Page 11

Once I’d written down everything Tyson told me in my notebook, vomited my vitriol toward him on Rosa via text, and fought my way through a ten-minute guided meditation on releasing anger, I felt marginally better.

I still had no desire to dine with Tyson’s entourage, much less Tyson himself, but I couldn’t yet see a better way out of this mess than to determine which of Tyson’s inner circle had sent the offending article.

If it were in fact one of them at all.

If not? Well, I’d cross that bridge when I came to it.

Regardless, I needed to get to know the players. So, dinner it was.

I felt like I was putting on body armor as I applied a bit more smoothing cream to my tousled waves to ensure they didn’t turn into a lion’s mane, hooked sparkly earrings through my ears, and traced the water line of my eyelids with the navy eyeliner Rosa had promised would make my eyes pop against the chestnut color of my hair.

I didn’t usually wear much makeup and had been doubtful of the color, but as I evaluated myself in the mirror, I saw that she was right, and I could almost imagine she was there with me, soothing my rattled nerves.

I entered the fragrant kitchen to find a woman in a chef’s white coat carefully slicing tomatoes. She looked up and smiled. “Bonne soirée, madame,” she said.

“Bonne soirée,” I returned, wondering briefly when I had graduated from mademoiselle to madame, despite my bare ring finger. “It smells amazing in here.”

“I hope you will enjoy.”

Though it was eight on the nose, I appeared to be the first guest to arrive.

The lights were dimmed, and candles flickered in hurricane lamps on all the tabletops, nestled among tasteful displays of pale pink roses.

A soundtrack of chill beats pulsed over the speakers, the pool lights changing color in sync with the beat.

A server dressed in black appeared at my elbow. “Good evening, madame. Would you like a glass of champagne?”

I normally didn’t drink when I was working, but after my encounter with Tyson, I could use something to take the edge off. “Yes, thank you,” I said.

He took a bottle of Dom from an ice bucket, allowing the bubbles to dissipate as he eased the pale gold liquid into the flute. I took a sip and wandered toward the view, enjoying the soft fizz of effervescence over my tongue.

Tyson could make fun of my line of work all he wanted, but I loved what I did, and I was damn good at it.

While I’d started out selectively accepting jobs that required only my computer skills, over the years I’d gotten bolder.

Yes, I still did a lot of hacking, but I’d also developed other talents—like stealth and deception—to get the information I needed.

I thrived on the adrenaline rush of it, and as long as I stayed within the law, I was not held to the same standards as law enforcement, which made it that much easier for me to uncover the evidence necessary to bolster the cases of the attorneys that hired me.

This assignment—which was how I needed to think of it to avoid scratching Tyson’s eyes out—was one that would require every ounce of my people skills.

My weakest skill set, to be sure. I wished more than anything that I could call Rosa and get her take, but I couldn’t.

Not about this. There was too much she didn’t know.

That she didn’t need to know. I was on my own.

When I reached the edge of the pool, I saw I wasn’t in fact the first to arrive. A couple stood at the railing on the deck beneath the infinity pool, looking out over the dark ocean toward the lights of St. Martin glittering on the horizon.

The man was Cody, I realized as he turned his face.

Where Tyson had shrunk, Cody had grown. He had a short beard, his dark hair thinning, and he was bulkier now—not overweight, but thick—in a polo shirt and shorts.

The woman was blond, though she didn’t have Samira’s lanky, effortless cool girl vibe.

She was of medium height, her hair carefully curled, her compact, tanned, and gym-toned body wrapped in a tight Pucci print.

She must have sensed my presence because she turned and looked up at me, flashing a smile. Feeling as though I’d been caught eavesdropping, I waved. Cody’s face went slack for a moment as he saw me, then he also smiled.

“Cody,” I called, genuinely glad to see him. “So good to see you.”

“Audrey, welcome,” he replied as they approached. I’d kept loosely in touch with Cody for a few years after Tyson and I broke up, but we’d lost touch as De-Sal took off. Now I stood on my toes to give him a hug and he studied my face as we pulled apart. “You look incredible.”

“Thank you.”

“Hi,” the woman said, not to be left out.

Up close she had the symmetrical beauty of a newscaster: perfectly arched brows, pert nose, Crest-white smile, skin contoured and scoured of any blemish.

