me. “You’ve changed your dress,” she says, her eyes scanning me from head to foot.
“All the better to blend in,” I joke.
I can’t very well admit that I thought it would be easier to corner her while I was posing as a guest, rather than looking like a member of staff accosting the hostesses. And I like it better this way too. It makes me feel like her equal, rather than a servant.
She gives me a quizzical look, as if to say I’d better hurry to explain why I have detained her.
“I wonder if we could have a private word?” I say.
She hesitates only a moment, and then she nods. She leads the way towards the nearest edge of the room, beside one of the large pillars at the periphery of the circular ballroom. This offers only a little more privacy. I am disappointed. I had hoped she would lead me to a private room where it would be just me and her.
“What is it?” She speaks a little stiffly, clearly still upset that I’d invaded her home without her permission.
“I wanted to apologize to you.”
“Because Agent Storm asked you to?” she says suspiciously.
I shake my head. “I genuinely wanted to apologize. It was rude of me to invade your privacy like that, not to mention illegal. I appreciate you not pressing any charges. I’m afraid I got carried away.”
“Why?” she says bluntly.
“Why am I sorry?” I wonder what more she wanted from the apology,
“Why did you get carried away? I don’t understand what your involvement in this case is.”
“I used to work for the Agency, but due to an unfortunate event I lost my job. I thought I could win it back.”
She nods her head, this time a little more sympathetically. “Well, that’s either very brave of you or…” She hesitates.
“Or what? Really, I’d like to know.”
“Or a little bit impulsive, obsessive even. The characteristics of someone who may be suffering some instability, either emotional or material, in their lives.”
She says it with clinical coolness but that soft voice of hers takes the sting out of her words. I wonder if that is why she uses it—to keep her patients from getting upset.
“Wow, you leave me no doubt that you’re a psychologist,” I joke.
“Sorry,” she says. “Force of habit.”
“So do you think that I need professional help too? Did you talk about me with Storm?”
“No of course not,” she says, seeming surprised. “May I ask what it was in my office that made you scream?”
“Maybe I’ll tell you someday.”
“Is that why you’re here? You’re hoping to seek my professional help?”
“Storm thought it would be a good idea,” I say grudgingly.
“Agent Storm seems to care a great deal for you.”
My eyes narrow. I don’t want her talking or even thinking about my relationship, or lack of, with Storm. “You seem very interested in what Agent Storm cares about,” I say icily.
She doesn’t rise to the bait. Her tone is still calm when she says, “I do care what Agent Storm cares about. He is investigating the death of my business partner and dear friend.”
Enough of the chit chat, the little voice hisses. Ask her for her help already.
I sigh. “I didn’t come here to argue with you, Mrs Grictor.”
“Ms Grictor,” she corrects me.
I nod in acknowledgment. “Storm said you do pro bono work and I’d promised to ask him whether you might fit me into your schedule. Maybe for an assessment or something?”
“That must have been a difficult thing for you to ask,” she says.
“You don’t know the half of it. I find it hard to trust people in your profession, given that my last psychiatrist tried to abduct me.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she says. “However the first step to recovery is somebody genuinely knowing that they need help. Not asking for it because someone else has told them to.”
“Wow, you’re not making this easy for me, are you? I do need help, okay? Satisfied?”
“What sort of help?” She nudges in that gentle little voice.
“If you must know, I’ve been feeling a lot of anger recently. Somebody close to me was murdered, and maybe I could have stopped it if I tried hard enough, but I didn’t. And now there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“That must have been very difficult for you to admit. That was a good start. I’m sorry you went through all that.”
“Does that mean you’ll help me?”
“I sense there’s still something you’re holding back,” she says. “Some deeper issue that pre-existed before the death of your loved one, which made the grief even more difficult to manage. You’d need to be open with me for this process to work. I sense that you are not able to easily trust people.”
Just tell her already, the little voice snaps. We need her to trust us.
I grit my teeth. T
he last thing I want is to bare my soul to this woman. I take a deep breath and do it. “I lost my adoptive mother in a car crash when I was fifteen. I don’t remember her at all. I don’t remember what happened in all my life before that, because the crash left me with amnesia. It’s always left me feeling alone and incomplete. Is that what you want to hear?”
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