White Hot: Chapter 9

It was six o’clock on Friday evening and I was sitting in our media room in a fifteen-hundred-dollar-a-night dress, holding a tiny evening bag containing my phone, and trying not to move. Arabella had done my makeup. Catalina had rolled my hair into a suitably messy crown on my head and pinned it in place with a black metal hair brooch. My shoes were on. I had gone to the bathroom before I got dressed, I hadn’t eaten anything that would give me gas, and I was probably dehydrated, because Murphy’s Law guaranteed that if I had a drink in my hand, I would spill some of it on my nice dress.

I was ready to go. Grandma Frida and my mom were keeping me company until Augustine showed up.

I had spent the last several hours memorizing names and faces from Augustine’s list and my poor brain buzzed like a beehive. Several of the men in the photographs were blond. I had stared at them for an hour, trying to match their features to the smudged blur I had seen through the rain-speckled window of the Suburban. I failed.

On TV the talking heads speculated about Senator Garza’s murder. The police were still sitting on the details of the investigation and the rabid intensity of the earlier commentary had died down to annoyed declarations that sounded suspiciously like whining. The press so desperately wanted the story, but there was only so much speculation you could come up with, and starved of information, they were ready to admit defeat and move on to more exciting topics.

The pictures of Senator Garza came on the screen again. Young, handsome, politician’s haircut, and probably politician’s smile. He’d been murdered, and somebody had to answer for that.

“Poor family,” Grandma Frida said.

Leon ran into the room. “Neva—”

He stopped and stared at me.

“Yes?”

“Nevada, you’re pretty.” He said it with a sense of wonder, as if he had discovered some alien life-form.

“And normally I’m . . . ?”

“My cousin,” he said, loading a lot of duh into his voice. “There’s a limo outside. Two limos.”

I held out my hand and Leon helped me stand up.

“How do I look?”

“You look good,” Mom assured me.

“Break a leg!” Grandma Frida told me. “Take lots of pictures!”

I stepped out of the media room. Cornelius was waiting for me. He wore a black tuxedo that hugged his body and set off his handsome features. He looked sharp and elegant, a man who belonged in the world of fifteen-thousand-dollar dresses. I felt like a little girl playing dress-up.

Cornelius offered me his arm. I rested my fingers on his forearm and we walked through the hallway to the door.

“This is like going to the prom,” I said.

“I didn’t go to mine,” he said. “Did you?”

“I went to my junior prom. My date’s name was Ronnie. He joined the Marines and was due to ship out two weeks later. He showed up high as a kite and proceeded to cheat on me with weed the entire evening because it was his last chance to let loose. I got fed up and ditched him thirty minutes after we got there.” I had gleefully skipped the prom my senior year.

“I promise not to abandon you,” he said.

“Between you, Augustine, and Rogan, there is no danger of that.”

Cornelius opened the door for me and I stepped out into the night. Two limousines waited. Augustine stood by the second limo. He wore a tuxedo as well and it fit him like a glove. I took a second to come to terms with it. Wow.

“Nevada, you look perfect. Harrison, good evening.”

“Good evening,” Cornelius echoed.

The driver of the first limo, a tall blonde woman, stepped out and held the door open. “Mr. Harrison.”

“Are we arriving separately?” I asked.

“Yes,” Cornelius said. “I’ll be arriving in the limo of my House.”

And I would be going with Augustine as his employee. Just as well.

“I’ll see you there.”

His limo slid into the night. Augustine held the door open for me. I sat very carefully.

He shut the door, walked around, got in next to me, and we were off.

“The bruise is a masterful touch,” Augustine said.

“The two of you said Baranovsky prefers unique.”

“It’s certainly that. It draws the eye. Together with the dress it’s a powerful statement. Have you noted that Rogan tried to dissuade you from attending?”

“Yes.” Where was he going with this?

“Rogan is, at the core, an adolescent,” Augustine said. “Driven, dangerous, and calculating, but an adolescent nonetheless.”

No. Rogan was anything but. He sought to maintain control over his environment, his people, and most of all himself. On the rare occasions his emotions got the best of him, the glimpse of his true nature was so brief I still hadn’t been able to completely figure him out. There was nothing impulsive about him.

“Adolescents are ruled by their emotions,” Augustine continued.

You don’t say. If only I had some adolescents in my life with whom I had to deal on a daily basis.

“Abandoning your family obligations and running away to join the army is a teenage move,” Augustine said. “It is one peg above dramatically declaring that you didn’t ask to be born.”

Given that Rogan was nineteen when he joined the army, the teenager criticism wasn’t exactly fair. I finally understood why Rogan had joined. He was trying to escape the predetermined path of all Primes: go to college, attain an advanced degree, work for your parents, marry a spouse with the right genes, and produce no less than two and no more than three children to ensure succession. The path that Augustine himself had studiously followed with exception of finding a spouse.

“My point is, occasionally Rogan has an emotional reaction and acts accordingly. He had an emotional reaction to sharing you with the rest of the world. I don’t know the nature of his fascination. Perhaps it’s personal. Perhaps it is professional interest. I don’t believe you realize how valuable you are, but Rogan does and so do I. And I don’t like to lose.”

He flicked his thumb across his phone. My clutch let out a melodious tone I set specifically for this event. I opened it and checked my phone. A new email from Augustine waited in my email box. I tapped it.

A contract. Agreement between House Montgomery . . . He was offering me employment, but not with MII. With House Montgomery. This was new. Base Salary. Employee shall receive a Base Salary in the amount of $1,200,000 per year . . .

That couldn’t be right.

What was the term? I scrolled through it. Ten years.

Augustine Montgomery had just offered me a contract that guaranteed a payment of one million two hundred thousand per year for ten years with an annual 7 percent increase and bonuses based on performance.

I could buy Rogan out. I could pay off our mortgage. I could guarantee my sisters’ education. I could . . .

What was the catch? There had to be a catch.

