Page 34 of A Touch of Treachery (Section 47 #3)
I tucked my silver watch with its long chain into a pocket on my vest and put on some black onyx cuff links. Each cuff link contained standard comms equipment, although I was betting Bryce would find a way to disable them again.
I tugged my sleeves into place, then went into the living room.
Charlotte was eyeing her own reflection in a mirror on the wall.
She was wearing a forest-green gown with a plunging neckline that clung to her curves in all the right places.
A slit up the side of the sequined fabric teased a hint of her toned leg, while silver stilettoes with steel toe tips covered her feet.
Charlotte had piled her hair on top of her head, and her smooth auburn locks gleamed underneath the lights. Smoky shadow brought out her dark blue eyes, while plum lipstick enhanced her lips.
I let out a low whistle. “You look amazing.”
Charlotte smiled at me in the mirror. “So do you. Very chic and sleek, with massive James Bond vibes. Maybe I should start calling you 007.”
I chuckled at her teasing, then trailed my fingers down her neck and along her collarbone.
Charlotte shivered at the gentle touch, and I dropped my hand to her waist and pulled her back against my body so that I could feel her soft curves molding against me.
The heat of her body soaked into mine, and my dick immediately took notice.
“I wish we could stay here for the rest of the night,” I whispered.
Charlotte looked at me in the mirror again, heat shimmering in her eyes. “Me too.”
I sighed with regret, then pressed a kiss to the side of Charlotte’s neck and stepped back.
She turned to face me, reached up, and adjusted my bow tie.
Charlotte skimmed her fingers across the stubble on my jaw, and I bent forward and lowered my lips to hers.
It was a soft, gentle kiss, just a brief brush of my lips against hers, but it electrified every single cell in my body as though I was gripping a live power line.
I wanted nothing more than to keep kissing Charlotte, to sink into her touch and body and scent and aura until I didn’t know where I left off and she began. But I couldn’t ignore the dull knife of duty still grinding into my ribs, so I brushed my lips across hers again, then reluctantly drew back.
“Rain check?” I murmured.
“Absolutely,” Charlotte whispered.
She tweaked my bow tie a final time, then grabbed her purse and threaded her arm through mine. Together, we left the suite.
W e got into an elevator, rode down to the ground floor, and went to the grand ballroom.
Even by the hotel’s luxurious standards, the ballroom was impressive.
In keeping with the Winterfest theme, white lights had been wrapped around enormous silver snowflakes that dangled from the ceiling and twirled around like disco balls.
More lights wrapped around live pine trees that had been sprayed with white glitter to give them a snowy look, while ice sculptures shaped like snowflakes, trees, and skis towered on green marble columns.
Several folks were perusing the selection of food, but the main attractions were the poker tables, roulette wheels, and other gaming stations that stretched across the ballroom.
Even though it was just after eight o’clock, Casino Night was already in full swing, and people in gowns and tuxedos were playing, laughing, and losing their money, while waiters fetched them round after round of drinks.
The ching-ching-ching of slot machines filled the air, along with the occasional yelp of excitement and the tinkling of coins when someone hit a jackpot.
“How much money does Henrika usually raise for her cancer charity?” I asked.
“Last year, it was more than ten million dollars,” Charlotte replied. “But given how many people are here, she could easily double that amount.”
The two of us strode forward, keeping to the outskirts of the ballroom and weaving our way around the crowd.
Joan was standing at a high table and clutching a half-drunk glass of champagne. The liaison was dressed in a silver gown with long crystal strands that looked like icicles, and her black hair hung loose around her shoulders.
An older man with a bushy gray beard was also standing at the high table, talking and gesturing, but Joan ignored him and glanced over to her right. She took a sip of champagne, but the motion didn’t quite hide her deep frown.
I followed her gaze and spotted Gabriel chatting with a waitress. The former cleaner noticed Joan watching him and gave her a saucy wink. Joan rolled her eyes and turned back to the bearded man who was still chatting at her.
“There’s Henrika,” Charlotte murmured.
She tilted her head to the side. A set of stairs in the corner led up to a second level that jutted out over the center of the ballroom.
Henrika was leaning a hip against the glass railing, clutching a champagne flute, and looking out over the crowd below like a queen on a throne.
She was wearing a long red-sequined gown, and an actual diamond tiara was nestled in her light brown hair, adding to the queenly illusion.
A diamond choker glittered around her throat, a matching bracelet flashed on her right wrist, and rings glittered on most of her fingers.
Henrika saluted us with her glass before crooking her index finger in a clear command.
I hated being at Henrika’s beck and call, but we didn’t have a choice, so I led Charlotte over to the stairs.
The instant we reached the upper level, a familiar electrical field swept over my body, indicating that our comms had once again been fried.
“Desmond, Charlotte,” Henrika crooned. “Don’t you both look splendid.”
Her green gaze landed on the snowflake brooch pinned to Charlotte’s gown, and her crimson lips curved into a knowing smirk.
“Although you must get Desmond to buy you some real jewels, darling, instead of those cheap crystal imitations. Such things always tend to . . . loose their luster and fritz out at the most inopportune times.”
Charlotte tensed, and I had to clench my jaw to keep from sniping back. Henrika knew the brooch contained Section comms, which had once again been disabled.
