by Holly Hart
Eighteen thirty-eight. The ready light blinks on and off as Starkey checks in. Right on schedule.
Magnus has his feet on the coffee table. He’s doing it to annoy me. His spite’s rolling off him in waves. I adjust the monitors and turn up the sound. I’m not giving him the satisfaction. Not tonight.
Eighteen forty. I flick the—
“Let there be light!” Magnus throws his arms wide. iPhones bounce across the carpet.
—I ignore him. Flick the switch. Perfect timing: down by the kitchen, the girls are soaking up the grand reveal.
Mary’s confused. Looking over her shoulder like she’s stumbled into the wrong room. Karen’s about ready to cry. Stella gets it. Her lips are twitching, fighting a grin. She picks up a tray of hors d’oeuvres and glides forth with confidence.
I pull up a chair and settle in to watch. This is going to be an interesting night.
Chapter Seven
Stella
Starkey gives me a light push. A bulb flickers on, and the door clicks shut behind me. An instant later, I hear a tumbler clunk home. I whirl, but it’s too late. He’s gone, and I’m locked in.
“You must be Stella.”
“Yeah, I’m—” The words catch in my throat, as a willowy blonde steps out from behind an ornate Chinese screen. She’s dressed like me. Made up like me. If it wasn’t for her hair cascading loose around her shoulders, I’d swear I was looking in a mirror.
“Mary here.” She gestures at the screen. “And that’s Karen. She’s shy.”
Karen sticks her head out. “Hi. No, I’m not. Got a fucking run.” She’s had the full treatment, too. I spot the same high collar, the same ruby lips, before she pulls her head in.
“What happens now?”
Mary shrugs. “She didn’t say. I guess this is the final interview. Casting call? Did she tell you—”
There’s a thunk, metal on metal, and a sound like a garage door rolling up. Faint music filters in, and the murmur of distant conversation.
“Holy shit! Karen! Get out here!” Mary hurries to the middle of the room, practically standing at attention.
“Wait! Tell me what?”
She shakes her head: not now. Someone’s coming. Footsteps in the hall. Karen shuffles into the open, stepping into her shoes as she goes. It would be comical if it wasn’t so weird, the way we line up, expectant, eyes trained on the door. Like Pavlov’s dogs. Guess we are waiting for a bone, in a manner of speaking....
It’s Katrina who shows up. She claps her hands, brisk and businesslike. “All right, ladies! Straight down the hall, up the stairs, and to the right.” She steps aside to let us pass. “And don’t forget, your code of conduct comes into effect...now. Chins up, smiles on, and let’s have a great time!”
I shoot her a look. There’s something different about her. Something cheery, insincere. Like she’s putting on an act. What kind of act, and to what end, I’m not sure, but something’s off.
There’s no time to think about it. I fall in line behind Mary and Karen, almost losing my footing on the narrow stairs. There’s a steamy, starchy smell in the air, and I can hear the clatter of plates and silverware. A kitchen, then: we’re headed for the kitchen. Oh! Maybe they’re going to feed us. Or....
Mary pushes through the double doors. Karen shrinks away from the steam that billows out. “Ugh! My hair!”
“Oh, there you are! Just through here!”
“Huh? Where?” Mary glances at me. “Did you see—?”
“There, I think.” Beyond the steam and chaos of the kitchen, swinging doors open on an enormous staging area. A sweaty busboy squeezes through, grappling with a tub of dirty plates. The doors hiss shut behind him, but not before I count six long tables, crammed end to end with trays of canapés.
We wend our way through, single file—and not fast enough, apparently. A tiny woman descends on us, hastening us along. She’s dressed like us. So are two others, spooning caviar and crème fraîche into abalone shells, and it dawns on me: these are uniforms. This is a party. And we’re here to—
“Take a tray. Two, if you can manage. Get out there and circulate.”
Mary looks my way. “Is she serious?”
Karen huffs. She looks pissed. “No way. I didn’t go through all that to sling crab puffs at some society ball.”
I grab a tray. This, I can manage.
