Page 22 of Sly Like a Fox (Romance Expected Dating Service #3)
Jenna
The transition from the formal gala to sex in the linen closet to Anklor’s penthouse after-party feels like entering a different world entirely.
The ballroom buzzed with hundreds of conversations and the safe anonymity of crowds, but this intimate gathering of maybe thirty people creates an atmosphere where every word is analyzed and every gesture gets scrutinized.
I slip my arm through Fenton’s as we step off the private elevator into Anklor’s penthouse, noting how the space screams wealth and power in ways that make my fox shifter instincts ramp up. And they’ve barely started to ease down after that amazing encounter in the linen closet.
Panoramic windows showcase the city sprawling below us while expensive art and custom furniture create conversation areas designed for business that can’t happen in public venues.
“Magnificent view,” I say to Fenton, playing the role of impressed socialite while scanning for security cameras and cataloguing potential escape routes.
“Indeed.” His response sounds casual, but I feel the stiffness in his arm where it touches mine. We’re both aware this intimate setting increases both opportunity and danger exponentially.
The guest list represents the city’s most powerful and corrupt elite.
Judges, city councilors, business leaders, and old money families who’ve been influencing politics for generations are all in attendance.
These people can make careers disappear with phone calls and shield criminal activity in exchange for campaign contributions.
Caroline Anklor appears at my elbow with two crystal flutes and a smile that seems more genuine than most I’ve encountered tonight. “Jenna, darling, you simply must try the champagne. It’s from Garret’s private collection.”
I accept the champagne while studying Caroline more closely. “How thoughtful.” She’s younger than I initially estimated, and is mired in a loneliness that my fox instincts pick up immediately.
This woman is isolated in her own social circle, surrounded by people who want access to her husband’s power rather than genuine friendship. The recognition creates an opportunity I can exploit, though the thought of manipulating someone’s emotional needs makes my stomach clench with guilt.
As Fenton moves over to Judge Vance, whose husband politely gestures to him, she slants me a knowing smile. “You’re a bit late.”
My cheeks flush slightly. “We got lost.”
“Hmm.” She sips the champagne. “It can be quite confusing to follow a group down a straight hallway to an elevator.”
“I…uh…”
She laughs then. “Relax. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I’m only teasing.” She casts a glance at Garret across the room, her expression becoming melancholy. “I remember how it was to be newly engaged and in love…”
We fall into an awkward silence. I could probably use what she’s revealed to further manipulate her, but I don’t want to.
She’s already sad enough. I quickly change the subject by gesturing toward the artwork adorning the walls.
“Caroline, you have such excellent taste. Did you select these pieces yourself?”
Her face brightens with genuine pleasure. “Actually, yes. Garret usually handles the business decisions, but he lets me choose the aesthetic elements. This Monet is my favorite. I found it at a gallery in Paris last year.”
“It’s beautiful. You have a wonderful sense of color and composition.” I speak sincerely because it’s the truth.
The compliment appears to mean more to her than it should, which confirms my suspicion about her emotional isolation.
Wealthy women in her position usually receive plenty of flattery, but genuine appreciation for their personal tastes is probably rare.
I suppress a niggle of guilt, feeling like I’m exploiting her weak point even though my comment was genuine.
Fenton catches my attention with a subtle nod toward the far end of the room, where Anklor is deep in conversation with a man I recognize from our intelligence files as Gaynor Lewis, his personal attorney.
The body language indicates they’re having a serious business discussion rather than a social chat.
I nod and turn to Caroline. “If you’ll excuse me for just a moment, I need to powder my nose.”
Caroline waves gracefully. “Of course, dear. The powder room is just down that hallway.”
I follow her directions to the bathroom area while actually navigating closer to Anklor and Lewis’s conversation. I use my fox shifter hearing to eavesdrop while pretending to admire a sculpture near their position. What I hear chills me.
Lewis speaks in a low voice. “The Thorpe situation needs to be handled discreetly. If he refuses to buy into the operation, we have options.”