If I took this contract, Baylor Investigative Agency would cease to exist. And if I quit or was fired for any reason, I wouldn’t be able to support my family.

Augustine smiled at me. Funny; from this angle you couldn’t see his shark teeth at all.

If I took this deal, all of my years of hard work would be gone. The agency was my father’s legacy, but it was also so much more than that. It was a testament to our perseverance as a family.

As my dad’s health rolled downhill, the business had dwindled to nothing. He couldn’t work. My mother was focused on taking care of my father. When I thought back to that time, it was muted in my memories. Dark and oppressive, as if filmed through a blue filter by my brain. There was time before Dad got sick and then there was time after he died. Between that lay awful memories I was trying to forget in self-defense.

I couldn’t help Dad. I had made things worse. I had read a letter from his doctor, and he caught me and asked me to not tell anyone. I kept his secret for far too long. Had I spoken up sooner, he might have lived longer. When he was sick, I couldn’t reassure my sisters and cousins. Anything I could’ve said would have been a lie. We all knew the awful truth from the start. Dad was going to die. We fought for weeks, not years.

In that time, the only thing I could do was to step up and try to earn a little bit of extra money for us. I stepped onto the sinking ship that was Baylor Investigative Agency and plugged the holes one by one. I fought for every new client. I ferreted out every crumb of work we could get. And slowly the business started moving. It stumbled, lurching forward, but it was no longer standing still. Then, after Dad died, we all desperately needed something to hold on to. We were like runners who had run a long, grueling race, crossed the finished line, and didn’t know how to stop running. We needed a focus and the agency became that. It kept a roof over our heads and put food on our table. My sisters and cousins hadn’t asked for an allowance in the past three years because they earned it through the family business. If things ever went wrong for them in their adult life, the business would be there to provide some income. It would never make them rich, but it would pay the bills. It was there for all of us. It thrived now, living proof that we stood together as a family. We were all proud of it. My father had hoped it would take care of us and it did, in so many more ways than just money.

If I took Augustine’s offer, all of this would disappear. Yes, I would earn more money. Crazy money, the kind I would never see otherwise. But instead of earning their own money, the rest of the family would now depend on my handouts.

I wanted to get away from Rogan. I wanted it so badly. With this, I could.

What would I be doing for this money? Probably the exact thing my parents had fought so hard to keep me from doing: working for Augustine as a living lie detector. Making people curl into fetal positions on the floor as they wept after I violated their minds.

“That’s a very generous offer,” I said.

“No, it’s a fair offer. I’m a businessman, Nevada. I always watch my bottom line. This offer isn’t modest, but it isn’t generous either. It is, in my estimation, adequate and fair compensation for the valuable service you will provide to House Montgomery. Compensation which, I might add, will increase. There is so much I could do with your talent, Nevada. You have my word that I’ll never attempt to emotionally manipulate you. You have my word that I’ll never threaten your family or attempt to purchase all of your loans without your permission in some underhanded attempt to influence you.”

He had looked into my finances. Of course. He owned a private detective agency, after all. And he had looked into them so he could do the exact same thing that Rogan had done. Except Rogan had beat him to it.

“I offer a professional alliance, Nevada. A mutually beneficial partnership. If you scroll down, you will see a sign-on bonus. It will take care of your immediate debt obligations and permit you to put a down payment on a reasonable residence, should you choose to move out of the warehouse and begin a more independent lifestyle. Again, I’m not doing it as a charity. I’m doing it because I would like you to be professionally happy. In my experience, happy employees mean a stable, healthy business.”

He smiled again. “I understand that right now things are chaotic and this is a big decision. Take all the time you need. There is no expiration date on this offer.”

I smiled back at him, trying to show no emotion except light amusement. “You’re confident Rogan won’t offer me more?”

“He may offer you more. The question is, what will you be expected to do for that money?”

I raised my eyebrows at him.

“I didn’t mean a sexual engagement,” Augustine said. “Rogan may try to seduce you, but unless his personality has undergone a very drastic change, he’ll never pressure you into a sexual relationship against your will. Do you know what Rogan does for a living?”

“A great many things, from what I understand.”

“No, he owns many things. There is a difference. I also own a great many things, but I run MII. It’s my day-to-day business. Rogan is a warlord in a very real sense of the word. His people are mercenaries. He does have one of the best private armies in the world, I’ll give him that, and on the surface he does fun things with it like hostage rescue, security detail for aid workers, and stabilizing operations. However, we’re both adults. You know as well as I that the most profitable operations are rarely white knight affairs. Even more interesting is what he does in the city of Houston.”

“He owns a private security firm, from what I understand,” I said.

“He owns Castra. It’s an ancient Latin word for military fort . Every day Roman legionnaires would march twenty miles in full gear and then they would set up camp and build fortifications of dirt and timber around it before going to sleep. Castra is a shelter in an inhospitable land, a wall of protection impenetrable to outsiders. Rogan’s Castra provides security to Houses. Do you need to meet with your rival? Don’t trust him or your own people? Are you afraid of an ambush? Castra will secure the site for you. They are elite, expertly trained, and incorruptible. They are the reason why Rogan knows every major player in the Houston underworld and why he is well informed about most major feuds between the Houses. He takes time to cover his tracks really well. I know of it because I was involved in a complex transaction between two parties, secured by Castra, and I recognized one of his people.”

It didn’t surprise me. Rogan had said before that when he wanted someone found, his people brought that person to him within hours. That wouldn’t be possible without an extensive network of contacts among the shadier side of Houston, and one didn’t get those contacts by being an altar boy.

“Does he know you know?”

Augustine shook his head. “I wasn’t present as myself. With me, your work would be legitimate and legal. I can’t promise that once in a while you won’t run across a situation that will compromise your principles, but such situations would be an anomaly, not the norm. What kind of work would you be doing for Rogan? Who would you question for him?”

All valid points. Except Rogan didn’t want to hire me. He wanted me, in every sense of the word. He wanted me to be with him. It was more than lust. I wasn’t quite sure what it was yet.