Chapter Eight
Jack
Stella weaves through the guests like a skier on the slopes. She’s done this before. She’s sneaky, too, staying just out of the guests’ lines of sight. Making sure it’s the food they notice, not her. This must be how she gets close to the people she blogs about: fitting in seamlessly, no matter what. I’m impressed. It’s hard not to stand out, with that face, that body.
“Sweet hip action,” says Erik. I nearly jump. We’re practically bumping elbows. How’d he get so close?
“Fuck off. She’s mine.”
“Whatever. I’m cool with sloppy seconds.”
Magnus shoulders his way between us. Taps on the monitor. “What about her? We letting her bug out on her own, or...?”
Karen’s still in the pantry, flat to the wall, watching the servers go by. I hit intercom 3. “Katrina?”
“Sir?”
“Alternate for two.”
“Affirmative.”
Erik scowls deeply. Karen was his pick.
Chapter Nine
Stella
My left fourth toe is bleeding. I can feel the pinky nail digging in deeper with every step. Fucking, fucking, fucking Louboutins! Why’d I ever covet these? Portable torture devices is what they are! I retreat to the staging area as gracefully as I can. I need to find a cotton ball, a wad of toilet paper—something to stuff between my toes.
Someone taps me between the shoulder blades. I jump, but it’s just Mary. “Sorry! Didn’t mean to scare you! This is Alicia!”
I nod at a plump redhead, decked out in the now-familiar uniform. “Stella.”
“Karen dropped out. She’s the alternate.”
Alternate...?
Alicia takes a tray, holding it gingerly in both hands. “You guys have done this before? Catering, I mean?”
I nod. “Here and there.” Mary grabs an empty tray and spins it. Guess she has, too.
“So this really is a cater-waiter gig?” Alicia tries to balance her tray in one hand. It tilts dangerously, and she steadies it with her hip. “I kind of thought...I mean, all those questions at the interview, and the whole gag order deal....”
Mary shrugs. “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Personally, I think it’s a test.”
“A test?”
“How we do under pressure.” She exchanges her empty tray for a loaded one. “Maybe this is the CIA. Gonna make us all Mata Haris.”
Questions? An interview? The CIA? So...the others don’t know? I corner Alicia before she can leave. “What did they tell you? When you, uh....” I grasp for the right question. “When you applied?”
“I mean, not much. She said I could have everything she had. Y’know, if I got the job.” A napkin falls off Alicia’s tray. She bends to grab it, and loses everything. Bruschetta splatters the floor and the tablecloth. “Fuck! I need this gig!” She kicks at the mess, spreading it around. “Think anyone saw?”
“No.” I shove a fresh tray into her hands. “Go ahead. I’ll deal with this.”
So...someone pushed the others to apply? Must’ve been one of the girls on her way out: Klara, Shazia, or Anne.
Guess that’s how they keep the secret: hints passed from friend to friend. Information on a need-to-know basis. A competition so intense, so intriguing, the winners won’t think of turning down the prize. And me... I’m the one who knows too much. The enemy being kept close. Even this chance to bond seems contrived. They’re showing me who’ll go down hardest, if I squeal.
I look up. Cameras, three of them: one by the kitchen, one by the chandelier, and a third at the exit. Shit. This is bad. This is really—
Katrina’s lounging in the doorframe, one leg kicked up behind her. She pushes off with her heel and saunters my way. “Those poor, innocent waifs, being seduced by... What did you call us?” She claps her hands together, loud enough that I startle and step back. “That’s right: human traffickers.”
“Think they’d believe me?”
“You didn’t even try.” She smirks. “Remember that. You’re one of us now. In it to your eyeballs.”
I narrow my eyes. “I could still—”
“Oh, no, you couldn’t.” As if on cue, the lights dim. “Looks like you’re all out of time.”
In the ballroom, the music swells and dies. A ripple of excitement sweeps the crowd, muted oohs and aahs. Heels click and skitter behind me: Mary and Alicia are back.
