“Radio silence, Rowan,” she said, and plucked the headset off, abandoned it — and the notepad, glasses, and purse — at the foot of the column. She’d been seen, so very, very seen. There was no sense in trying to hide when the first thing her mark had done was drink in the sight of her like a man dying of thirst.
Viola walked so that her skirts fluttered in her wake and plucked a glass of champagne off of a passing tray. She sipped and pretended to be looking at the dinosaur bones when in fact she saw his every move in her well-trained periphery. Jutting one hip out to the side, she inclined her head just slightly, feigning absorption, and waited for him to come to her. They always came to her.
Didn’t they?
She glanced over her shoulder: apparently not. He hadn’t moved from his spot, where throngs of people were trying to ask him questions or shake his hand or draw him away for just a second to talk about some investment opportunity or to congratulate him on his acquisition. She wasn’t sure that he had so much as looked her way since he’d first laid eyes on her. Had she read it all wrong?
She couldn’t very well stand there staring at dinosaur bones for the rest of the night. So, she did whatever she usually did when she was feeling nervous, or really any heightened emotion she didn’t know what to do with: she ate.
Shrimp cocktail, crackers with brie, finger sandwiches, chicken satay, chickpea and beet salad, she ate, and ate, all the while never losing track of Mr. McCallum. But when he broke free of his coterie and made his way toward her, she had to wipe quickly at her lips with the back of her hand to make sure she was crumb-free.
He stood next to her and began piling food onto his small plate at the buffet, and she proffered a thin smile as she munched on a cracker.
“The Tyrannosaurus rex was thought to have been cannibalistic,” he said to her, his voice low and gruff, eyes twinkling with amusement.
She turned to face him, unable to conceal her bewildered expression. “Excuse me?” she asked, begging him to explain his non sequitur. He smiled.
“I saw you admiring the fossils,” he said, gesturing to the dinosaur bones, “for what seemed like quite a stretch of time.” Viola blushed very prettily. “And I recently read somewhere that the Tyrannosaurus rex would sometimes feed on its own kind. The scientists could tell because they found teeth marks on leg bones, and they thought that it would be too difficult for them to attack that way during a fight. So: cannibals.”
“Well, that’s hardly unprecedented in nature,” Viola said, setting her plate aside in favor of her champagne glass. “Cats sometimes eat their young during difficult births in order to save their own lives.”
“Hamsters,” he said. “Right? Hamsters constantly eat their young.”
“Mmhm,” she confirmed, sipping the Dom Perignon. “And, of course, the praying mantis will rip off the head of her partner after they’ve mated, and then eat it.”
“Yikes.” He was grinning. “Lobsters. I’ve heard that lobsters eat each other.”
“And who can blame them? They’re delicious.” They both laughed, their little moment of intimacy interrupted by an assistant that leaned forward to whisper something into Graham’s ear. In fact, the assistant had to stand up on his tiptoes to even reach that high. Graham gave a nod of his head and the assistant went scuttling off.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “duty calls.”
“Of course,” Viola said breezily.
He turned away, but paused, giving a slow shake of his head before turning around again. “Sorry, this is corny,” he said, one corner of his mouth hooking up in a grin, “but… I just have to know your name.”
“Viola,” she said, extending one delicate hand. He took it and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, making her feel like Victorian aristocracy instead of an urban orphan. “And you are?”
He blanched, and stared up at her, wide-eyed behind his glasses. His expression was unabashed shock: didn’t everyone knew who Graham McCallum was? But he transitioned gracefully into an earnest smile that bespoke how much he wished he could fade into obscurity. “Graham,” he said. “Just call me Graham.”
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she said, reluctantly withdrawing her hand.
“Likewise,” he replied, “truly.” He turned on his heel then to disappear into the crowd that was vying for his attention, and Viola was left staring after him. She finished off her champagne and abandoned the glass before slipping back into the shadows.
