Page 6

6

R ight, time to focus. Enough philosophical bullshit. I have a reason to be here. One goal. Well, maybe more than one. But Rian doesn’t know that. And neither does my client.

I take a deep breath. It’s just two cons, really. Do one job for my client, do one for me. And mine’s a long job. I’m just planting a few seeds I hope to harvest later; that’s all. No pressure.

I don’t want to call too much attention to myself. I wander into the grand corridor, and Rian drops back, resuming his shadow role. Even if I can feel him watching me like a hawk, no one else throws me a second glance. I’m just another pretty dress in a room of silk. And I’d like to keep it that way.

The central hall is the museum’s showstopper. The wide, open space is littered with cushy, backless seats covered in lush black-and-burgundy material that gives the appearance of burnt marshmallows. Above, cut-crystal panes cast prism rainbows over the white stone floor, the rainbows lost amid the elaborate costumes of the mingling guests. Whole feeds are dedicated to the fashion on display now, and I’ve got the insider scoop. There are the classic gowns, like mine, pretty dresses whose only purpose is to sparkle.

I prefer the bolder designs—the man painted in what looks like liquid silver, so shiny his chest could be a mirror, but with matte-black lines cut at odd angles so no one quite knows where to look at him. The woman whose gown is studded with mini holo displays, showing off constantly blooming flowers that open and close their petals with each step. My favorite is the man whose skirt billows when he walks, smoke and glittering sparks faintly visible under the dark material, like a storm cloud barely contained.

All the waitstaff are dressed in matching suits made of blue, watery-like material. I make a beeline to the closest one.

“May I offer you—” the server says, holding out a silver platter with twenty or so small plates of various delicious-looking concoctions.

“Yes, thank you,” I say. I use both hands to take the entire platter, ignoring the rude way the staff member blinks at me, and head to an empty seat. The burnt marshmallows may be ugly, but they’re at least big. I put the large platter down and sit beside it, plucking a plate off as I cross my ankles and gaze about the room.

The Museum of Intergalactic History is really big on appearing authentic, which means it ironically looks like the old classical museums on Earth, emulating Ancient Greek architecture that was first translated through centuries and other countries and has now been strained through millennia and other worlds. But smooth, white stone blocks don’t hide the security scanners perched atop the columns, and the silver-and-gold decorations do little to distract from the drone monitors hovering like bees above the crowd.

“You did a good job,” I say.

Rian steps out from behind the column he was ostensibly leaning against, not quite out of sight but emulating stealth in the same way the museum makes a caricature of Greek academia.

“The security measures,” I offer him graciously. “No one would dare steal anything here.”

Rian doesn’t try to hide his snort of disbelief. “I somehow don’t trust you.”

“No, seriously. I can’t find a single flaw.”

Emotion flickers over his face. He wants to be proud.

But he doubts me.

Cute.

He deflects by reaching for one of the small plates on my platter. I smack his hand away. “Get your own. I’m only here for the food, you know.”

Rian snorts. “No, you’re not.”

My mouth is too full of some sort of delicate pastry for me to quip anything back. I close my eyes, savoring the way the buttery, flaky crust melts on my tongue. I could fail this mission, and it would be worth my time for this moment. Not that I’m going to fail. But still. My contact should have opened with the free hors d’oeuvres; I would have taken this job faster.

I feel the seat cushion dip, and my eyes fly open, my hands moving to the plate on my lap so nothing spills as Rian settles in beside me. He’s trying to be formal; he’s sitting so that his back is to my right side, as if we’re strangers.

Well, that just won’t do. I lean against him, my head dropping on his shoulder.

“What are you here for, Ada?” he asks in a quiet voice meant only for me. “What are you trying to steal or sabotage or terrorize? Other than me.”

“Don’t be boring,” I say gently. He has to know he’s not going to get the drop on me.

He huffs a little laugh, the movement of his body rippling into mine. I let it happen, I let the momentum pass into me, I let the reverberations of his amusement vibrate through my bones. An object in motion stays in motion. That’s what Newton said.

And that makes me think of the Halifax , where I met Rian. And First, Nandina, Saraswati, Magnusson. And Captain Ursula, my best friend, of course. They’re still going. They’ll keep going, too, job after legit job.

Not Rian and me.

Not us.

I use my finger to mash up the remnant crumbs on the plate and bring them to my lips, then swap the empty plate for one with a single jiaozi garnished with pickled ginger. When I bite in to it, the filling is...odd. It squeaks against my teeth, and I have to bite down harder than I should for a regular dumpling, even one that’s been fried. My eyes track everything that remains on the platter.

“It’s all supposed to be Earth food,” I grumble. This is a charitable gala to benefit Earth conservation; this is supposed to be authentic. But just like the museum is a replica of a building in a nation that never existed on this planet, the caterers have used Earth recipes with Rigel-Earth ingredients. The jiaozi filling isn’t chicken or pork. It’s probably praxal, a meat far more readily available on this planet. I don’t know if it’s because the museum coordinator didn’t think there was a difference or if they assumed their substitution was better than the original. Probably the latter. Typical.

“You’ve gone into each of the auction rooms,” Rian says, and it almost sounds like he’s reviewing notes with a subordinate.

I pick a cup this time, a little porcelain thing with gray mousse inside, a tiny silver spoon sticking out of the thick, sweet cream on top. Coffee-flavored with something sharper, some type of liquor. I’ve avoided the glasses of sparkling wine some of the servers offer, but this isn’t much. Not enough to impair me.

Rian starts listing out some of the items in the auction, pausing, eyeing me. Waiting for a reaction. I eat through four more small plates. Wish I had more of that gray stuff. Delicious. Or something with peaches. That would have been nice.

Too soon, the food’s gone.