“All right! So, this is the final hurdle!” Katrina wheels one of the tables aside to reveal a small, whitewashed door. “You have exactly nine minutes to make yourselves ready to join the party as guests.” She herds us into what turns out to be a pantry, converted to a makeshift dressing room. “Naturally, any one of you identified as...the help...will be shown the door. So pay attention to detail! Dresses are along that wall; cosmetics in the red boxes. Don’t keep me waiting.”
“Guess this one’s mine.” Alicia lifts a sweeping emerald gown from its hanger. “I’m supposed to slip under the radar in this?”
I reach for mine: a floating, clinging white thing, adorned with glittering crystals. “Nope. You’re supposed to stand out.”
“Huh? But she said—”
“When’s the last time you ate out?” I shake my hair out, raking my nails through it to loosen the kinks.
Alicia pauses mid-wriggle, skirt already halfway down her thighs. “I don’t know—last week?”
“What did the waiter look like?”
“I don’t know. Tall, maybe? Sort of skinny? I wasn’t really—oh. Oh.”
Mary’s already dressed and pinning up her hair. “Yeah. As long as you didn’t do anything weird out there, you’ll be fine. You didn’t, did you?”
“Not that I know of.”
Five minutes left. I repaint my lips frosty peach and brush some bronzer under my cheekbones. There’s not much I can do about my nails, so I grab a beaded white purse off the shelf. Guess I can...curl them under. I doubt they’d let me go, even if I did get caught, but it’d be just plain embarrassing to get busted here, after three years sneaking by as the Countess.
Chapter Ten
Jack
Eighteen fifty-seven. Stella’s in back, looking at Katrina like she wants to rip off her heel and ram it down her throat. Mary’s bored, looking for somewhere to ditch her tray. Alicia’s hovering on the edge of the crowd.
“Almost time.”
Magnus nods. Starkey cuts the overhead lights, and the spots blaze to life.
“Think they’ll all make the cut?” Erik’s fingers are twitching. Nicotine withdrawal. Quit those things, my ass.
“Stella’s in, no matter what. And Mary’s pretty solid.” Alicia, I don’t know. She’s hot and bouncy, and stayed calm through her interviews. But she’s also Anne’s friend, which makes her either an airhead or an opportunist.
Erik doesn’t seem to agree. “Alicia has my vote. Can’t wait to get my hands on that...uh.” He cups his hands and thrusts his hips, giving me an instant mental image of him plowing her against the wall, those great gorilla mitts overflowing with ass.
I toss him a glare. Beyond the curtain, a delighted murmur ripples forth. I glance at the monitor one more time: almost two hundred faces tilted up to watch flurries of cherry blossoms float and tumble through the lights. That’s our cue.
Chapter Eleven
Stella
So this is what it comes to? A kind of...sexual fantasy football draft? Me and Mary and Alicia, waiting to be picked off one by one?
It can’t happen that way. It’s not even a matter of wounded vanity: I’ve made my choice. It has to be Jack. He’s the one in charge. The one who sent for me, the day I almost spilled the beans. If he doesn’t pick me tonight, it could be a year, even two, till my next crack at his secrets. And, no. Just...no. I’m not doing three years of this. Three months ought to do it, if I play my cards right.
I survey the room. Alicia’s doing it wrong, pouring her heart into charming a knot of senior citizens. Mary’s halfway up the stairs, leaning on the banister like a Roman statue, letting the admirers come to her. Magnus is on his way already. Erik’s nodding along with some guy who’s either a senator or a news anchor—can’t quite place which—with his eyes trained firmly on Alicia’s ass. And Jack... I don’t see Jack anywhere.
Shit.
I can’t just stand here. If I do a lap, I’m bound to spot him eventually. He’s way too tall to hide in a crowd.
“Stella? Stella Rossi?”
“Huh?” That voice—
“I thought that was you!” Francesca Lombardi—what’s she doing here? I cross my arms over my chest, but she envelops me in a jasmine-scented hug anyway. “Sweetheart! How’s your mother? I dropped by her office, and her assistant said she was gone. On indefinite leave.” She pulls back, nails still digging into my arms. “Oh, dear—I hope nothing’s happened. Is everything all right?”
