Revelation (16 page)

All but one.

His gaze connects with mine, lingering, lips pulling into a mischievous quirk, as if we're in on this little secret, just the two of us, together.

A furious blush springs to my cheeks, and my eyes flick to the stage, attention turning to the politician. I see him. I hear his words, but I don't understand them—not really listening.

Was he checking me out?

Every ounce of resolve is spent not turning my head in his direction. I follow the audience's cues, clapping when they clap, laughing when they laugh. And, when my willpower finally exhausts itself, I take a swift glance toward the other end of the bar. The man stands, fully absorbed in the speech, arms folded across his chest. My shoulders relax at this, and I steal another peek at my phone.

The speech lasts forever. There's too much interference: every other statement followed by wild applause and rousing cries of approval. When it ends, I exhale relief and swivel the stool back to the bartender.

"You still okay with that water?" he asks.

"I'm fine, thanks."

"Are you kidding?" someone interrupts. "After what she just endured, something stronger is in order."

It's him.

"I was trying to be discreet," I confess. "Clearly an epic failure."

A perfect smile brightens his green eyes, showcasing straight, professionally whitened teeth. Faint stubble lines his chin, as if he's gone a day without shaving. He's trim—the product of a thousand hours at a gym. Stylish: jeans, leather blazer. And the softest crow's feet at the corners of his eyes, hinting at his age. Thirties. Mid-thirties, maybe?

"An epically beautiful failure. What can I get you?" he asks. "Glass of wine? Something with an umbrella?" His voice lilts, unmistakably foreign. A brogue. Irish? Scottish?

"I'm fine with the water. Really. You don't have to . . ."

"Oh, come on. Don't feign reticence. I watched you the entire speech, dying of tedium. You deserve it after all you've suffered this evening," he insists, tone hinting at amusement.

"I . . . can't," I confess. "I'm not exactly . . . of drinking age."

He eyes me carefully, smile fading at the realization. "You're serious?"

I shrug, shoulders lifting, apologetic. "Sorry."

"No, it's quite all right," he replies, composing his features, eliminating all traces of surprise at my admission. "I'm sorry I assumed. The way you carry yourself—you seem . . . older."

"Just turned eighteen."

"Christ," he mutters. "Barely legal." He slides onto the stool next to mine and motions for the bartender. "A Scotch, please," he calls. "So tell me, Just Turned Eighteen, what can my candidate do to appeal to the younger demographic?"

The question catches me off guard, not what I was expecting. My lips stumble, tripping over a pathetic response: "I . . . I think he appeals fine."

The bartender returns with a glass, amber liquid sloshing as he pours, filling it to the brim.

"Please. You were unimpressed."

My spine stiffens, cheeks flaming with embarrassment—embarrassment for having been called out, for being so obvious in the first place, so clearly read by a complete stranger. "I'm not really . . . into politics."

"Just making an appearance," he confirms, taking a sip of Scotch.

A quiet laugh. "Something like that."

"Which family?"

"The Flemings." It's like power on my tongue. The name. The reputation. And I know it means something to him, too, recognition writing itself into his features.

"Really? I know some Flemings." He rattles off a few names—one that's familiar.

"Jack. He's my father-in-law," I say, struggling to hide my surprise.

Small world.

"Jack is a friend of mine. Good guy." He steals a glance in my direction, eyeing me curiously. "Father-in-law?"

"Former . . . father-in-law?" I feel the weight of the ring on my finger, now irrefutably conspicuous. "It's . . . complicated," I mutter, reaching for my water. "So, this is your guy?" I ask, nodding toward the crowd, quickly changing the subject.

"He is."

"Are you . . . following him around the state or something? Campaigning for him?"

"I've been a few places, yes," he says. "This is an important weekend, though, so I figured I should show my support. What brings you to the area? Certainly not my candidate," he adds.

I wrack my brain, mind spinning blindly, desperate for an acceptable answer. "I'm, um, just here for a few days. It's . . . business-related."

Not a total lie.

I swallow hard, shoulders lifting in a pathetic shrug.

"And what kind of business are you in, Ms. Fleming?"

I suppress a cringe at the question.

Of course he'd want details.

I muster every ounce of charm I can manage, indulging him, cramming them into the words: "
That
would be classified."

His face brightens—not the response he was expecting, but appeased just the same. "I'll drink to that."  