Augustine smiled. “It might pay to consider your options carefully.”

The limos slid up the curving driveway past lush gardens and beautiful granite terraces.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“Piney Point Village,” Augustine said.

Piney Point Village was officially the wealthiest place in Texas. Like many of the neighboring communities, it started as a small city that had been gobbled up by Houston’s sprawl. I had cause to briefly visit it last year in connection with a runaway case. Part of the Memorial Villages’ wealthy bedroom community, Piney Point restricted businesses of any kind within its borders, employed an urban forester, and regulated everything, including the format of the For Sale signs. According to the census, the tiny municipality had only three thousand residents. The taxable value of real estate they owned totaled two billion dollars.

The limo slid into a roundabout, circling a breathtaking fountain. At the other end of the parking lot a huge white mansion rose from the trees. From here the massive building resembled an eye. A large round tower sat in the center, like an iris, guarded by towering white columns supporting a circular balcony above. Two curved wings stretched from the tower, gracefully couched by the greenery. Arched glass doors and windows glowed with inviting amber light. I could almost hear some luxury-home Realtor’s voice: “Built in an elegant fusion of Italianate, French, and early Disney styles, this magnificent estate offers a thousand bathrooms for all of your executive Cinderella needs . . .”

“How big is this house?”

“Thirty thousand square feet,” Augustine said. “Baranovsky built it specifically for the gala a few years ago. The tower houses the central ballroom, the right wing has a restaurant space and a presentation auditorium, the left contains the living quarters. He rents it out as a corporate retreat when he isn’t here.”

The limo slid to a stop. Here we go.

“No worries,” Augustine said. “You will do well. Be yourself, Nevada.”

The driver opened my door. Augustine walked around the limo and held out his hand. I leaned on him and stepped out of the car. He offered me his arm. I shook my head. The point was to make a statement and stand out. Being attached to Augustine as his date would cause most people to overlook me. We walked up the wide staircase to the arched entrance between towering Corinthian columns. A man and a woman, both in severe dark suits, waited by the entrance. Augustine made eye contact with the woman and held up a small card.

She inclined her head. “Mr. Montgomery. Welcome.”

“Good evening, Elsa.”

The man raised a scanner. Red laser dashed across the card.

The male guard touched his headset. His voice sounded in two places at once, from his mouth and from the speaker somewhere within the house. “Augustine Montgomery of House Montgomery and guest.”

They probably knew my name, weight, and shoe size. But next to Augustine, my name meant nothing. I became “and guest,” and that was precisely how I liked it.

We stepped through the arched entrance onto the granite floor polished to a mirror shine. White walls rose high, decorated with long banners showcasing the various exhibits of the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston: a woman in an impossibly wide mother-of-pearl dress with an equally wide hairdo and the caption “Habsburg Splendor: Pieces from Vienna’s Imperial Collections”; a ceramic statue of a man in a round helmet sitting cross-legged with his hands resting on his knees, labeled “Ballplayer: Arts of Ancient Mexico”; and an insane-looking plastic bracelet in orange and red, with a pattern of black dots encircled with white and multicolored spikes, marked “Ronald Warden’s Enigmatic Jewelry.”

A wide door offered access to the ballroom directly in front of us, giving us a glimpse of the main floor and the crowd inside—women in bright dresses and men in black. Two suspended staircases with elaborate iron railings swept up on both sides of it, leading to the upstairs floor and two additional doors.

Augustine headed straight for the ballroom. I lifted my chin and walked next to him like I belonged here.

“Why not just hold the gala at MFAH?”

“Baranovsky is a Prime. We like to control our environment. Follow my lead. We’ll walk in and then we’ll simply drift.”

We walked through the door and I had to concentrate on walking instead of stopping in midstride and gaping. The vast circular room gleamed. The floor was white granite with elaborate flourishes of malachite-green inlay. The walls were polished white marble with flecks of green and gold. A wide marble staircase at the other end of the circle offered access to an inside balcony that ran the entire circumference of the ballroom, punctuated by doors, which probably led to the outside balcony. Seamless floor-to-ceiling windows soared on both sides of the balcony, caged by columns. Here and there small groups of plush chairs and tables were tucked in near the walls. Houston’s magical elite stood, sat, and strolled, conversing. Laughter floated. Diamonds shone. Waiters glided through the gathering like ghosts, carrying trays of delicacies and wine.

True to his word, we drifted. People looked at us. I glanced at Augustine. Somewhere between the front door and ballroom, he’d become stunning. He was usually handsome—his illusion affording him an icy perfection—but now he’d transformed into a Greek demigod. A living, breathing work of art, superhuman in its beauty. Women looked at him, then invariably at me, their gazes snagging on the bruise on my neck.

Augustine led me to the left. A waiter ghosted over to us, offering champagne. Augustine took a flute, but I waved mine off. The last thing I needed was to get drunk. We kept strolling, bits of conversation floating to us.

“You look divine . . .”

“Lie,” I murmured under my breath.

“. . . so lovely to see you . . .”

“Lie.”

“. . . would have never thought her capable of such a direct action . . .”

“Lie.”

“I hate these gatherings.”

“Lie, lie, lie.”

Augustine laughed quietly.

A woman thrust herself into our way. In her forties, with a carefully structured blond hairdo, she wore a turquoise dress. A man who had to be either her son or a lover half her age accompanied her. Dark-haired and handsome, he was overgroomed and slightly effeminate. Too much eyebrow tweezing. I didn’t recognize either face, so they probably wouldn’t murder me.

“Augustine, my dear, what a delight.”

Lie.

“Likewise, Cheyenne,” Augustine said.

Lie. Clearly this wasn’t a close friend.

“We’ve been admiring your lovely companion,” Cheyenne said. Both she and her boy toy looked at me and for some reason I was reminded of hyenas baring their fangs.