She felt fingers curl around her upper arm, then, and haul her behind one of the columns. Rowan glared fiercely down into her face, his teeth clenched. “Did I ever tell you to make contact?” he breathed, infuriated. Viola jerked herself free and glowered back up into those yellow-green eyes.
“Babysitting me now, are you?” she hissed.
“Because apparently that’s what you require.”
“I do not require you to come in here and tell me how to do my job.” She pressed her index finger into his sternum. “I didn’t even want this gig, Rowan,” she said, punctuating her words with a sharp jab to his chest.
“That’s why I’m here. To make sure you don’t throw the job, which was clearly your intention.”
“That was not my intention!” She let out an aggravated sort of grunt and moved away from him, sidling along the far wall until she came to the column where she had previously abandoned her effects. Bending at the waist, she retrieved the items, with Rowan hot on her heels.
“What do you propose to do now?” he asked. “He’s seen you, he’ll notice you. The entire point of the night was to blend.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t help it if I’m gorgeous,” she joked, trying to add a little levity to the situation to calm him down. She pressed the headset, notebook and glasses into his hands, and he heaved an exasperated sigh.
“This isn’t a joke, Viola. This man is really goddamned powerful. And you gave him your name.”
Viola parted her lips to say something, to shoot back some rejoinder that would shut Rowan up. But the truth was, she had no idea why she had given him her real name. It just sort of slipped out. She cast her gaze to the floor, chagrined.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured at length, “you’re right. I guess I’m just out of my element on this one.”
She heard him sigh, but would not look up to meet his gaze. He gripped one of her shoulders, giving it a squeeze. “Should we call it?” he asked.
“No.” She shook her head, sending a few errant locks of jet-black hair into her line of vision. “No, I can do this.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah.” She took the disguise items back and set them all on the floor again. “Yeah, just come dance with me.” Lacing her fingers with his, she led him out from behind the column and to the dance floor, where dozens of other couples were pressed cheek to cheek and swaying to the music.
Viola pressed herself close to Rowan, whose hands came up to rest gently on her hips even as she snaked her arms around his neck. They were locked together, but Viola’s eyes were already scanning the expanse of the room in an attempt to locate Graham McCallum. Rowan held her firmly against him, leaning in to take in a deep breath of the scent of her hair, and moved in step with her to the gentle lull of the music.
“You really do look fantastic,” he murmured, and she glanced up at him with a quick smile.
“Thanks,” came her easy reply. “You do, too. Oh, there he is.” She’d spotted him at the edge of the dance floor, alone for the moment and looking at her again. “Dance me this way,” she said, and they naturally began moving closer to Graham.
“Wait, hang on a sec,” Rowan protested, but it was too late. Viola had already caught Graham’s eye, and he had stepped out onto the dance floor.
“May I cut in?” he asked, just as she’d hoped he would. Rowan hesitated a moment, looking into Viola’s eyes as she dropped her arms from around his neck and opened up her body language to include Graham.
“Graham, this is my associate, D
onald Driver.” Well, that was a terrible name. It sounded like a porn star. Rowan gave a barely imperceptible flinch and clenched his jaw.
“Je m’excuse,” Rowan/Donald said with a flawless French accent, never lifting his eyes to meet Graham’s, “mais je ne parle pas bien l’anglais.”
“Ah,” Graham said, clueless, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Driver.”
“Pardonnez-moi.” He gave a slight bow, shot a very pointed look at Viola, and turned on his heels to take long, gliding strides to the opposite end of the room. Viola chuckled nervously and moved closer to Mr. McCallum, who placed one of his hands on her waist, and extended the other to her. She took it, sliding her free hand up along his collar, and soon, they were dancing.
“I thought I knew everyone who ever came to these things,” McCallum said, moving her with gentle grace over the dance floor. The band was playing “That’s All,” and Viola could hardly help being swept up in the moment. “But I’ve not seen you before. For whom do you work? Or are you an independently wealthy, trust fund type, looking for some way to spend the millions she’s inherited?”
