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“Who’s her brother?” I ask, almost not wanting to know.

“That Wall Street dude who dates supermodels. He just got elected as a…senator I think?”

My stomach drops, but I keep my face a stock-still mask.

“He’s all over the news right now,” Jude continues. “Apparently someone even connected him with some gangster guy with a shady criminal record. Eel or Eel Man or something.”

“Creelman,” Eli says from the other side of the tent.

“Wait,” I say, my voice feeling like it’s detached from my brain, which is going at a hundred miles an hour. “Are you telling me that’s Sasha Macklin?”

“Youdoknow her!” Jude says, grinning.

The dossier on Sam Macklin that Ford did up last year indicated the councillor had a sister living in London. She’s ten years Sam’s junior and apparently far removed from any of his dealings. Macklin has two siblings closer in age to him. We wrote her off as a person of interest.

“No,” I say. The lie that comes next is easy. “I’ve never heard of her.”

Jude’s about to say something else, but he’s cut off by the tent flap opening and the woman with the blazer popping her head inside.

“Gentlemen? It’s go time!”

* * *

I can tell just from the angles that the photographer darting around in front of us as the officiant drones into the mic is minimizing the number of photos I’m in, per my request. Still, I keep my face pointed down as much as possible.

That part is a literal pain in the neck, but at least it forces me to keep from looking up at the woman.

Creelman. Her brother’s mixed up in some serious shit. For all I know—facts-wise—she could be part of it, too. My instincts immediately revolt at that suggestion, and my instincts are rarely wrong. Still, I never rule anything out until I’m positive.

I’m so preoccupied with my thoughts I don’t notice the ceremony’s over until the crowd is cheering uproariously and I look up to see Eli bending his fiancée—shit, his wife—backward to kiss her for a full minute longer than necessary.

Shit. I’m an ass. I do my best to focus my attention on the wedding photos that come next.

After they’ve cleared the rows of chairs away and we’ve posed in a few photos for the family’s use only, I scan the crowd, now mingling around tallboy tables the staff have brought over from the hotel.

I spot Sasha Macklin standing with Reese and Eli. She’s fawning over Reese’s dress alongside Nora. I tell myself I’m being insane. Overly cautious. This is just a woman who was upset about being late for a VIP wedding.

I hear my name. “Griff!”

Jude’s waving me over. I could ignore him—in fact, my job here’s done. I already told Eli I wasn’t going to be able to make it to the reception.

So why haven’t I taken off?

Jude waves again.

Grimacing, I head over to the small group.

“Whatcha doing over there all by yourself?” Jude asks.

Near where I was standing a moment ago, a group of people are clicking together a floating floor. This whole operation is pretty smooth. It’s impressive. But I only just now noticed them doing that.

“Watching them set up the dance floor,” I lie. It’s a ridiculous answer to a ridiculous question.

Jude’s got his arm hooked around Nora’s shoulder, his thumb brushing over her bare skin in an easy stroke. “Is that right?”

Nora smiles. “Nice to see you, Griff. Have you met my friend Sasha M—”

“Sasha’s fine,” Sasha says.