“So interesting,” the boy toy said. “Perhaps she can settle our dispute. See, Cheyenne here contends that a woman should retain some hint of her natural state, while I firmly believe that a female body should be bald from the eyebrows down. Care to opine?”

Aha. Clearly he was some kind of idiot. I had no time for that nonsense. I looked directly at him, holding his stare for a full five seconds, then deliberately turned my back to him. Augustine and I walked away.

“Well done,” Augustine whispered.

“Who were they?”

“Nobody important.”

An elegant African American woman was making her way toward us. She wore a pink dress, not the overwhelming bright pink of Pepto-Bismol, but the gentle pastel pink a mere shade redder than white. The dress, slightly looser than a mermaid shape, hugged her statuesque frame. A half cape spilled from her shoulder, giving her a regal air. From the distance she looked ageless, but now, close up, I could see she was probably twice my age.

Augustine bowed his head. “Lady Azora.”

“May I borrow you for a moment, Augustine?” She glanced at me.

Augustine also glanced at me.

“Of course,” I said.

“Thank you, my dear,” Lady Azora told me.

They strolled away.

I turned so I could keep them in my view without staring at Augustine’s back. A man emerged from behind a group of people. African American, in his mid-thirties, he moved with an athletic grace, walking until he stopped next to me. Or rather loomed. He had to be three or four inches over six feet tall. Every tuxedo and suit in this place was custom-made, but his must’ve taken a couple of extra yards to accommodate his height and broad shoulders. His hair was cropped very short, and an equally short goatee beard and mustache traced his jaw, cut with razor-sharp precision. Our stares met. An agile intellect shone from his dark eyes. One look and you knew that he wasn’t just intelligent, he was sharp and shrewd. He wouldn’t mow down his opposition. He would disassemble it.

The man bent his head slightly toward me. His voice was deep and quiet. “Do you need help?”

I had no idea what he was talking about.

“Do you need help?” he repeated quietly. “One word, and I’ll take you out of here and none of them can stop me. I’ll make sure you have access to a doctor, a safe place to stay, and a therapist to talk to. Someone who understands what it’s like and will help. ”

The pieces clicked in my head. The bruise. Of course. “Thank you, but I’m okay.”

“You don’t know me. It’s difficult to trust me because I’m a man and a stranger. The woman speaking with Augustine is my aunt. The woman across the floor in the white-and-purple gown is my sister. Either of them will vouch for me. Let me help you.”

“Thank you,” I told him. “On behalf of every woman here. But I’m a private investigator. I’m not a victim of domestic abuse. This is a work-related injury and the man who put his hands on me is dead.”

The man studied me for a long moment and slid a card into my hand. “If you decide that the injury isn’t work related, call me.”

Augustine turned toward us.

The man gave him a hard stare and walked away. I glanced at the card. It was solid black, with the initials ML embossed on one side in silver and a phone number on the other.

“Do you know who that was?” Augustine asked.

“No.”

“Michael Latimer. Very powerful, very dangerous.”

“He wasn’t on my list.”

“He was supposed to be in France for the next month. What did he want?”

There was no harm in telling him. “He thought I was a victim of domestic violence. He offered to help.”

“I had no idea he cared.” Augustine narrowed his eyes. “Interesting.”

Men and women drifted by us as the announcer kept reciting a measured litany of names. So-and-so of House so-and-so. So-and-spouse of House Whatever. I saw Cornelius next to a woman who could have been his sister. He looked at me in passing as if he had no idea who I was and I returned his gaze in the exact same way.

Minutes drifted by.

I turned and saw Gabriel Baranovsky on the second floor above us talking to an older Asian man. Two large men with shoulders so broad they looked almost square in their expensive suits waited calmly nearby. Bodyguards.

According to our background check, Baranovsky was fifty-eight. He wore the years well. His build, slender, almost slight, pointed to a man who was either a habitual runner or had an iron will when it came to food. His dark hair fell in a loose wavy mane, framing an angular intelligent face with a long nose, narrow chin, and large eyes. I had studied his picture from the files. You couldn’t tell from here, but he had remarkable eyes, light brown like whiskey and possessing a kind of sorrowful, wise expression. The rest of him was perfectly ordinary, but the eyes elevated his face, transforming him into someone unusual, someone you would want to talk to because you were sure he would have something unique to say. The eyes of the man who looked into the future. No wonder he collected women.

And he wasn’t looking at me at all.

The announcer’s voice faltered and for once I tuned into it.

“Connor Rogan of House Rogan.”

The floor around us became still and quiet. On the second floor Baranovsky pivoted toward the door, frowning. The pause lasted only a couple of moments, the slow drift of bodies and hum of conversation resuming, but now the voices were lower and the seemingly casual movement had acquired a definite direction as the attendees tried to clear the middle of the floor without looking like they were tripping over their feet.

Rogan walked into the hall. He wore a black suit, but the way they looked at him, he might as well have marched into the room in full armor. He’d shaved and brushed his hair, but the circles under his eyes betrayed the fact that he probably hadn’t slept last night. A scowl hardened his face. He looked like he would murder anyone who got in his way.

One half of me wanted to punch him in the face for buying up my debts. The other half wanted to march into his path and chew him out for not sleeping. If this was love, then love was the most complicated emotion I had ever felt.

He saw me. Surprise flickered in his eyes and for a moment he was too stunned to hide it. The dress was worth every penny.

Rogan altered his course. Across the room Michael Latimer watched him quietly. The crowd’s reactions split. Most faces turned worried. A few others, men and women both, watched him the way Latimer did, not afraid but ready. They were all predators who’d agreed to play nice for one night and now they weren’t sure if the beast with the biggest fangs in the room would follow the rules.

Rogan crashed to a halt before me and held out his hand without saying a word. I didn’t dare to check if Baranovsky was watching but damn near everybody in the room was. Their stares pinned me down like daggers.

In for a penny, in for a pound. I put my hand in his.

He turned smoothly, sliding my hand down to rest on his elbow. We walked together up the stairs. I felt light-headed.