She’d definitely had work done, though it was good enough work that it was hard to determine what exactly had been altered. “I’m Jennifer. His girlfriend.”

Something about her was familiar, though I couldn’t quite place it. “Audrey,” I said, extending my hand. “Have we met? You look so familiar.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Unless you’ve lived in Wisconsin or San Francisco?”

I shook my head and turned up the wattage in my smile, waving it away as I offered up the friendliest version of myself. “Anyway, it’s lovely to meet you.”

Acting was as necessary a part of my tool kit as hacking or self-defense, and while I’d never had any desire to perform on stage, I found it freeing to slip into character on a job.

It allowed me to disassociate, keeping my true self hidden behind a mask so that I could focus on the task at hand without giving too much of myself away.

Here I’d be more gregarious and less reserved than I was naturally.

I’d keep my sarcasm to myself, smile often and chatter affably—make them like me, want to confide in me.

It would be trickier to pull off with Tyson and Cody around, but it had been a while since they’d seen me, and Tyson had bullied me into doing this shit for him, so I doubted he’d challenge my faux geniality.

“Excuse me, Monsieur Dale?” called one of the chefs, her hands clasped before her as she lingered at the edge of the kitchen. “I would like to ask you a question about the dinner.”

“Excuse me,” Cody said, patting my shoulder as he took leave of us to follow her into the kitchen.

Jennifer leaned in, her floral perfume heavy in the humid night air as she whispered, “I hear you and Tyson dated.”

I choked on my champagne, the bubbles sharp in my nose. “A long time ago.”

She leaned closer. “I hear it didn’t end well.”

I raised my brows. “I can’t argue with that.”

Before I could inquire what else she’d heard, Samira and Gisèle came tripping up the stairs in minidresses, a tangle of long legs, beach waves, and supple skin, their heads bent together as they murmured in French too low for me to make out.

“Do you speak French?” Jennifer asked.

I briefly considered lying, but Tyson and Cody knew too much about me. “Yes. My father is Swiss.”

“Well then, you’ll fit in here better than I do.”

I had to laugh. “I doubt it.”

She gave me a conspiratorial wink as a server poured Samira and Gisèle glasses of Dom, which they clinked, never casting a glance in our direction as they settled into seats across from each other at the end of the table.

Jennifer’s phone dinged with a text and she raised it. “My son,” she said as she keyed in a response. “He texts me good night anytime I’m away.”

She turned the screen of the phone to face me, displaying an image of a dark-haired boy about my sons’ age, and my heart squeezed with longing for my own boys as I smiled. “I have twin boys about the same age.”

Jennifer sighed. “It’s like I can see him slipping away into teenagerland in front of my eyes.”

“I know, right?” It truly was hard, watching my sweet boys turn into surly teenagers before my very eyes, but I was also aware that bonding with her over our similarities would make her more comfortable with me. “It kills me. They won’t even let me hug them in public anymore.”

“It’s the worst,” she agreed, then wrinkled her nose. “And he’s starting to smell like a teenager too.”

I laughed as Laurent approached, touching me lightly on the back and gesturing to the thick oak dining table, which was big enough for twelve but set for only seven, leaving an awkward amount of space between the settings. “Dinner will be served shortly.”

And then he was gone, my skin tingling where his fingers had grazed. Too bad he works for Tyson, I thought, realizing with embarrassment that Laurent had likely already told him all the questions I’d asked in the car. No wonder Tyson had been so smug.

“How incredible is he?” Jennifer whispered, her gaze tracing the curve of Laurent’s ass in his fitted black pants as he returned to the kitchen.

“He is very helpful,” I agreed.

“Oh yes, I’d love his help with all kinds of things,” she insinuated.

Normally, insta-friend oversharer types struck me as ungenuine and gave me anxiety, but in this scenario, I realized Jennifer could turn out to be quite useful.

I laughed again and threw her a wink as we made our way to the table, where she took a seat next to Cody and I settled myself across from her.

Allison emerged from her suite on the other side of the living room, typing madly on her phone as she slid into the seat between me and Gisèle, an arm’s length away.

The server filled her glass with white wine, and she locked eyes with Cody, saluting him with her glass before she took a sip.

I could feel the tension radiating off her, and as she set her phone facedown on the table without so much as a glance in my direction, I had the distinct feeling that whatever shit she was mired in, Cody was in it with her.