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REN

Tipscomb-on-Thames, England

Ren Jameson stood in the narrow back stairwell just off the catering kitchen, testing the security cameras and marking exits. He may have an ulterior motive for being there, but he had a job to do nonetheless.

Sabrina Kittridge had flown to London from the Maldives three weeks ago.

Ren had put the pieces together and determined that the woman he knew as Sofria Kirk was monitoring the scientists associated with Project Bloodhound, his DNA-capture drone technology.

Her new surveillance target was Dr. Arvin Barnett.

Arvin Barnett had commented on a social media post by a British banking heiress about tonight’s event: we’ll be there with bells on!

“We’ll,” not “ I’ll .” Ren had a strong suspicion who Barnett’s plus-one would be. Rage simmered when he thought of Sofria’s betrayal, more so when he pictured her on the arm of another man, batting those mile-long lashes and gifting just a hint of a smile.

The kitchen door swung open, and a pin-thin woman in a chef’s jacket snapped at Ren, “Are you almost finished back here? I’ve got twenty cases of Chateau Margot I need to store in the back hall.”

Ren raised his arm to the dim hallway. “It’s all yours.”

Ren strode through the kitchen and into a staging area where several staff members, who had all been cleared to work, polished trays and glassware.

In the grand ballroom, Ren checked the additional cameras he had installed.

The list of people who wanted his Russian client, Yuri Dubrov, dead was as long as his arm.

The man had already been poisoned twice.

Ren joked with Chat and Finn that the amount of vodka in Dubrov’s system must have neutralized the toxin.

Nevertheless, as he toggled from camera to camera, Ren eyed the grand arched entrance, wondering if he’d finally catch a glimpse of the woman who had overturned his life.

T he ballroom was packed with Europe’s elite.

A royal engagement party was the ultimate opportunity to see and be seen.

The daughter of a British banking billionaire was celebrating her betrothal to a Spanish Vizconte.

Tuxedos and shimmering gowns moved through the space in an extravagant display of civility.

Ren stood at the back of the room nursing a club soda while his client, Yuri Dobrov, a Russian oligarch with a mouth bigger than his bank account, boasted and groped his way through the party.

Ren scanned the space for the umpteenth time when his eyes settled on a man at one of the bars lining the ballroom.

His tux was a little tight and his bowtie was pre-tied.

Everything about this guy said “operator,” from his dyed-blond hair to his bearing.

Something about the man was familiar. Most likely, he was a private bodyguard for another guest. Ren had probably seen him on a previous job.

Ren checked his dad’s old watch—an ever-present reminder of passing time and wasted moments. As he gazed at the watch face, a man Ren recognized bumped his extended elbow. The party guest patted Ren’s arm in apology, then ushered his date into the room.

Footsteps on his grave.

The woman was petite with jet-black hair curled up in a high bun.

She had a neck like a swan, and her backless red dress pooled provocatively at her hips.

It was Arvin Barnett and his plus-one. Barnett placed a hand on the woman’s bare skin and ushered his date to the bar.

Ren felt the inexplicable desire to break the man’s arm.

Caught in her gravitational pull, Ren followed.

He had found her. Or had he? Ren couldn’t be sure despite the physical similarities.

This woman wasn’t the shy, inconspicuous Sofria Kirk; she was a goddess, a seductress.

If he hadn’t known S.K. was Arvin Barnett’s date, he never would have guessed.

Other than her height and frame, Sofria Kirk and Sabrina Kittridge were two completely different women.

Ren had to admit, as he willed his body to calm, she was irresistible.

Ren reached out his hand, his fingers tingling in anticipation of the feel of her glowing skin. Just as he was about to touch the mystery woman on the shoulder, a glass shattered behind him.

A string of Russian expletives drowned out the classical music as guests moved to a safe distance.

In the center of the room, Ren’s client had a waiter by the lapels slurring something about poison and the People’s Front.

Behind the intoxicated Russian, another guest jumped on Yuri’s back.

Up to here with the drunken idiot, Ren raced over as a full-blown brawl erupted.

Ren subdued and separated the men without causing too much damage.

Sidestepping the drunks scattered on the floor, he forcefully guided Yuri, still yelling threats, out of the building.

Familiar with this type of exit, the chauffeur emerged from the Phantom nonplussed and opened the rear door.