If I tripped now, I would never live it down.

We reached the top and Rogan turned left, away from Baranovsky, and back along the second floor. Ahead an open door led outside to a balcony framed with planters of roses, their fat blossoms a dark red, almost purple. Rogan walked through. The cold evening air washed over us in a rush.

I remembered how to breathe.

“Did you have to be so obvious about it?” I ground out.

“I warned you.” His voice was cold, his face distant. He was looking me over. “You wanted to catch his attention.”

I turned away from him and looked at the garden below. No man should have a garden blooming in winter but somehow Baranovsky had managed. Shrubs with yellow blossoms framed the whorls of garden paths; tall spires of unfamiliar plants with white triangular flowers beckoned; and roses, lots and lots of roses, in every shade from white to red filled the flower beds. Between them small gazebos offered a place to rest and enjoy the view. Bright canvas canopies, triangular and stretched tight into slightly curved shapes, like sails of some galleon, shielded parts of the walkways between them. The rest of the house curved into the distance, hugging the garden’s edge.

Rogan said nothing. Fine. We could just stand here and say nothing.

A gust of wind came. I hugged my cold shoulders. Evening gowns weren’t designed for dramatically running out onto strange balconies in the middle of winter nights.

Rogan pulled off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders.

I brushed it away. “Don’t.”

“Nevada, you’re cold.”

“I’m fine.”

“It’s a damn jacket,” he growled.

I squinted at him. “What’s the catch?”

“What?” Irritation vibrated in his voice.

“What’s the catch with the jacket? What will it cost me? You keep chipping away at my independence every time you try to ‘take care’ of me, so I’d rather know the price in advance.”

He swore.

“Colorful, but not very informative.” My teeth chattered. I clamped them together and my knees started shaking. Great.

“Take the jacket.”

“No.”

We stared at each other. It was good that stares weren’t swords or we would’ve had a duel right here on the balcony.

“You can go back now,” I told him. “I’m sure he’ll come and see what all the fuss was about if you leave.”

“I’ll leave when I’m damned good and ready.”

Judging by the set of his jaw, he wouldn’t budge and he was too big for me to shove him off the balcony into the roses down below. Although it would be tempting to try.

“I know about Castra.” Let’s see him deal with that one.

He didn’t react. “How?”

“Augustine made your people during one of the exchanges they secured.”

“Ah.” He grimaced. “Augustine started taking interest in my affairs after Pierce’s idiocy. I’ve invested in a canine unit to account for that possibility. He may change his appearance but he can’t change his scent. It seems I didn’t do it soon enough.”

“What deals do you secure? Who are your clients? Drug dealers? Murderers?”

“Murderers, yes. But only if their name is attached to a House. I’ve never secured a drug transaction. I know of the underworld, and it knows of my people. We pass each other like two strangers on the street, aware but never interacting, and that’s the way I like to keep it.”

True. “Why do you do it?”

“Information,” he said, his voice matter-of-fact. “I exist outside of Prime society by choice, but I know more about them than those who are entrenched in it. Information gives me power, and when necessary, I use it.”

Another gust of wind hit me. If Baranovsky didn’t show up in the next two minutes, I’d freeze to death.

Rogan glanced at the garden. A canvas canopy tore from the rest, shot toward us, and wrapped the balcony on the left side, shielding us from the wind. In response a dark shadow shifted behind the window on the third floor, about five hundred yards from us, across the garden. Rogan’s gaze checked the window and he turned away. He saw it too. We were being watched, probably by someone with a sniper rifle.

“This is exactly what I’m talking about. I refused your jacket, so you went over my head. You aren’t taking my wishes into consideration. At all.”

“You want to be cold?” He stared at me.

“Yes.” And that sounded stupid. I sighed at myself.

“Nevada, we both know that you’re freezing. I can hear your teeth clicking. If you’re doing this to prove a point, I already understand it. This is childish.”

I faced him. “It’s not childish, Connor. You’re trying to take over my life. You do things for me, even when I specifically ask you not to, because you feel you know better. I’m desperately fighting for my independence and my boundaries, because otherwise there will be no me left. There will be just you and I’ll become an accessory.”

Rogan turned and half closed a mirrored door behind us. The glass caught my reflection. The black dress sheathed me like armor. My blond hair crowned my head. The look on my face brought it home: there was something defiant and almost vicious in my eyes. I barely recognized myself.

I didn’t like it.

Rogan moved to stand behind me, his resolute face tinted with regret. “What do you see?”

“I see me in a leased dress.”

“I see a Prime.”

True. He meant it. Breath caught in my throat. Deep down I had known it. I just didn’t want to deal with all the things that title meant.

His voice was quiet. “This isn’t you playing dress-up. This is you, Nevada. This is what you truly are.”

Why did he sound like he was hammering nails into his own coffin?

“You must’ve realized it by now. It can’t be that much of a surprise,” he said, his voice quiet. “Augustine knows it too. He isn’t an idiot. Sooner or later he’ll try to lock you into vassalage. He’ll try to offer you a deal, probably what will seem like a great sum of money attached to handcuffs and a chain. In reality, whatever he offers you will be a pittance. If he could lock you in, your value to House Montgomery would be enormous. Your value to any House would be beyond measure, especially if you don’t know what you are and you submit, allowing yourself to be controlled and used.”

Like offering me over a million dollars to walk away from everything I’d built. My instincts had been right, but the trap did prove so tempting.

Rogan stepped toward me and gently draped the jacket over me. The heavy warm fabric felt heavenly on my icicle shoulders. He loomed behind me, grim and slightly scary.

“Your debts are like this jacket, Nevada. A small favor that costs nothing. You don’t yet realize how infinitesimal their total amount is, because you’re still clinging to the illusion of being ordinary. Soon you’ll make that money in a blink. You’re an emerging Prime and it’s a dangerous time for you. People will use you, manipulate you, pressure you. Everyone will want a piece of you. I simply shielded one of your pressure points until you were ready to shield it on your own.”

