Page 82 of Secrets Beneath the Waves (Beach Read Thrillers #2)

CHAPTER

TWELVE

One of the embassy secretaries helped me dig through the so-called “costume closet” on the third floor, which in reality is nothing more than a glorified broom closet stuffed with forgotten outfits from past undercover ops and embassy functions.

Most are dated, but buried in the back is a dress that surprises me.

It’s not what I would have picked if I had time to go shopping, but once I slip it on, I have to admit—it works.

A sleek maroon cocktail dress, understated yet still elegant, paired with classic heels.

I give the hem a soft twirl. Just enough movement to feel as if I belong in the role I’m about to play.

Elegant, composed, and. . .forgettable. And suddenly, I don’t just look the part, I am the part.

Any lingering fear from having a knife to my throat is gone.

I’m back in control, focused and ready to do what I was trained to do.

While there is a small part of me that wishes I could simply enjoy the stunning historical beauty of the Louvre, I’m focused one hundred percent on searching for the man Oumar was planning to meet.

I step out into the hallway just as Graham shows up, dressed in a black tux and bowtie.

I stop in the middle of the hallway. “You clean up nice.”

“I was about to say the same thing.” He frowns, but his eyes are still smiling. “Actually, I was going to say you look beautiful.”

I note his mustache and can’t help but smile.

Altering our appearance is something we’re used to.

Most of the time for me it means only subtle changes like changing jackets, putting up my hair, or throwing on a scarf in order to confuse someone who might be trying to follow me.

I can’t help but grin at the added facial hair.

Graham touches his mustache. “You like it?”

“It might take a little getting used to.” I smile. “I’m certain no one will suspect that you’re really an undercover CIA officer involved in stopping arms dealers.”

Forty-five minutes later, our driver stops near the entrance of the Louvre and its infamous glass pyramid.

I step out of the car, pausing for a moment to let myself feel the significance of where I am—surrounded by art and stories centuries in the making.

The Louvre glows in the warm yellows and pinks of the sunset, but tonight I’m not here to admire the view.

I’m walking into a game where every move matters.

Inside, the city noise disappears, replaced by the soft hum of voices and soft classical music played by a live string quartet.

Waiters wearing crisp black and white uniforms serve champagne and hors d’oeuvres in the private section of the museum.

Most of the women are wearing black cocktail dresses or pantsuits with high heels.

The men are in suits, with a few wearing bold splashes of color, all focused on the chance to meet the high-profile executives and industry leaders who make the evening a prime networking opportunity.

Whoever’s footing the bill clearly isn’t just looking for an exclusive event—they want unforgettable.

We move slowly through the private gallery, my heels tapping softly on the polished flooring as I admire the paintings in their gilded frames that hang on the wall.

It’s hard to imagine how many people have walked this same path admiring the beauty of the centuries-old canvases with their rich oils and delicate brushwork.

I want to let myself get lost in it, but I can’t afford to be distracted tonight.

“So, tell me, Samantha,” Graham says, “are you an art fan?”

“How can you live in Paris and not be a fan?” I say, surprised at his question. “Art, history, architecture… I’ve always been a bit obsessed with all of it.”

“What first fueled your interest?”

“I was ten years old when I visited the Louvre for the first time, and I was absolutely mesmerized by everything. My parents actually lost me in the halls, and we ended up being one of the last ones out.”

“Ten years old and already an art connoisseur.”

I let out a soft chuckle. “What about you?”

“My grandmother was an artist, actually. Not on par with the artists here, of course, but in her own right. She was a local artist from the East Coast. She painted mainly landscapes, particularly of the sea. Some of her favorites and mine were of lighthouses.”

“Wow. I’d love to see her work.”

“She’s the one who inspired me to want to be a lighthouse keeper for a while. Somehow I thought it would be adventurous, keeping ships safe from the rocks. Now I realize I would have been bored out of my mind. But the sea still invigorates me.”

I laugh, glad that the awkwardness I was afraid might linger between us seems to have vanished.

“Sounds like she was a wonderful woman.”

“She was. She died about five years ago, but my parents have a number of her paintings in their house and there’s some up in the town library as well as a local art store. She always inspired me.”

“What did she think about your career choice?”

“She died while I was still in the military, but I think she would’ve been proud of me. My grandfather served in the Army, as did my older brother. A bit of a family tradition, I guess.”

“I have no doubt she’d be proud of you.”

He glances over at the bar. “Can I get you a drink?”

“I’d love a Citronade Maison. Thank you.”

I decide it won’t hurt if I enjoy a few of the offerings of the evening, and grab a mini quiche from one of the servers. I mean, how often do I get invited to a private function after hours at the Louvre? A young woman who looks like she’s barely twenty walks up next to me and takes an appetizer.

“Are you as nervous as I am?” she asks.

“First time at one of these?”

