Page 51

Jack

From the back corner of the room, I watch the parade of tuxes and gowns enter the banquet. The wire taped beneath my dress shirt itches, but this isn’t my first rodeo, and I won’t be scratching. Ryan and I stand around a small round cocktail table.

Turns out Ryan is the perfect plus one. Ryan, or Wolf as we called him back in the day, intimidates like none other with ice-blue eyes and a scowl that growls “stay away.” If it weren’t for Ryan’s intimidation, men who knew my father and who do business in some capacity with Sullivan Arms would surround me.

The annual banquet tonight is the biggest of the year, and I’ll be one of the dutiful men donating ten million dollars and receiving special mention and a gaudy golden jacket as a token of appreciation. My donation will serve as a notice to the entire industry that Sullivan Arms plays for the team.

But that’s not why I’m wearing a wire, and it’s not why I’m present at this function I have grown to abhor. Tonight is all about completing my list.

Victor told me last week that Senator Talbot appreciates all I am doing. Given Victor turned out to be in bed with my uncle, the FBI and other assorted groups have a keen interest in hearing exactly what the United States senator has to say about my illegal smuggling operation. As do I.

Personally, after decades in the CIA, my hunch is this effort will be wasted.

Someone doesn’t rise to the level of senator by documenting illegal activities verbally or in writing.

At best, he’ll incite greater interest in his activities through a vague reference.

Maybe he’ll drop another name. At worst, I’ll spend thirty minutes locked in a boring conversation.

Arrow is in attendance and is monitoring every single person Sullivan Arms’ employees interact with during the event. Phone and email records are a more efficient way of discerning connections, but guards might be down tonight with all the alcohol flowing.

Outside, Fisher and a team of four additional Arrow employees wait.

I’m hardly the only person present with personal security.

There are plenty of high-powered politicians and executives here.

In theory, no one is allowed to possess any weapons inside the banquet, but they’re using the honor system tonight.

I’m armed, and so is Ryan. Based on the bulges on hips beneath dress coats, I’d estimate a good portion of the men tonight are armed.

No telling how many supportive spouses have minuscule pistols inside their clutches.

Conceal and carry enthusiasts crowd this banquet.

There’s a jazz band set up in the far corner.

Waitstaff roam the crowd offering champagne and hors d'oeuvres.

All the men are decked in black and white coattails, or what my father used to call penguin suits.

And the women are cloaked in sequins or velvet and shimmering with diamonds.

An enormous ice sculpture glimmers in the center of the room, and there are full-service bars set up in three locations around the perimeter.

I would normally arrive toward the end of cocktail hour, but on the off chance the influential senator wishes to catch me alone before dinner, here I stand.

Ryan sets his drink down and tilts his head to me.

“This is going to get interesting,” he says.

I scan the entrance, assuming he’s talking about a recent arrival. He’s getting updates from his team through an earpiece. But a sinking awareness hits.

“Mark showed, didn’t he?”

He’s reached out many times. I’m not sure exactly what he expected to come out of his truth bomb.

The smuggling venture wasn’t called off, so it’s clear he doesn’t know about the UC op.

Whatever Ava told him about my prior work with a government entity must have been conveyed as past tense, which would make sense since that’s essentially what I told her.

My hope is that he slips up and we gather enough evidence to connect him to the smuggling operation. Right now, we have nothing other than one unrecorded conversation. There was a time when I would have tried to protect him out of a sense of family obligation. That time has passed.

Several of the men in the room turn to the double doors.

Ava Amara, in a full length, curve-hugging black gown enters with her hand in the crook of Patrick’s arm.

Diamonds glitter in her ears. A thin layer of black gauze covers her chest and down her arms in skintight sleeves.

The gown reeks of sophistication and glamor.

Every cell in my body awakens. Patrick bends and says something to her. She points toward a bar along the wall. He puts his hand on her lower back, and yes, he’s a gay man, but I grit my teeth to control a surge of possessive, irrational anger.

“Told you.” Ryan smirks and swirls the bourbon in his glass.

“Patrick sells magazine space for several gun industry publications. It makes sense he’s here. But why is Ava here?”

She’s absolutely stunning. She swept her unruly black hair up into an intricate design, away from her face and off her neck.