If I took everything he said at face value, it meant that he was guarding me. Protecting me. If he expected anything in return, he hasn’t said what it was. But nothing in the world of Primes was free.

“What other measures have you taken for my safety?” I asked.

“You know everything I’ve done.”

True.

“I didn’t do it to control you. I did it because you were vulnerable.”

“Did anyone attempt to purchase my mortgage from you?”

“Yes.”

True. “Who and when?”

“A boutique bank, yesterday. My people are tracking it down. We’ll know who’s behind it in the next twenty-four hours.”

I had a strong feeling it would lead back to House Montgomery. “Why do you care what happens to me, Rogan?”

“It amuses me.” Neither his voice, nor his face betrayed any delight.

“Really, Connor?” I turned and looked into his eyes. My magic licked him and liked the taste.

“If you do this to a member of a House, it’s a declaration of war,” he warned, his eyes dark. “Keep your magic to yourself.”

“Then answer the question so I don’t have to go to war with you.”

Rogan turned and walked away, leaving me standing wrapped in his jacket.

I pulled the jacket tighter around myself and looked back at the garden. If we had calculated correctly, Baranovsky would approach me.

Measured steps broke the silence behind me. Someone walked out onto the balcony and leaned on the rail next to me. I turned my head. Baranovsky looked at me with his remarkable eyes. In the hallway, the two bodyguards waited, far enough to not obviously intrude on the conversation but close enough to shoot me in the head and not miss. I pretended not to see them and turned back to the garden.

“Enjoying the brisk air?” Baranovsky asked.

“Yes,” I said. I wanted to babble to ease off the pressure, but the more we spoke, the less mysterious I would seem.

We stood in silence.

“A woman of few words,” he said. “A rarity.”

I raised my eyebrows at him. “You’re too sophisticated for that remark.”

A self-deprecating smile stretched his lips. “What makes you think that?”

“You’re a collector. You value each item in your collection for its unique charm. A broad generalization, especially one so ham-fisted, would be out of character for a connoisseur.”

His eyes narrowed. He was looking at the bruise on my neck. “And you believe me to be one?”

“You had an affair with Elena de Trevino, a woman with perfect recall, who can reproduce every wrong thing you have ever said to her.”

“One could say every woman possesses such power.”

I shook my head. “No, we only remember things that emotionally wound us. Elena remembered everything.”

Baranovsky shook his head, smiling. “This is a dangerous conversation.”

“You’re right. You should save yourself and gracefully retreat.”

“Who are you?” he asked, his voice holding a note of wonder.

Got him. Now I just had to keep him. “And guest.”

“I’m sorry?”

“That’s how I was announced. And guest, one of many. Nameless, anonymous, here for one night, and then gone.”

“But hardly forgotten.”

I looked back at the garden.

“Do you know why I’m drawn to roses?” he asked.

“You like their thorns?” He couldn’t possibly be this lame.

“No. Each seedling is unique. Two seeds from the same cross, originating from the same two parent plants, will show variation in color, in the shape of petals, in the whorls themselves, even in how long the bloom will last.”

“See? A connoisseur of dangerous women and flowers with thorns.”

“You’re making fun of me,” he said, still smiling.

“Only a little.”

He offered me his arm. “Walk with me.”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re right—this conversation is too dangerous for you.”

“Should I be worried about Rogan?” A mischievous light sparked in his eyes. Gabriel Baranovsky liked walking a tight rope.

“You should be worried about me.” I gave him a sad smile and for once actually meant it. “I’m a monster of a different kind. I think some would prefer Rogan over me.”

“What do you do?”

Wouldn’t you like to know? “Do you miss Elena?”

“Yes.”

Truth. My magic wrapped him, saturating the air but not touching. I could almost sense the hesitation in his words, something he was trying to hide. His will was strong, but unlike Rogan’s steel-hard determination, Baranovsky seemed flexible. Almost pliant. I could try to nudge him toward the right answers. Not enough pressure to compel a direct reply, but just enough to keep him talking more than he would have otherwise. I had never done it before.

If he sensed my magic, he would have me killed. Baranovsky wasn’t a combat Prime, so he would rely on more conventional means of security and he would have a great deal of it, because currently his house was full of people who shot lightning from their fingertips and belched fire. I knew for sure there was one sniper in the window. There were likely to be more in the garden. If I grabbed him with my power and made him tell me what I wanted to know, I’d never make it out of this gala alive.

“We were more than lovers,” he said. “We were friends.”

“Does it bother you that she died?” I kept pushing, trying to stay subtle, but keeping him on the balcony with me.

He leaned back on the rail and let out a sigh. “It’s the way of our universe. A never-ending chain of cannibalism: the stronger prey on the weaker only to become prey in return. The only way to win the game is to not play.”

“Do you know why they killed her?”

“No.”

Lie. Outright, direct, bold lie. He knew.

“Did you know Elena?” he asked.

“No,” I told him. “I met her husband.”

I focused on him so completely my voice sounded like it was coming out of a stranger’s mouth.

“Ah.” He’d sunk a world of meaning into that one sound.

“Elena is dead. Someone has to pay for it,” I told him. My magic slid tighter around him.

His smile fled. “A bit of advice. Don’t go digging in that grave. I don’t know what hold you have on Montgomery and Rogan, but they won’t risk themselves for your sake.”

In my head, somehow, he was glowing, an almost silvery figure with a dark spot to one side of his silhouette, on the left side of his skull. He was hiding something in that spot and I needed to get at it. I was concentrating so hard my head threatened to burst.

“She came to see you before she died.”

“You know too much about this.” He was staring at me carefully.

Gently, delicately I pulled the noose of my magic around him, tethering him to me. I pushed him, steering his answers to the place I wanted him to go.

“Did she leave anything with you?”

The spot turned darker. Yes, yes she had. What could she have given him?

