Bait

by Leslie Jones

  Deni guided her over to the full-­length mirror. “Now you may inspect.”

  Christina felt her mouth drop open. “My goodness.”

  “I echo the sentiment,” Deni said, giving a rare smile. “You will, ’ow you say, knock their socks off.”

  “It’s too fancy,” she said. “Aren’t I going to stand out like a sore thumb?” The dress had not seemed so overwhelming when she had tried it on before, but now, with hair and makeup, she looked like she should be attending the Oscars. Next to her, Deni almost disappeared.

  Deni gave her a puzzled look. “Sore thumb? I do not know this idiom. But no, you are not too fancy. The Nabourgs are a very old family, and very traditional. All will dress like this.” She slapped her hands together briskly. “And now, princesse, we face the fire together, yes?”

  Taking a deep, cleansing breath, Christina smoothed her hands down her waist. “Yes.”

  Deni preceded her out the bedroom door, clearing her throat to alert the team. And then it was time. She stepped through the doorway.

  All conversation ceased. The team, spread throughout the room, came to their feet as one. Christina’s gaze unerringly found Gabe. Her stomach roiled with conflict; hurt and anger sat at the fore, but confusion shifted in the back of her head. He stared at her with the same stupefied expression as the rest of the team. No one moved or spoke. Then, a slow wolf whistle broke the silence. Mace stepped forward.

  “Magnifique,” he said. “You are truly magnificent.” He raised her fingers and brushed his lips across her knuckles.

  She felt her shoulders relax and she gave his hand a tiny squeeze before letting go. It was good of him to reassure her. The tension in the room broke.

  “Holy Christ,” Tag muttered.

  Gavin gave her a thumbs-­up.

  “Boo-­yah.” Alex grinned at her. She grinned back at him.

  Gabe still stared, not moving a muscle. Maybe not even breathing. She couldn’t even hazard a guess as to what he was thinking. Her gaze slid down his body, and she found that she, too, was speechless. He—­like most of them, she noticed—­was wearing a tuxedo. The black fabric hugged his shoulders and emphasized his lean waist and hips. The black bow tie over snowy-­white shirt should have made the rough, tough operator look silly, but instead he reminded her of James Bond.

  “You all look very handsome,” she said to the room at large, but she couldn’t tear her eyes from him.

  Gabe finally took a ragged breath and exhaled hard. “I’ll be fighting off every man under eighty. You look . . . amazing.”

  She looked down. He shouldn’t say things he didn’t mean. He wouldn’t fight for her. “We should go.”

  “Wait. Let me check in first.” He pulled out his phone and hit a button. “Who’s this? Archie? What’s wrong? Where’s Trevor?” He laughed. “Hell of a time to take a leak. Any updates?” He hit another button and an Irish voice came on the line.

  “Conall can’t stop gawking at Her Highness’s diddies. It’s true she’s a fine bit of stuff, but she’s sound. He’s a fecking eejit. Ow! Leave off, Conall. I was just having a bit of fun.”

  Mace laughed. “You’re on speaker, asshole.”

  “Ah, Christ. Tell a fella next time. Your pardon, ladies.”

  Gabe spoke with exaggerated patience. “Are there any updates on Her Highness’s list of possible enemies?”

  “One or two.” Archie’s voice deepened as he got down to business. “There’s a gent named Escamilla who lost Her Highness’s patronage for his halfway house because of liberties with the accounting. He was skimming. Also, FYI, the Nabourgs are broke. Heavily in debt to any number of businesses. God knows how they’re funding that fancy hooley you blokes are popping into. Any use?”

  “Yes,” Gabe assured him. “Do we know where Escamilla is?”

  “Aye. His wife left him and he went back to Madrid. Interpol is keeping an eye on him for us.”

  “Thanks. Call if anything comes up.”

  “See ya after,” Archie said. The line went dead.

  There was complete silence for a moment.

  “We’re bound to catch a break,” Christina said. She kept her expression bright and optimistic. “Trevor’s team will find answers for us.”

  Alex shrugged. Gavin muttered something too low for her to hear. Tag grunted.