Viola scoffed, tossing her head back with a laugh. “Hardly,” she said, swaying happily in his arms. But even though she’d made mistakes, even though she was in the midst of being dazzled, she could build a lie, quick as lightning. “Actually, I’m just an assistant,” she said.
“Ah, yes.” He smiled warmly down at her. “I believe I saw you in a headset earlier.”
“Mmhm.”
“But then you abandoned your work garb?”
“Mr. Driver came to inform me that Monsieur LaPlage — my boss — was feeling ill and could not attend. I decided to enjoy the party.”
“And what business is his, this Monsieur LaPlage?”
Viola angled her bright blue eyes up at him, peering through long, black lashes, and proffered her most winning smile. “Graham,” she said, only just loud enough to be heard above the music, “I’m off the clock now. Let’s just dance.”
And they did dance, with his hand on the small of her back, pressing her into him; with her fingers brushing lightly over the back of his neck. Their dances were interrupted a few times by people yearning for a scrap of his attention, asking questions about AquaFord, asking him about future plans for investment.
Finally, his cousin with whom he had arrived tugged on his sleeve, and he stopped on the center of the floor. She looked irritable, and perhaps more than slightly intoxicated.
“I’m leaving,” she announced to him, her face sourly puckered as though she had bitten into a lemon.
“Ah, Denise, this is Viola. Viola, this is my cousin, Denise Westin.” Graham gestured between the women with some decorum, but Denise Westin hardly glanced in Viola’s direction.
“I’m taking the car,” Denise said, propping a hand on her hip.
“Shall I escort you…?” Graham asked, though his hesitation was readily apparent in his tone of voice.
“Don’t bother, I can find my own way.” That was when, at long last, she glanced at Viola. If looks could kill… “She’ll give you a ride, I’ve no doubt.” And with that, Denise turned on her heel, abandoning her cousin on the dance floor.
Graham laughed nervously, a boyish smile tugging at the corners of his lips, and scratched the back of his head. “Ah,” he began, “it appears I’ve been deprived of my transport.”
“I have a car we can take,” Viola offered, brazen. “Where do you live?”
“It’s a bit of a drive, I’m afraid,” he admitted.
“I have all night,” she said.
Graham offered her his arm, and she took it, not exactly relishing the fact that all eyes were on the two of them as they crossed the length of the dance floor, breezed past the line of paparazzi, and exited the museum. All the while, Viola was glancing around trying to spot Rowan, but she never once caught a glimpse of those catlike eyes.
Spying her limo, Viola led the way, and McCallum opened the door for her. They both climbed in and settled side by side on the leather seats. Lowering the partition, Graham gave his address to the back of the driver’s head. McCallum didn’t notice, but when the driver turned his head just slightly to hear the directions better, Viola saw that it was Rowan. Her heart caught in her throat, but she said nothing, simply leaned back in her seat until the limo pulled away, leaving the glowing lights of the Benefactor’s Ball behind them.
Chapter 3
Graham McCallum’s estate was on thirty acres of land in the California foothills. The home itself looked like a ski lodge, constructed largely out of logs and large plates of glass that gave the house a great deal of southern-exposure sunlight. As the limo pulled up the drive, Viola marveled at the well-lit landscaping, and the expanse of the grounds: some fifty yards out, she could see a pool, guest house, hot tub, tennis courts; how did people amass this much wealth?
Graham waited a moment to see if the driver would come around to open the door for them; Viola knew that he wouldn’t. So, after a moment, he opened the door and stepped out, holding out a hand for her. She took it, and her heels clicked along the black pavement drive as he led the way up to the house.
Its interior was sleek and modern, fitted with all of the latest gadgets and toys a billionaire philanthropist could want: touchscreen panels in each room to control lighting and temperature, to turn on things like television screens, stereos, and fireplaces. The kitchen, he explained, automatically scanned the barcodes on every item placed in the refrigerator or pantry, and kept a running list of the food in the house. Not that McCallum did his own shopping: there was no need, when he had two housekeepers to do it for him.