“A memento of your relationship, perhaps?” The vision of the freckled soldier tossing a USB drive out of the window flashed before me. “A USB drive containing documents meant to be released after her death?”

“That would be terribly cliché, wouldn’t it?”

Sweat broke on my hairline. Blood pounded through the veins in my head. “She’s been dead for days and you haven’t gone public. Are you scared, Gabriel?”

“She gave me nothing.”

Lie.

He smiled, a casual easy grin. “And you and I are not on a first-name basis.”

I smiled back. “Did you look at it?”

Nothing.

I needed to nudge him, just a little tiny bit, so he wouldn’t feel it. Just a tiny bit . . .

The dark spot faded slightly in response to my magic.

“As I said, she left me nothing. And if she had, if such a thing existed, I would have the good sense to put it somewhere safe from the outside world. Somewhere it would stay buried.”

“You looked at it.” I smiled wider. Circles swam before my eyes. I could barely see. “Where would it be buried?”

The dark spot faded completely for a moment.

“It’s safe in my bedroom.”

My hold on him slipped.

Baranovsky frowned. “My dear, as I said, if it existed, I would’ve destroyed it long ago.”

He didn’t even realize what he’d told me while under the influence of my magic. If that was accurate, then his memory of this conversation would be completely different from mine.

Baranovsky shrugged, his expression disappointed. “This conversation started out promising but sadly devolved into minutiae. I have no time for banality. Enjoy the rest of the party.”

He turned and walked away.

Get off the balcony before you get shot.

I forced myself to slowly walk into the hallway, resisting the urge to sag against the balcony rail. My chest hurt. My stomach too. Circles swam before my eyes.

Breathe. Breathe, breathe, breathe . . .

I kept walking, without really seeing where or what was happening until I came to a staircase. Rogan caught up with me. I leaned on his arm and he walked me down into the ballroom. He was practically carrying my weight on his arm.

“Easy,” he said under his breath. “One step at a time.”

“I’m going to fall over and embarrass both of us.”

“You won’t fall over. I’ll keep you up.”

I leaned even more onto his rock-solid arm. I had to keep walking.

“Did you overextend?” Rogan asked, his voice controlled.

“A little.”

“Does Baranovsky know?” He was asking if he needed to fight his way out of the gala.

“He didn’t feel it. I was very careful, which is why I’m having trouble walking. She gave him a copy of the USB. He said it’s safe in his bedroom. Exact quote.”

The stairway ended. I tried to turn right toward the door, but Rogan turned left taking me with him.

“Where are we going?”

“To find Augustine.”

“Why?”

“Because Baranovsky maintains a workstation in his quarters. It’s not connected to the Internet and can’t be hacked from the outside. Any document uploaded to it is safe.”

“How do you know that?”

Rogan smiled, a narrow parting of lips. “I bribed his cleaning crew. There are few people more motivated than a parent with a child accepted into an Ivy League college and no way to pay for it.”

“Can you use them to get at his computer?”

“No. It’s too risky. That’s why we have to find Augustine.”

Augustine was an illusion Prime. He could assume any form. “You want Augustine to become Baranovsky, go to the bedroom, and get the data from his computer?”

“Exactly.”

“You’ll get him killed,” I murmured.

“He once walked around CIA headquarters for three hours, passing fingerprint and retina scanners.” Rogan’s mouth quirked. “Until they figure out how to do an instant DNA check, no facility is secure from Augustine. This will be child’s play.”

Ahead, Augustine stepped up from behind a group of people and began making his way to us.

“Connor,” a woman called from the left.

Rogan glanced in the direction of the voice. His face softened and he halted. “Rynda.”

A red-haired woman smiled at Rogan. She was about his age, slender, willowy even, with a heart-shaped face framed by loose waves of copper hair, a flawless complexion, and bright grey eyes, so light they almost glowed silver. I recognized her instantly. Her name was Rynda Charles, Rynda Sherwood now, after she married, and at some point in the distant past Rogan had been supposed to marry her. He’d mentioned it once in a casual conversation and I had looked her up.

“It’s nice to see you,” Rynda said. “Doesn’t seem like your scene.”

“It’s not,” he said. “How are Brian and the kids?”

“Great.” She smiled again. She had a dazzling smile, the kind that lit up her whole face. If you put us side by side in identical dresses and let ten people into the room, they would flock to her, while I would be left standing alone. That was perfectly fine with me. I didn’t want anyone’s attention.

It hit me like a ton of bricks. I wanted Rogan’s attention. I was jealous, and my jealousy was a full-blown monster with needles, fangs, and claws. In my mind, Rogan was mine.

Crap. When did this even happen?

I chanced a quick glance at them. They were talking to each other with the easy familiarity of old friends. They looked good together. Rogan—huge, hard, and wrapped in broody darkness—and Rynda: sweet, light, almost delicate. And here I was, the third wheel, wanting to slap that sweet delicate smile right off Rynda’s face.

“Jessica is in the first grade and Kyle will be starting school next year,” Rynda reported. “Can you believe it? I’ll be all alone.”

“Feeling abandoned already?” Rogan asked.

“Yes. I know it’s completely irrational.”

I glanced in Augustine’s direction. Rescue me. Please, before she notices I exist and I make a fool of myself.

He was moving toward us, but not nearly fast enough for my liking.

“Who is your companion?” Rynda asked.

“Nobody,” I said.

Rogan glanced at me, surprised.

“We’re not together,” Rynda said. “We never were.”

If I could’ve disappeared into thin air, I would’ve. “I’m sorry, I think you misunderstood the nature of our relationship. Mr. Rogan isn’t my date. I work for House Montgomery, and he was simply kind enough to escort me. I think I see Augustine over there. Excuse me.”

I tried to separate myself from Rogan, but he slid his arm around my waist. I wasn’t going anywhere without drawing attention to myself.

Rynda peered into my eyes. “No, stay, please. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” I told her. “I simply didn’t want to intrude.”