To look at her, you’d never know her past. Any onlooker would expect she is an up-and-coming socialite, or possibly a wealthy wife.

A tuxedoed man approaches her at the bar, no doubt having spotted the absence of a wedding ring.

How deep into this is she? I’d love to get Ryan’s point of view on this, but I can’t bring myself to ask, knowing an entire team of feds listens to every single word I say.

Patrick sees me from across the room and raises his glass in a distant salute. I do the same. Dread circulates through hardened veins when he leads Ava to me.

Fuck it. This operation aims to catch a senator, but we’ll be catching two small fish instead.

No part of me wants to be the one who captures Ava.

I’m angry and pissed and a world of other things, but I don’t want to be the one to send her to prison.

At least she’s well-funded and can hire a dream defense team.

“Patrick,” I say as they approach. “Ava.”

Gone is the drastic eyeliner and the ten earrings lining each lobe.

A stream of diamonds cascades elegantly from each lobe.

Blood red lipstick glistens on her full lips.

If I had to guess, I’d say a makeup artist applied her makeup with the goal of highlighting those enormous eyes.

Those dark orbs hit like a bludgeon to my chest.

She’ll do anything for money .

It’s a reminder I hold on to.

“You remember Ryan?”

“Yes, I do.” She offers her hand. She painted her nails a neutral color, and several thin tennis bracelets on her wrist sparkle. Did she buy herself diamonds with my money? “Indie and I have been spending time together. She’s become my walking partner. She’s doing really well.”

“She told me. It’s nice of you to spend time with her. She’s had trouble making friends. I mean, the good kind of friends.”

I glare at Ryan and wonder if he’s lost his mind. How on Earth is he okay with his sister spending time with her? He’s fully aware if she says anything incriminating she’s going to be hauled off to prison, possibly tonight.

“If you have a minute, Patrick and I would like to talk privately with you.”

They really want to do this?

“There’s a private room down the hallway. We have time before the dinner hour starts,” Patrick offers.

Ava believes she can deceive me. And when she weaves her lies, there’s going to be an entire team listening.

There’s no way out of this. And I shouldn’t be wanting one. My goal is to catch all the players behind this scheme. Might as well start with the most obvious ones.

Ava saunters down the hallway, and my gaze locks on the sensuous sway of her hips and the seductive curves of her backside.

The soles of her sky-high black heels flash red.

She’s spent money on this outfit. She wouldn’t wear the clothes I bought her, but she knows how to glam it up.

The vixen can play any role she desires.

The body-hugging gown begs for someone to pull the gown up to her waist and demand she grip something while she gets fucked hard from behind. Judging from the absence of panty lines, she’s either not wearing any or she’s got on one of her barely there, easily ripped thongs.

“Should we close the doors?” Ava asks.

She’s led us to a small room not far from the coat closet, although this is Houston, so the coat closet isn’t a popular destination.

Someone mans the room because, Houston or not, you never know when a woman absolutely must wear her mink stole.

The young tuxedo nods as I enter the empty room Ava has selected.

“What is this about?”

Ryan positions himself near the doorway, his body angled so he can scan the hallway and monitor Patrick and Ava.

The two look between each other, silently communicating the way old friends do. Down the hall, I hear an unmistakable, familiar, deep, Texan genteel twang.

What the hell? I charge toward the familiar voice, ready to confront him. Is playing along like everything’s fine the role that twisted man thinks I’ll play for the sake of the company?

“No. You’re not going anywhere.” Patrick grips my arm, and it takes every ounce of control to refrain from going for his throat. “You owe it to her to hear her out.”

So, that’s the plan. She’s going to try to convince me of her innocence?

“We found this.” Ava opens her clutch and shows us a silver bracelet. “I would have called you to tell you, but you blocked my number. I could have gone to Ryan, but I needed to do this face to face.”

“Do what?” I say at the same time Ryan says, “Let me see.”

“It’s a charm bracelet,” I tell Ryan. It’s immaterial. A diversion.

“And there’s a listening device. You can see it right here.” She bypasses me and hands it to Ryan. It’s a bracelet I’ve seen often. One charm is cracked open.

“You wore that bracelet everywhere.” Along with a stack of gaudy, cheap bracelets, she wore the out-of-place charm bracelet.