With his charge safely stowed, Ren instructed the driver to take Yuri to his lavish guest house at the back of the property while he returned to the event.

He needed to see the woman in red. On his way through the grand hall, he spotted the blond man from the bar on his phone in an alcove.

He had removed his dress gloves, and Ren noted the tattoo covering his hand.

From this distance, he couldn’t be sure, but it looked like a flock of bats flying up his arm.

He couldn’t worry about the man now and continued to the ballroom.

Ren scanned the party, but there was no sign of the woman.

At the entrance, he waved over the event coordinator, Millicent, and tipped his head toward Arvin Barnett, now standing alone.

“What are Arvin Barnett’s details?”

The woman replied with a crisp British accent as she ran a finger down the guest list on her tablet, “Doctor Arvin Barnett. He’s in the wedding party, an old schoolmate of the groom.”

“So, he’s staying at the estate?”

“Yes, part of the entourage on the fourth floor.”

While they had never met, Ren and Barnett both consulted on the drone project. Ren knew he was hailed as a visionary in his field. At the moment, the prominent geneticist held no interest.

“Is his date listed?”

“Yes, Lady Sabrina Kittridge.”

“I see.”

“There she is.” The woman nodded toward the private elevator just as the doors closed on a small group of people, one wearing a scarlet dress.

Ren’s brain tried to regain some rationality.

Maybe his mind was playing tricks on him again.

The woman was an aristocrat. She was sophisticated and graceful—a far cry from the cautious, slightly clumsy girl who had assisted the Bishop Security team.

This Siren in the provocative red dress and dripping with diamonds fit perfectly into the scene.

She was certainly not the innocent, bookish woman Ren had pined for.

A squeeze of his bicep pulled Ren’s gaze.

A beautiful blonde with wide blue eyes and a sapphire tiara smiled up at him. “Is it too forward of me to ask for a dance?”

He took the delicate hand still on his arm. “It’s my loss. Unfortunately, I’m not here as a guest.” Ren tapped the comm device in his ear.

“Ah.” The girl looked out at the crowd. “Who are you guarding?”

Hopefully, a now passed-out Russian. “No one important.” He winked.

“Somehow, I doubt that. I’ll be in the library bar with some friends later if you fancy a nightcap when you’re off duty.”

She didn’t wait for an answer and hurried over to a group of young women, all watching with interest.

Ren stared blankly at the girl’s retreating form.

She perfectly illustrated his problem—a beautiful, interested woman who made him feel nothing.

He had to admit part of the reason he was experiencing this haunting was that no woman had ever elicited the response in him that Sofria had.

Maybe it was because of his childhood, or perhaps it was just how he was wired, but Ren had come to think of himself as asexual.

He simply wasn’t attracted to anyone. Not since that first fumbling, thrilling teenage encounter when his world blew up.

Until Sofria. Even with the downward spiral of their short-lived romance, Ren couldn’t seem to let go of that initial sensation he had felt when he met her—that vibrating urgency to be near her, that foreign and invigorating arousal coursing through his veins.

Ren was at a crossroads between rationality and obsession. If he went one way, he could return to his happy, stable existence. If he went the other, he was falling down a rabbit hole of utter lunacy.

He barely noticed that his feet had carried him through the kitchen to the back stairs. When the door closed behind him, Ren’s cool demeanor slipped, and he raced up the steps two at a time.

At the fourth and top floor, Ren paused to collect himself. He didn’t want the sight of a frantic security operative bursting into the hall to instigate a panic.

He entered the door code and stepped into the quiet hallway.

Ren started toward the elevator when movement at the top of the grand central staircase stopped him.

He stepped back into an alcove as the blond man Ren clocked at the bar walked down the main hall and turned the corner, heading for the rooms at the back of the estate.

Ren followed unobserved. When he got to the turn, Ren caught a final glimpse of the man as he slipped into room 414 and closed the door.

Something about the guy was causing alarm bells to clang in Ren’s head.

Noting the room number, Ren decided that if he spotted the guy back at the party, he would return later and search the room.

Ren told himself the reason was that this guy could be an assassin after his client, Yuri Dubrov.

But the truth was that Ren had a burning feeling in the pit of his gut that he had stepped into a much more dangerous web.

And an alluring spider in a red dress was at the center of it.