She nods. “Hoping to connect for a job, but if I’m honest, I feel so inadequate. This isn’t exactly your typical recruiting party.”

“No, it’s not.” I shoot her a smile. “But I’m sure you’ll be fine. If your résumé is anything like your dress, you’ll blow them away.”

She looks down at her midnight-blue gown shimmering under the lights and laughs. “Thank you. But I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be dumping on you.”

“Don’t worry about it. Are you targeting anyone specifically?” I ask, looking around the crowded room.

“James Mallory. He’s standing over there surrounded by a circle of admirers, all hoping to catch his eye.

” She frowns. “He’s a former cybersecurity advisor with Interpol.

Rumor has it he’s looking for several individuals for a specialized international AI surveillance project I think I’d be perfect for. ”

“Can I give you some advice?” I ask.

“Of course.”

“It’s not a project you think you’d be perfect for. It’s one you would be perfect for. There’s a difference, and you need to believe it for them to see it.”

She lets out a soft laugh. “I think I need to keep you by my side tonight.”

“You’ll do fine. Go over there, get his attention, and make him remember you. Don’t jump into the conversation with what you want—lead with something you know he needs.”

“I’m guessing you’ve done this before,” she says.

“Once or twice,” I say, suddenly flooded with memories of the CIA’s rigorous vetting process before I was even offered an interview.

“What about you? Are you targeting anyone in particular?”

“Actually, I am, and I just spotted him,” I say. “Good luck tonight.”

I start across the room, signaling to Graham, who’s coming toward me with our drinks. Elijah Rourke ends up being surprisingly easy to recognize. His steel-gray hair is shorter than the photo I have of him, but his eyes are a penetrating blue and, as I expected, his tailored suit is expensive.

“While I appreciate the gesture,” I say, taking the offered glass, “I just spotted our target.”

I take a couple sips of the lemonade, then set it on one of the server’s trays before hurrying to catch up with Rourke.

“Elijah Rourke,” I say, flashing my friendliest smile. “I was hoping to meet you tonight.”

His brow furrows, his expression unreadable. He glances behind him. “I’m sorry, but I need to go.”

“Mr. Rourke. . .” I start, but the man has already slipped away. I glance up at Graham, who’s standing next to me, surprised as I am. “We need to catch up with him, or we’ll lose him in this crowd.”

Graham takes my arm, and we weave our way through the pockets of conversation. Music is still playing in the background as my gaze locks on the man hurrying past a waiter holding a tray of champagne. Rourke’s the reason we’re here and a lead we can’t afford to lose.

“He just skated past the security barrier,” Graham says.

Security guards have cordoned off several key exits in order to confine guests to the space. They’re easy to spot because of their earpieces and silent surveillance along the edges of the room.

Why would Rourke try to avoid us?

It makes no sense. We’ve never met the man, and there’s no reason for him to run. Two of the guards are talking twenty feet from us, distracted at the moment. We edge past the rope barrier and follow Rourke outside the large room and down a flight of stairs.

“Where is he going?” I ask.

“I don’t know, but security is heading our way.”

“If they send us back to the party, we’ll lose him.”

Graham takes my hand. “Follow my lead.”

Before I can ask what he means, Graham pushes me gently against the stone wall, then leans down to whisper something in my ear.

“I can’t say I’ve ever wanted to go undercover at the Louvre, but this isn’t so bad,” he says.

I pull back as his warm breath tickles my cheek, taken off guard by his bold move. “This is your plan?”

“It’s working.” Graham glances behind us as a guard approaches, stops, then turns around. “This is the city of love, remember.”

Seconds later he steps away, still holding my hand. The guard is gone, but so is Rourke, who has disappeared through a side door. We quickly follow, leaving behind the noise of the gala that is replaced by the uneasy stillness of rows of shadowed hedges.

It’s not my first time in these gardens, but tonight the air feels different, as if something bad is about to happen.

The wide gravel path amplifies our steps as we hurry after Rourke.

He’s moving fast, not quite running, but enough to make it clear he knows we’re behind him.

His sudden retreat, though, doesn’t make sense.

If he came to make connections, why disappear?

“I’m going to see if I can cut him off,” Graham says, taking the right side of the split path.

I keep moving. Long rows of ancient trees arch over my head, their twisted branches reaching toward the sky. The air smells of wet earth after the recent rains. Thorny rosebushes are bare, still a few months from their peak.

A minute later, I slow down as I catch sight of Graham, who has come around the other side, officially blocking Rourke off. And I’m not the only one who notices.

Rourke turns around and faces me.

“Why did you run?” I say. “We just want to talk.”

Rourke looks around, as if still trying to find an escape route. “I thought you were someone else.”

“Who’s after you?”

“That doesn’t matter. Just tell me what you want.”

“Information,” Graham says. “Nothing more.”

“I’m sorry, but you have the wrong person.”

“I don’t think so,” I say as he tries to back away. “Chapel sent us.”