“Come join us,” Henrika said, although it was another clear command.
She spun around on her red stilettoes and strutted over to a poker table in the center of this level.
Henrika dropped into the seat at one end of the table.
Niles was sitting beside her, yanking at the collar of his ill-fitting navy tuxedo jacket.
In contrast, Steig’s black plaid tuxedo jacket was so tight and fitted it looked like it was about to rip open trying to cover his wide shoulders.
Oriana was on the other side of Steig, wearing a pink dress with a puffy skirt that looked like a ballerina’s tutu.
A dealer in a green shirt, bow tie, and tuxedo vest was perched on the other side of the table, a deck of cards in her hand.
“Would one of you care to join our game?” Henrika asked, gesturing at the empty seat directly opposite hers.
“Go ahead, darling,” I said. “We both know you’re the better gambler.”
I kissed Charlotte’s cheek and pulled out the chair. She dropped into it, and I squeezed her shoulder, letting her know I was watching her back. Then I headed over to the bar. Silver platters of food had been set out, but I ignored the spread and ordered a sparkling water.
Bryce was standing at the opposite end of the bar, and four guards were spaced along the rest of the balcony floor.
All the guards were paramortals, and all were sporting at least one gun under their tuxedo jackets.
Frustration pounded through me, but I couldn’t make a move against them, not with hundreds of innocent bystanders milling around the ballroom below.
Bryce grabbed a glass of whiskey, then swaggered over to me. “Desmond.”
“Bryce.”
Each of us took a drink, eyeing each other over the rims of our glasses.
Just like the other guards, Bryce was also carrying a gun under his tuxedo jacket, and I was willing to bet he had another holstered to his ankle and at least one knife tucked away somewhere, just as he had on all the Section missions we’d been on together. Old habits die hard for assassins.
I studied the energy radiating off his body, along with his aura, which was the dark, sour yellow of a rotten lemon.
Bryce was as powerful as ever, and his enduro strength, speed, and stamina made him a formidable enemy.
He was easily the most dangerous of Henrika’s men, and I’d have to be on constant guard around him.
Unlike the other paramortals, Bryce didn’t need a gun, knife, poison, or explosive to kill me.
He could easily beat me to death with his fists and feet.
Bryce leaned against the bar and angled his body so he could see both me and the poker table. I mimicked his relaxed posture.
“When Henrika first told me about her plan to invite you here, I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to actually show up, Dez,” he said. “But I see you’re still doing Daddy’s dirty work, no questions asked.”
“And now you’re doing Henrika’s. You’ve come down in the world since your time at Section.”
“Nah. I just got smart—and rich.” Bryce flashed me a wide, toothy smile. “Henrika’s paying me enough for this gig to let me retire in style.”
“One last job?” I snorted. “How cliché.”
“Well, we can’t all be a Section Legacy, and not just a mere Legacy but a Percy to boot.”
I bristled. I might be a Legacy, a Percy, but I’d sweat, bled, and almost died for Section 47 too many times to count. I’d earned my spot as one of the spy group’s top cleaners, and I wasn’t about to let anyone think otherwise, especially not a piece of scum like Bryce Finkley.
“If you’re so jealous of my position, then maybe you shouldn’t have killed an innocent hostage, stolen Section resources, and gotten booted out on your ass.”
“I eliminated an obstacle to take down a sanctioned target.” Anger sparked in his dark brown eyes, and his aura pulsed with bitterness. “No one at Section would have batted an eye at my killing that hostage, except you decided to make it personal and use my face as a punching bag.”
Bryce traced his index finger over the scar that slashed through his left eyebrow and down into his cheek. “ You’re the one who crossed the line, Dez. Not me. I just have to look at the result of your actions every day in the mirror.”
A surprising amount of guilt churned in my gut. As much as I hated to admit it, he was right. Attacking a fellow cleaner was something you just didn’t do, no matter what happened on a mission. But I’d lost control and made a deadly enemy as a result.
“ You’re the one who should have gotten booted out on your ass, but your daddy the General made it all go away.
” The anger in Bryce’s eyes iced over into something darker and much more dangerous, and his aura shimmered with the same hateful emotion.
“And for the record, I didn’t steal anything from Section.
Not one penny. General Percy made up that story to kick me out, all because of you . ”
I didn’t have Charlotte’s synesthesia, but I could see the conviction pulsing in Bryce’s aura.
He was telling the truth. He hadn’t stolen anything, and he’d gotten kicked out of Section 47 because my father wanted to protect me.
Blaming someone for something they didn’t do was a classic move from the General’s playbook on how to eliminate enemies.
Bryce gave me a thoughtful look. “Do you even realize you’re nothing but General Percy’s prize assassin? Just a weapon he points at whatever person, place, or thing he wants knocked down?” He raised his hand and shot a mocking finger gun at me.
I flinched, and Bryce smirked, knowing he’d scored a direct hit with that barb.
“Do us both a favor. Be a good little spy, and play along with Henrika, okay, Dez? Because it would be a shame for me to have to kill you before she gets what she wants.”
The former cleaner drained the rest of his whiskey, then strode over and took up a position behind Henrika at the poker table.
I remained at the bar, my fingers clenched around my own glass, trying to ignore the uncomfortable truth of Bryce’s words, which had punched into my chest like a hail of bullets.