“She’s in Rome.” Heaven help me... How do I get out of this one? “Nonna’s selling the house. No big deal.”
“And how about you? What are you doing here? You’re not an investor, surely?” Francesca looks me up and down. “I mean, I heard your writing was going well, but this is the big time!”
“No. No, I’m—”
“Oh! You’re a plus one! Look at me, keeping you from your date! Mwah!” She lays a big, noisy smacker on my cheek. “Pass that on to Maria, when you see her!” And just like that, she’s gliding off, already zeroed in on her next target.
“Wait!”
She pauses, one brow raised.
“Jack Brightman: have you seen him?”
“Jack, hm?—so that’s how it is!”
I open my mouth to protest, but she blows right through.
“Conservatory.” She points at a set of soaring double doors. “Through there, down the hall, third door to the left. Can’t miss it.” She tips me an oily wink. “Good luck, sweetheart—though, in that dress, you’ll hardly need it!”
Well...at least now I know where I’m going. I take a deep breath, tweak my hair one last time, and head for the conservatory.
Chapter Twelve
Jack
Nineteen thirty-six. I tuck my watch away. It’s so quiet in here, I can hear it ticking through two layers of fabric. I can feel it too, a subtle, rhythmic thrum, just above my heart.
I’m restless. Time’s marching on. And I don’t need to be here. Stella knows the score. No need to dazzle her.
I find the arbor, overgrown with wisteria, and stretch out on the bench. I’ll go out there in a while, show my face to the investors. Once the candidates are gone.
I don’t feel awkward. It’s not that. Stella’s just tough. Hard to read. I need to seize the upper hand. Disabuse her of any notion she’s walking away with a story. Once she gets that, really gets it, the games can begin. She’ll be pissed, but unlike Magnus, I like a bitch. If I don’t wake up with a few bites and scratches, I’ve wasted my time.
The door creaks. Someone’s here. I hold my breath. I’m not in the mood for company.
Heels click on the floor, coming to a stop by the pond. I push the vines aside, just enough to reveal the intruder.
It’s her. Stella. Someone must’ve ratted me out. Fucking Magnus: I’d stake my fortune on it. Asshole’s had it out for me since I nixed his first choice.
This wasn’t how I’d planned it, but stepping out of the shadows and scaring her might not be a bad first move. I lay my hand over my breast pocket to muffle my watch, and wait for her to walk into my trap.
Chapter Thirteen
Stella
Just my luck! T
he conservatory’s gorgeous—three stories of gleaming glass and wrought metal, housing a tropical jungle—but it’s also deserted. Well, apart from the birds. And the fish. This place isn’t just pretty: it’s incredible. A winding stream widens into a glassy pond. Heavy moss hangs from the branches of ancient trees—how’d they get those in here? Did they build the place around them, or uproot them from somewhere else? A flagstone path wends its way through the vegetation, lit by mellow stone lanterns.
I should get back to the party. Jack’s clearly not here, and I’m running out of time.
Then again, there’s a bench nestled just beyond the reflecting pool. I could take a second, get off my feet. I haven’t sat down since I got here, and that toenail’s driving me insane.
Five minutes, then.
There’s a faint rustle as I step onto the bridge. I look up just in time to see a section of wisteria settle back into place. So he is here. Hiding in the bushes like a little boy, waiting to...what? Jump out and say ‘boo’? Trip me as I walk by? Or maybe he’s hoping I’ll go away.
Fat chance of that.
I keep walking. He waits till the last possible moment to step into my path, timing it so I nearly collide with him. All the breath goes out of me at once. I was expecting him to pop out, but I didn’t anticipate his sheer physical presence. He’s...he’s—
“You’re taller than I thought.”
Jack steps into my space, steadying me with one massive hand. He’s got to be nearly seven feet tall, beyond imposing. Even in heels, I have to tilt my head to look him in the eye. And he’s huge all over: a solid wall of muscle and sinew. Massive shoulders. Hands like shovels. A chest so broad I could curl up on it.
“And you....” His grin turns into a smirk. He cups my chin in one palm, smears his thumb over my cheek. “You have lipstick on your face.”