  “We work with what we’ve got,” Gabe said, slapping his hands together and rubbing them briskly. “We’ve done more with less intel.”

  “True. Let’s get this party rolling,” Mace said. He showed Christina a tiny Bluetooth device. “To keep us all connected. The wire you’re wearing is only a backup.” He made as though to insert it himself, but Christina put out a hand. He dropped it into her palm. She slid it into her ear canal, and they did a brief comms check.

  “I’ll be in your ear translating, if necessary,” Gavin said. “But I only speak French, not Dutch.”

  “I understand. I’ll be fine. Deni will be with me.”

  Mace and Gavin, who wore suits but not tuxedos, peeled off. In a few minutes, they checked in. Mace found a spot on the roof that he grumbled “sucked less than the others,” and Gavin was with the cars, just in case they needed a fast exit.

  The rest of them descended from the open balcony, where a liveried footman escorted them to the ballroom. Panels of light wood separated cream-­colored walls. Chandeliers gave the room a warm air. The dance floor dominated the room. It was formal and grand, just as Deni had said.

  She joined the line waiting to go in, Deni beside her. Tag stood at the doors to the great hall. Alex and Gabe had slipped inside the ballroom. When it came her turn, Christina stepped through the doors and into the ballroom. The receiving line was to her left. Deni addressed a stiff man in formal livery at the head of the receiving line.

  “Dame Deni Van Praet, Edle von Naamveld,” she told him. “Presenting Her Royal Highness Véronique, Princesse de Savoie.”

  The herald turned to Lord Nabourg and repeated their names and titles. The viscount shook Deni’s hand, turned, and introduced her to his wife. Then it was Christina’s turn. As Ronnie had instructed her, she offered both hands to the viscount, then kissed both cheeks. She did the same with the viscountess, who then introduced her to the woman standing beside her, Lady Nerys Nolin. Lady Nolan curtsied to Christina, saying in French, “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Royal Highness.” Gavin murmured a translation into her ear.

  “I am pleased to meet you, as well,” she replied in English. “For tonight, I am practicing my English.” She leaned forward, eyes twinkling, as though sharing a secret. “It’s for my bodyguards, so they do not feel unwelcome. Will you oblige me?”

  Lady Nolin hastened to assure Christina of her cooperation. This routine continued down the receiving line, which was mercifully limited to six. By the time she and Deni stepped free, Christina felt calmer. This was going to work. She could do this. Was doing it, with no one the wiser. Gabe fell into place one step behind her and to her left. Alex drifted from spot to spot, looking tense and uncomfortable.

  A waiter in a black tuxedo with blue bow tie and cummerbund offered her a tray of champagne flutes. She took one simply to have something to do with her hands. “We can’t sit yet, not until the Nabourgs do,” she said into her earpiece. “I’m going to find somewhere out of the way to stand.” Deni nodded, not realizing Christina wasn’t talking to her. “Alex, relax. You look like you’re about to be devoured by raging lions.”

  “I’d rather fight lions,” the farm boy groused. “These ­people stink.”

  Christina knew what he meant. Dozens of different perfumes and colognes swirled around them, mixing poorly into a soup of fragrances. The ballroom was already filled with chatting ­couples, all dressed like movie stars. Women wore full-­skirted ball gowns like hers, or, less common, sheaths such as the one Deni wore. The jewelry glitte
red. A number of the men wore military uniforms. The brilliance stunned her.

  Her plan to fade into the background failed almost at once. The guests were eager to meet her. They expressed outrage over the attempt on her life, wished her well in her marriage, and passed on tidbits of gossip. No one was crass enough to mention the viscount’s infidelity in her hearing, but she noted the bright, curious looks sent his way.

  She disengaged herself from several women discussing the next elections, to be held in the fall. She’d barely taken a step when a man strode up to her. Gabe stepped in front of her. Surprise and displeasure flickered across the man’s face.

  “Pardon me,” he said stiffly.

  The man had a sharp, lean face, close-­cropped hair, and a goatee. The burn scar swept up his left cheek to just above his ear, puckered and shiny. Christina recognized him from the photo taken at the anti-­drilling protest. Anxiety spiked. This man knew Ronnie.

