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The voice, breaking into her thoughts, spoke with an accent she didn’t recognize. She looked up and found herself face-to-face with a man who had big dark eyes, thick hair, and dark skin — he looked Middle Eastern, she thought. And by the sound of that accent, he was a long way from home.
It had stirred something in her. He was attractive, she realized — and it had been a long time since she had thought of any guy in those terms. She was too busy to consider dating, especially when every time shedidput herself out there, it ended in disaster.
“I’m Keira,” she told the man, extending her hand to shake. “I’m one of the event organizers, yes. Are you a journalist?”
“No.” He cocked his head to one side. “What gave you that idea?”
“You’re in the press area.” Was that not obvious? She would have thought the microphones and cameras would have given it away. “Where are you trying to be?”
“I’m not really sure,” he admitted. “I’m interested in the way this event is run. I’m wondering if you can tell me a little more about how you put things together and what your role is here.”
She stared at him. What did he think this was, some sort of job interview? “I’m a little busy,” she told him. “I haven’t got time to explain everything I do to keep things running.”
“Just a short explanation, then,” he said, as if she hadn’t just told him no.
“You’re going to have to return to your seat,” she told him. “You shouldn’t even be in this part of the arena.”
“Oh, I don’t have a seat,” he said. “I’m not here to see the race, exactly.”
“This is a ticketed event,” she told him. “You can’t even get in here if you don’t have a ticket. Let me see yours.”
He shook his head and spread his hands. “I don’t have one.”
“Then how did you get in?”
“Your door guard likes money.”
“Mydoor guard —are you talking about the gate agent?”
“The man with the…” He made a gesture with his hand. After a moment, Keira figured it out — he was miming using one of the handheld ticket scanners.
“So let me see if I’ve got this straight,” she said. “Youbribedyour way in here?”
“I paid more than the cost of a ticket.”
“You didn’t pay it to the organization, you put it in the pocket of the man working the gate.”
“Who arguably needs it more than a racing organization worth billions.”
“Is that what you’re here to talk to me about?”
“No,” he said. “I want to know the details about how this event is run. That’s what I came here to learn.”
She threw her hands up. “Why?”
“I’m interested,” he said simply. “I’m an interested party.”
“You’re an interested con artist, is what you are. If you really cared about the race, you would have bought a ticket — which you can obviously afford based on the story you just told me — and come in legitimately like everyone else. The event isn’t even sold out. Why didn’t you go through the proper channels?”
He shrugged. “It didn’t seem that important.”
“Oh my God.”
“Look, I don’t want to bother you,” he said.
“Well, so much for that.”
“I’m serious. Let me shadow you today,” he suggested. “Just let me follow you around while you do your work. Maybe ask a few questions, but nothing more intrusive than that. You won’t even know I’m here.”