Anklor’s response carries the casual tone of someone discussing dinner plans rather than violence. “What kind of options?”
“The usual methods. Porter has contacts who specialize in making problems disappear permanently. Clean and professional, with no connections back to us.”
My hands shake as I pretend to study the marble sculpture, processing what I’ve just heard.
They’re discussing some associate’s potential murder with the same casualness most people use to plan weekend activities.
Anklor isn’t just corrupt. He’s genuinely dangerous in ways that could get us both killed.
I need to warn Fenton immediately, but doing so without blowing our cover requires creativity. Looking around the room, I spot him near the bar, engaged in what appears to be casual conversation with Judge Vance about municipal development projects.
An idea forms in my mind. I move toward Fenton’s position, deliberately stepping on the train of my own gown as I navigate around the sculpture I was just examining.
The expensive fabric catches under my heel with a sharp tearing sound, sending me stumbling forward with a startled yelp that draws amused chuckles from nearby guests. Fenton immediately moves to catch me, his arms wrapping around my waist to steady me against his chest.
His voice carries the perfect mix of concern and affection expected from an attentive partner. “Careful there.”
I speak loudly enough for nearby guests to hear. “These impossible heels.” I drop my voice while whispering the crucial information against his ear. “Anklor and his lawyer just discussed having someone named Thorpe killed if he becomes a problem. They’re ruthless. I wanted to warn you.”
His body tenses almost imperceptibly, but his expression remains unchanged as he helps me regain my balance. At normal volume, he asks, “Are you hurt?” then whispers back, “I know. I expected as much, which is why we have to handle this with caution, or we’ll be the next Thorpe.”
The casual way he accepts the threat of death should probably alarm me, but instead, it reminds me of how dangerous this operation is.
Fenton has been planning for this possibility from the beginning while I’m still adjusting to the reality that people we’re charming at cocktail parties might order our executions before dessert.
I laugh self-deprecatingly while examining the torn hem of my gown. “Just wounded pride. I suppose that’s what I get for trying to look elegant.”
Fenton responds with exactly the right note of devoted affection. “You always look elegant.” He quietly adds, “Stay close to Caroline. She’s our safest contact here.”
Judge Vance approaches with motherly concern. “My dear, are you quite all right? Those marble floors can be treacherous.”
I smile ruefully while internally grateful for the judge’s interruption, which provides natural cover for our whispered conversation. “I’m fine, thank you. Just a reminder that grace and champagne don’t always mix well.”
Fenton guides me toward a seating area where Caroline Anklor is chatting with two other women about upcoming social events. “Perhaps you should sit down for a moment.”
Caroline immediately makes room beside her on the velvet sofa, her concern appearing genuine rather than polite. “Jenna, what happened?”
I settle beside her while Fenton hovers with appropriate masculine helplessness in the face of a female fashion crisis. “I had an unfortunate encounter with my own dress. Nothing that can’t be fixed with some strategic safety pins.”
One of the other women nods sympathetically. “These formal gowns are beautiful but completely impractical. I once caught my train in a revolving door at the opera house. I nearly took down three other people.”
The conversation shifts to shared experiences with formal wear mishaps, providing the perfect cover for me to study the room’s dynamics while appearing to be engaged in typical female bonding.
I notice how the men cluster around Anklor, seeking his attention and approval, while the women seem to exist in a separate social orbit centered around charitable activities and cultural events.
Caroline, despite being the hostess, seems oddly peripheral to both groups.
The other women include her in conversation but maintain polite distance that suggests social hierarchy rather than genuine friendship.
She laughs at appropriate moments and contributes to discussions about upcoming charity galas, but something seems performative about her participation.
“Caroline, I’m curious about your involvement with the literacy foundation,” I ask, genuinely interested in understanding her role beyond ornamental wife. “Do you handle the fundraising coordination personally?”
Her expression grows more animated than it has all evening. “I do. Most people assume Garret manages everything, but I design the programs and coordinate with the schools directly. It’s one of the few areas where I have complete autonomy.”