  “Good evening, Lord Bonnet,” she said, in Ronnie’s lilting, musical voice. “Is this not a lovely party?”

  The man bowed very slightly. “Yes, Your Royal Highness. I wonder if I might have a word?” He eyed Gabe, who had not moved.

  Was this her potential assassin? He certainly looked the part, which made the notion that he might be one ridiculous. She touched Gabe’s arm, pressing firmly. He scowled and didn’t budge.

  “Gabriel,” she said. She’d meant to sound firm, but her voice quavered at the end. He half turned to look at her. “Please step aside.”

  Alex appeared behind the man. “I got your back.”

  Gabe took a step back, allowing the man close enough to talk.

  “Merci bien,” he said to Christina, ignoring Gabe. He began to speak rapidly in French. Gavin translated. “I know we’ve been on opposing sides on your idea to open up our northern regions to exploration for oil and natural gas. But the damage . . .”

  Christina gave a gentle smile and placed a hand on his forearm, stopping him in midsentence. “We ’ave all made a pact tonight to practice our English. It will be fun, yes? Do you speak English?”

  Bonnet scowled. “Naturellement. Of course, if it please you, ma’am. I was saying that . . .”

  “Non, Lord Bonnet,” she interrupted. “My grandaunt’s anniversary ball is hardly the place to discuss this. Enjoy the evening, and we will speak at the Vienna summit in three weeks.”

  A frown pulled his stern face down even more. “This is very important, and I’ve been unsuccessful in making an appointment through the private secretary’s office.” He glared in Deni’s direction.

  The Nabourgs ambled toward the head table, signaling it was time for guests to take their places. Relieved, Christina stepped back. “I’m sorry, Lord Bonnet. Our hosts are beginning the seating for dinner.”

  He reached out toward Christina, glanced at Gabe, and lowered his hand. “May I speak with you later, then? It’s urgent.”

  Not if she could help it. The man gave her the shivers. “Yes, of course.” She turned to Deni.

  “You will sit beside Lady Nabourg,” Deni said at once. “I am assigned to sit at a table with Lady Nolin and Mrs. Boeckman.”

  “Oh,” Christina said, eyes rounding. “But . . .”

  Deni patted her arm. “I do not have the rank to sit with the nobles. You will be fine.”

  Butterflies returned to her stomach. She relied on Deni’s knowledge and, when needed, intervention. She felt chilled, knowing she was on her own.

  A warm, calloused palm slid into hers. “We’re here,” Gabe said. “You’re doing great.”

  Grateful, she squeezed his fingers. When he stepped away again, she missed his solid presence beside her. She moved to the head table and found her name on a simple white card. A footman held her chair. Gabe nudged him aside, gentle but implacable. When he’d seated her, he fell back several steps, until he almost blended into the wall.

  “Bonnet,” she murmured, lips barely moving. “He’s a politician, right? A public figure. It’s odd that he wasn’t in front of the cameras at the protest. Usually politicians want the spotlight.”

  “Trevor will find something, if it’s there to find,” Gabe said reassuringly. “Focus on the here and now.”

  Dinner was a long, tedious affair. At the start of each of the seven courses, several guests would stand and offer a toast to the Nabourgs, to their wedding anniversary, and to their continued health.

  At last, the toasts dwindled and stopped. Lady Nabourg rose, presumably to give her own speech of thanks. Before she could open her mouth, though, a man entered the ballroom and made straight for the head table, a footman following him with a small box and a bouquet of roses. He stopped about fifteen feet from the table and inclined his head. His dark hair was cut short, but would be curly if allowed to grow. Thick brows slashed over grayish-­blue eyes. His nose seemed slightly rounded and too large for his face, but fit well with his broad shoulders and long legs. He looked familiar, but she could not immediately place him.

  “My lady, you look lovely,” the man said. “My apologies for appearing uninvited, but I very much wanted to wish you both many more years of happy marriage.”

  The viscountess beamed down at him. “Lord Brumley, you honor us. And I am thinking your surprise visit might have more to do with my grandniece, your beautiful fiancée, is it not so?”