But all told, the house was far too large for one man, and he appeared to live alone. At least, they were alone for the moment.
“May I offer you a drink?” he said, removing his blazer with relish. He loosened his tie as well, belying the fact that he wasn’t exactly comfortable in fancier clothes.
“Please,” she said, and took the liberty of kicking off her heels. She did not, however, have the luxury of changing and would be forced to remain in her gorgeous couture gown a little longer. Alas.
“Champagne?” He popped open a bottle and filled two glasses, setting them on the kitchen counter. “Would you excuse me for a moment? I have to get out of this suit.” He paused in the doorway, glancing back at her. “I have something you could borrow, if you would prefer to change.”
“No, thank you,” she said. “I shouldn’t stay.”
“Well,” he said, “have your drink before you make up your mind.” He smiled, and vanished out of the kitchen and up the stairs, ostensibly to change his clothes. She took the silent moment as an opportunity to explore the house, to get a better sense of who this man was. He was a mark, after all, and this was a job. And her real friend was waiting in the limo in the driveway for her. The kitchen led into two different rooms, the dining room on the left, and the foyer on the right. On the other side of the foyer was a large living room, sunken in the center in a great sixties homage. She circled the sunken seating, gazing at row after row of photographs on the wall. He did have a large family, it seemed, or many close friends whom he’d known his entire life. And they were all outdoorsy. Every photo taken seemed to be of him and a group of men sitting outside around a campfire, or by a lake with fish in their hands. There was never any camping gear in the photo, and Viola couldn’t help but wonder if they’d brought along a professional photographer to make everything looks so natural. It would only just figure.
The home itself was well-appointed, modern, and luxurious without being totally extravagant. Actually, she found she rather liked it. She found she rather liked him, and had to remind herself ad infinitum that she was actually here, in this house, to kill him. To murder him in cold blood. She shook her head. No. Rowan would have to have another Somnus Sacrae agent take care of this one. She couldn’t have his blood on her hands.
“Viola?”
His voice summoned her back into the kitchen,
and she picked up her glass, taking small little sips of the champagne as she cast furtive smiles across the room to him. He had changed, into jeans and a flannel shirt, and he looked immediately more comfortable. The man made it look like he was doing that suit a favor simply by deigning to wear it, so it was incredible what he could do with dark wash jeans and plaid.
“I’m nervous,” he admitted, drinking down the full contents of his champagne glass.
She smiled. “Why?”
“Because… I never really do this.”
“Do what, exactly?”
“This, you know. Bring a woman home after I’ve only just met her.” He padded across the tiled floor to the fridge and fetched a beer, popping open the can and taking a drink in one fluid motion.
“Well, if it’s any consolation, I don’t usually go home with men after I’ve just met them either, so we’re even.”
“That is comforting.” He looked at her levelly. “I would like to sleep with you. Would you like to sleep with me?”
Viola gave a full-bodied laugh, the kind you couldn’t fake or imitate. The answer, of course, was yes, but his earnest directness had caught her utterly off guard.
“Is that a no, then?” he asked, perturbed.
She shook her head, reduced to a flurry of giggles. “No,” she said, “no, it’s not a no. But let’s just see what happens, shall we?”
She set her glass down and moved toward him, graceful and calm, a whisper of black fabric across the tiled floor. When she was near enough, she pressed her hands to his chest and felt the gentle tremor of his heartbeat, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
“You are stunning,” he whispered, angling his head to peer down at her.
“Funny,” she remarked, “I was going to say the same thing about you.” He gave a smile then that lit up his whole face, and brought out two prominent dimples on either side of a set of perfectly white teeth. He was disarming.
“I…” He cleared his throat and lifted a hand, brushing a few stray curls out of her face. “I don’t know how to do this.”
Shades of a Shifter_A Werebear Shifter Paranormal Romance Page 3