“You’re not intruding,” Rogan said.

And the exact thing I didn’t want to happen happened. Both of them were now focused on me.

I glanced back at Augustine, desperately hoping he was close. For some reason he turned almost in mid-step and was walking to the left. In his place an older woman who looked like a carbon copy of Rynda except twenty years older was marching toward us.

“Your mother is coming,” Rogan said.

“I know. Can you hear the ‘Ride of the Valkyries’?” Rynda sighed. “You probably should run.”

“Too late,” Rogan said.

Mrs. Charles stopped next to us and raised her eyebrows at me, then glanced at Rogan as if he was some dirty homeless person come to beg for change as she exited her limo.

“It’s too late for regrets, Connor.”

Rogan’s face had snapped into his Prime expression, cold and tinted with arrogance. “It’s a pleasure to see you too, Olivia.”

“No, the pleasure is all mine. It’s been over a decade. My daughter is radiant. Her husband is successful and both of her children are likely to be Primes. And you’re a recluse, reduced to escorting your former college friend’s employee.” She spared me a look. “Couldn’t you have done something about her neck? I’m sure Augustine would do you this small favor. Or have you managed to ruin that relationship as well?”

“Enough, Mother,” Rynda said.

Rogan regarded Olivia with mild interest, as if she were an odd insect.

“No, I don’t think so.” Olivia’s stare could’ve cut like a knife. “I’m quite enjoying my revenge. Fifteen years of financial planning and genetic forecasts ruined, because he wanted to play soldier.”

She turned back to me. “Let me explain things to you, my dear. If you ever hope to make something of yourself, you will walk away from this man as fast as your feet will carry you. You stand here, in what is probably a borrowed dress, and you think that because your hand is on his arm, you’re Cinderella with a head full of dreams and he’s your wonderful prince.”

“Mother!” Rynda snapped.

“In reality, you’re an adornment, like a scarf that happened to complement his outfit. He doesn’t care about you beyond the fleeting benefit you can provide. And when he is done, he’ll discard you in the back of his closet, where you will linger, forgotten and still hoping, while your dreams wither and die one by one.”

Her magic rose behind her like a nest of invisible snakes slithering to me. Her voice reverberated through my skull, reaching deep into my mind.

“You better run, my dear. Run fast and hard, and never look back. Go on.”

Her magic crashed against me, a powerful hard surge pushing me to leave, and broke against my own. A psionic.

I could’ve stared into her eyes and fired back. Her will was strong, frightening even, but so was mine. And if I won, I’d make her spill every dirty secret she had on this floor. I wanted to so badly.

Instead, I turned around, broke free of Rogan, and hurried off, seemingly in the random direction that would take me to Augustine.

Rogan laughed quietly behind me.

You idiot, I’m pretending to run for my life. Don’t ruin it.

Rynda’s voice was brittle. “Are you happy now?”

“I’ll be happy when he dies alone,” her mother said.

“Always a pleasure, Olivia,” Rogan said, his voice amused.

The crowd ignored me, concentrating on Rogan and Olivia. Nobody openly watched, but most glanced at them, some with interest, others with alarm. Baranovsky viewed the show from his favorite spot on the second floor by the stairs. He was sipping champagne from a flute, his face wearing an amused expression.

Augustine stepped into my way. I pretended to bump into him.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“I’m very publicly fleeing Olivia Charles and her magic,” I whispered to him. “I’m distraught. You should calm me down somewhere out of sight, where nobody will realize that two Baranovskys is one too many.”

“Of course,” Augustine said, putting a protective arm around my shoulders. “Let’s go this way.”

Rogan said something to Olivia, but we were too far to hear.

Augustine led me to the side, aiming for a hallway. “What would this second Baranovsky be doing?”

“Getting a copy of Elena’s USB from the computer in his bedroom.”

“Splendid,” Augustine said. “This will be fun.”

Behind us glass shattered. I whipped around.

Gabriel Baranovsky clutched at his throat. Blood poured from his neck, shocking against his pale skin. He stumbled, poised above the stairs, like some odd bird about to take flight, and plunged down. His shoulder crunched, connecting with the steps. His body flipped, his head bouncing off the red carpet, slid, and came to rest midway down the staircase, his unseeing eyes staring straight at the ceiling.

The two bodyguards pointed guns at the crowd.

Nobody screamed. Nobody rushed to help.

The silence was deafening.

The entire mass of people turned as one and marched toward the exit, streaming past the guards, out of hallways, and down the stairs. Instantly bodies flooded the space around us, all moving in the same direction.

I tried to fight my way to the hallway, but Augustine grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the exit. “No! They’ll lock down the mansion! We’ll be trapped here for hours.”

Damn it.

The security personnel charged into the room, cutting the crowd in a half. Cornelius appeared by my side. “We have to go!”

In the middle of the human current, Rogan turned and began striding against the flow of bodies forcing his way in our direction. He probably couldn’t even see us.

“Rogan!” I called out.

Ahead a tall blond man turned his head. Our stares connected. He smiled.

I had seen that smile before through the window of the Suburban.

“Rogan!” I jerked my phone out of the clutch and held it up, pressing the camera icon to activate burst mode. The phone clicked in staccato, taking a dozen shots of the crowd in rapid succession.

The blond man turned and melted back into the crowd.

Behind us metal groaned as the security gates began clanging into place. “Remain calm!” a clipped voice announced from the speakers.

The crowd double-timed it toward the doors.

Rogan emerged from the mass of bodies.

“The guy from the Suburban!” I told him.

“Where?” he snarled.

I stabbed in the direction of the exit. I couldn’t even see him anymore. Too many people between us and the doors. We’d never catch up to him.

Rogan raised his hand.

The wall to the left of us exploded. Chunks of marble littered the floor, spilling outside into the cold rainy night.

“Exit stage left,” Cornelius murmured next to me.

I kicked off my shoes, hiked up my dress, and scrambled over the rubble out of Baranovsky’s mansion.