He lifts a finger, signaling the bartender for a refill. "You're sure I can't interest you in a glass of wine?" He leans in conspiratorially, voice hushed. "I won't tell if you won't." His eyes dance, animated. He's confident. Handsome. And the word
sexy
plays itself over and over in my head.

Another wave of heat creeps up my neck and into my cheeks. "No. But thank you, anyway."

The bartender returns, fills the glass. The man takes a final sip and rises. "There are no more speeches, so you should enjoy the rest of your evening," he teases, removing a sizeable bill from his money clip and tossing it onto the counter.

I laugh, embarrassed, feeling my cheeks turn fifty degrees of red. "Good to know."

His fingers skim my shoulder, a hint of a smirk flickering at his lips before he departs, mingling with the crowd, vanishing from sight. 

Wow. Just . . .
wow.

The shame at having been called out for my apathy dies, quickly replaced by the sudden, mortified realization that I'm still watching, looking for him. That I was so obviously flirting.

What is
wrong
with me?

I don't need this. I don't need
any
distractions. Nothing can get in the way of what I have to do, why I'm here.

I breathe slowly, in and out, gathering whatever composure, whatever decency, remains, the fog clouding my brain seeming to lift.

The bartender returns with a fresh bottle of water and slips the money into his pocket, a knowing, arrogant grin twisting his features. "Congratulations," he says, eyeing me deliberately. "You just met Luke
Castellani
."

The smile drains from my face, disappearing, and my heartbeat kicks higher.

Shit.

T
WENTY-TWO

The elevator doors swoosh open and I enter the lobby, stepping into an invisible veil fragrant with coffee. The manager recognizes me, smile brightening the front desk as I approach. "Good morning, Mrs. Fleming."

I return the greeting, set my purse on the counter between us. "Just out of curiosity, how could I get a message to another guest at this hotel?"

"It's against policy to provide information about our guests."

Jesus. This hotel has a lot of policies.

"I know him," I explain. "Luke
Castellani
. He's staying in the penthouse."

Her brow furrows, confused. "How do you know Mr.
Castellani
?"

"How is that any of your business?" I counter.

"I—I'm sorry," she stutters. "It's just that—"

"He's a friend of the Fleming family," I interrupt. "We met last evening. At the campaign . . . thing. In the ballroom."

"I didn't realize you had an invitation to that event." She laughs weakly. "Of course you would. Policy-wise, I can't give out Mr.
Castellani's
private information, but if you'd like to write a note I'll have a member of our staff deliver it." She slides a piece of The Cypress letterhead and a pen across the counter.

So primitive. We may as well be communicating via messenger pigeon.

I study the clean page, pen in hand, mind drawing a blank.

Dear Mr.
Castellani
,

You might not remember me, but. . . .

Luke,

I'm the girl that. . . .

A heavy sigh.
I'm supposed to kill you and I don't know how or why.

I finally settle on no introduction, scribbling the words:
Enjoyed our chat last evening. I might have a few ideas for your candidate. Would like to meet for coffee. Lobby restaurant. 9:00pm. G. Fleming.

I fold the paper twice, hand it to the manager—"
Please
make sure he gets this"—then, hiking my purse strap higher on my shoulder, head for the lobby doors. There's shopping to be done.

*          *          *

By nine o'clock I'm sitting at a reserved table, facing the entrance to the restaurant, waiting. Lucien
Castellani
never returned my message or sent any kind of confirmation that he received it. For all I know, he laughed it off. Made other plans. Checked out of the hotel early.

I smooth the folds of my dress, feel the thick straps of my thigh holster beneath the fabric.

My cell phone reveals the time.

Nine-thirty. I'll wait until then. If he doesn't show, I'll have to think of something else.

The waitress drops by, asks if I'd like to order while I'm waiting. I politely refuse, turning back to my ice water—condensation dripping down sides, pooling on the starched tablecloth—intent on wiping the glass clean with the linen napkin.

My eyes lift in time to find him breezing past the hostess, winding between tables, closing the distance between us. I exhale a rapid breath, wipe my damp palms across my lap, and stand.

"Good Evening." He leans in, plants a soft kiss on my cheek, hand finding my waist. I breathe him in—cologne and mouthwash trying to mask a pack a day habit, intoxicating. "You look lovely."

Already heat creeps up my neck and into my cheeks, a daze washing over me.

Focus.

"Thank you."

"Please." He motions toward the table, gesturing for me to sit. "I must confess I was surprised to receive your message."