“Have you heard anything I’ve said?” Rian asks.

“No.” I clap my hands on my knees as I stand, making the gems on my hem tinkle like bells. “I told you not to be boring.”

I take one step away, but Rian grabs my wrist, his fingers on the delicate bones under my palm, gently pressing into my pulse. His touch lingers, and my breath catches. I turn slowly, my eyes tracking his hand, up his arm, to his face, his eyes, their razor edge zeroed in on me.

I tug my hand, but rather than let me go, Rian stands, close enough for me to feel the warmth of his body even after he releases my wrist.

“What are you here for?” he asks.

“You,” I breathe, unable to stop myself.

His eyes widen slightly. I’ve said it twice now, and he almost believes me, I can tell.

Almost.

I toss him my best charming smile. “Seriously. Come with me right now. We’ll get on Glory and away from all these pretentious assholes and slip into a portal where no one can reach us.” I lean forward, enough to make the people near us titter, intrigued, watching us through lowered eyelashes.

Rian’s lips twist in disappointment, but his eyes sparkle.

He loves the game as much as I do.

He just doesn’t know he’s the one being played.

I slip my arm through his, tucking his elbow in tightly. “All right, come with me,” I tell him, striding across the hall.

There. The woman in red, the man by the door, the waitstaff member with a tray of empty glasses. They each glance at Rian, at me, away. They’re with him, his organization. My contact’s words clatter through my mind as I toss the woman in red a wink. Rian White is a high-up on intergalactic relations. He’s been tasked with the gala’s security, but he will not be working alone.

I dip past another member of the waitstaff, nabbing an extra dumpling right off the plate and stuffing it into my mouth before he even notices. I knew there would be more people with Rian here. It’s not just because of me—the gala is a huge function full of highly important people including, unfortunately, tonight’s guest of honor who’ll close the ceremonies. The man by the door may be a bodyguard for an attendee, not with Rian at all. I can’t be sure. I don’t know the roster.

But I’d be a fool to ignore the fact that I can trust no one here. Everyone in this entire gala is either a mark or a badge. At least, that’s how I have to treat them.

“What are you doing?” Rian asks as I pull him through the crowd.

“Having mercy on you.”

He chuckles, the sound low and rumbling, and allows me to guide him to the back of the museum.

A big black curtain blocks the huge floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the river. I noticed that earlier, but this area is far enough away from the bidding that it’s clear it’s been earmarked for a different purpose. As we get closer, I feel Rian tense.

“So, where are we going?” he asks, his tone trying just a little too hard to be casual.

This is where the closing ceremonies will be.

The black curtain extends across the breadth of the hall, but through gaps in the material I catch glimpses of flurried activity. As I suspected, the closing ceremony is going to be a bit of a production. I expect nothing less from the host’s reputation.

Rian clearly thinks that’s my target, so I veer abruptly left, toward the stairs. Most people take lifts; while these steps are stone and intended for guests, they rarely see use. They’re out of the way and close to the staff offices, which are somewhere beyond that black curtain.

“You need to ask yourself one thing,” I say, releasing Rian so I can focus on the smooth stone and my absolutely useless, traction-less high heels.

“And that is?”

“Do I know where I’m going because I’m a museum aficionado, or because I’ve studied the floor plans to this museum so much while casing the joint?” I pause and cast him a look. “If it’s the latter, does that make you an accomplice to my crimes?”

“So, you’re going to commit a crime now?”

“Why can’t I just be here for the history?”

“You’re the one who brought up your lurid life of crime.”

“You’re the one who attached the word lurid .” I pause so abruptly that Rian has to catch himself to avoid crashing into me. Nothing about this stairwell makes logical sense. The steps are wide but shallow, forcing a slow, meandering pace. They curve when they don’t need to; I suppose for the drama of it—at this exact spot, I can see neither the floor where we left nor the floor above. Although we can still hear the tinkling of wineglasses and boorish laughter above an undercurrent of polite chatter, we’re basically alone.

I sit down, letting my legs drape over the steps, and motion for Rian to copy me. He takes his seat cautiously, no longer bothering to quiz me.

“Did you know,” I say softly, “this is one of the few spots in the entire museum where there are no visible security cameras?”

From the twist in his lips, I can tell Rian knew. And guessed that I did as well. Of course, drones could buzz up here and interrupt this cozy moment, but they won’t. Not right now.

“Not much to steal in the stairwell,” Rian comments.

“I don’t know about that,” I say, making a point to rake my eyes over his body. He’s right, though—this little hidden alcove in the steps hides us, but nothing else. All the auction items are below, along with most of the guests. And above us are the permanent displays in the museum. Priceless, of course, but also highly secured, even more so than the stuff below.

Rian opens his mouth—so impatient, this one. I press my finger to his lips, lingering a moment too long on the warmth of him, the feel of his breath. I lean in closer, dropping my hand to the cold stone step. “For just a moment,” I say, my voice low, “let’s pretend that I’m only here for you.”

Emotion flickers over his face, too fast for me to pin down what he’s really thinking. All he says is, “And I’m only here for you?”

“Aren’t you, though?” I don’t hide the wry twist of my lips.

“Maybe.” His eyes remain razor-sharp, but there’s a gruffness to his voice, a raggedy edge I want to further unravel.

I know that he means he’s here for me in order to stop me from stealing whatever he thinks I’m going to steal, but I let myself pretend he’s here because of me for entirely different motives. And in that impossible moment, I close the distance between us, pressing my lips to his. I scoot closer to him, my hands grabbing the back of his head, fingers lacing through his hair. He’s tense, a solid block of shock as stiff as the stone beneath us, but only for a second, only until his arms go around my waist, pulling me practically into his lap, his mouth claiming mine in a kiss that’s not hungry.

It’s starving.