  Christina’s heart stopped. Ronnie’s fiancé? What was he doing here?

  “Abort,” Gabe said into her ear. “That’s Julian Brumley, the fiancé. Get ready to move her out.”

  TREVOR HAD WARNED him it was too dangerous for them to be together until the shooter had been neutralized. Why had he ignored the warning? Christina, the ‘her’ in question, raised her napkin and pretended to blot her lips. “Wait. He can’t get near me until the dancing starts. It will look too suspicious if he appears, and I immediately run away.”

  “It’s too risky,” Gabe said.

  Christina intensified her whisper. “You’re in charge of protection, but I’m in charge of the pretense. I’ll move when it won’t look odd.”

  He’d positioned himself between wall sconces so that his face was in shadow, but she felt the fury in his gaze. Half expecting him to lunge at her and drag her away by the hair, she was astonished when he didn’t move. And didn’t move.

  “Thank you,” she breathed. There was no response.

  Julian Brumley indicated the box the footman held. “My lord and lady, a small gift to celebrate your anniversary.”

  Lord Nabourg peered at it. “Excellent. Lovely.” He gestured, and the footman bowed and placed the box on the table beside the other gifts.

  Julian lifted the roses into his arms. “And now, my lord and lady, if you will permit me?” He strode to Christina, sitting beside Lady Nabourg. Christina tensed. He smiled into her eyes, warmth and affection pouring from them, and handed her the bouquet. “Beauty for my beauty,” he said. The crowd murmured approvingly.

  Nonplussed, Christina bent her head to sniff the flowers, then set them on the table. “They’re beautiful, Julian. Thank you.” She stumbled almost imperceptibly over his name. He smiled again, then the footman was back, guiding him to a table halfway down the room, where there was an open seat. Christina began to breathe again.

  Conversation began again in the room, perhaps a touch more animated than before. Her appetite gone, Christina picked at the spekkoek, a traditional layered spiced cake. Her gaze kept skittering to Julian Brumley, even as she asked Ronnie’s great-­aunt questions about her youth in Andorra. Lady Nabourg spoke animatedly about her childhood, slipping from Dutch to English and back again. Christina nodded and smiled and murmured at appropriate intervals, and made herself look interested.

  “When they get up, come toward me,” Gabe said in her ear. “Nod so I know you heard me.”

  She hesitated, but finally inclined her head. It wasn’t the rig
ht move. In order to reveal the shooter, she had to remain exposed to a certain extent. And where would she be safer than at a party with a bunch of old noblemen? Gabe was being reactive, but there was no way to communicate that to him.

  The room became restive, and Lady Nabourg finally raised her head. “Well, my dear, it is time to start the dancing.” She rose, and her husband followed suit. They came together on the dance floor, and the orchestra began to play a waltz. They were elderly and not spry, so they did little more than sway, but it released the rest of the guests to dance as well, or move about the room to chat. The dance floor filled quickly, mostly with the younger guests. Christina rose, intending to withdraw quietly, with no one the wiser. Instead, Émile Bonnet waylaid her as soon as she stepped from the table.

  “Your Royal Highness,” he said. “I was distressed to hear about the attack in Brussels. Your life is in danger. Perhaps it would be better if you didn’t attend the Geothermal Exploration conference in Vienna next month?”

  Ronnie had mentioned the conference several times. In fact, she and Trevor had argued about it, in their very polite way. Even if the “situation,” as she called it, was not resolved by them, Ronnie still wanted to go. She was scheduled to speak on economic responsibility, supporting an initiative to lure oil companies into Concordia. “I speak for future generations,” she’d said. “Our economy cannot sustain itself on farming and tourism alone. We import seventy percent of our food from other countries as it is. There are many ways to mitigate potential damage that oil production and distribution might have in certain rural areas.”

  Christina spoke as she believed Ronnie would, hoping she got it right. “It is too important an issue for me to stay away. All geological reports indicate there are huge deposits of oil in our northern, rural regions.”

  Émile frowned. “With respect, ma’am, that’s shortsighted. Importing oil does no damage to our land, which sustains some very rare animals. It’s irresponsible to destroy natural animal habitats.”