“Now, that is Yosef Soyinka,” Grace said, pausing to tip her glass toward a medium height man, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and had a kind smile as he talked to two women dressed in severe business suits. “He is the owner of several vessels and is the primary shipper of choice for Wangari’s family to transport their flowers to Europe. He’s worth high eight figures, buys art like candy, and definitely is worth an introduction.”
“Go ahead. I think I’ll sit this one out,” Mena said, ignoring Grace’s protests as she turned to walk toward the ice sculptures adorning tables along the ballroom wall. Her head was spinning from the whirlwind of introductions Grace had subjected her to throughout the evening. Mena was barely able to keep up as she kept her eyes trained on the door, waiting for Wangari’s arrival. The night before, she’d bubbled with excitement as she told Julian about being invited to this prestigious dinner only to find out he couldn’t be her plus one.
“I need a drink,” Mena mumbled under her breath. If Omar were here, he’d have a haughty quip and a glass of Hennessy to help shake her out of this funk.
“Perhaps this will do?”
Mena glanced to her left and saw the outstretched, tuxedo-clad arm of … Norman Gale? Could it really be him? The shining star of conservation that had burned out and faded into oblivion in recent years. What was he doing in Kenya?
“I know you,” Mena said, taking the flute of champagne from his hand.
“Do you?” Norman asked, raising an eyebrow as a hint of a smile played on his lips. He was taller and thinner than she remembered. The expensive tuxedo gifted him with a stateliness that suited him well.
“I was in grad school when you gave a riveting lecture on the future of conservation in the art world,” Mena said.
“Lasers.” Norman nodded.
“I changed my studies the next week, going all-in on laser conservation,” Mena said.
“Seems like that worked out well for you, Miss …?” Norman asked.
“Mena Nix, the current recipient of the Fellowship at the Tribal Museum. I’m a guest of Wangari Irungu,” Mena explained.
He extended his hand, which Mena shook.
“Norman Gale. And congratulations to you, Mena. It appears we have two things in common. I work for Ms. Irungu as well,” Norman said.
“We have a dubious third thing in common, which maybe I shouldn’t even mention,” Mena said, rolling her eyes.
“Now, my interest is piqued. Tell me,” Norman said, taking a sip of his champagne. His eyes glimmered with excitement as he waited for her to speak.
Mena took a deep breath. She wasn’t sure she should have brought the subject up, but it was too late to backtrack now.
“After you left the Genesis Gallery in St. Basil, I was hired to take over the conservation department,” Mena said, scrunching up her nose.
“Genesis Gallery?” Norman asked.
Lowering the champagne flute from his lips, he absently reached for the table. The crystal tipped in his hand, almost spilling the contents across the tablecloth, before he rested it on the surface.
“We both had the displeasure of working for Priscilla Dumay,” Mena said.
“Priscilla Dumay?” Norman frowned.
“Yes, you know, the diabolical gallery owner turned designer baby-selling criminal,” Mena said, with a nervous laugh.
The color drained from Norman’s face as he looked away. Turning back toward Mena, his lips pressed into a tight line, Norman nodded, then said, “If you’ll excuse me.”
Before Mena could process the change, Norman had darted away from her into the crowd to greet other guests.
Why the hell had she brought up the Genesis Gallery?
She remembered Priscilla clearly saying that Norman had left the gallery on terms that were not amicable. Obviously, he didn’t want to talk about Priscilla Dumay, and after what the woman put Mena through, neither did she.
Mena groaned, lamenting her social and professional faux pas. She tipped the crystal flute to her lips, then paused, arrested by a tingling dancing across her bare skin.
The air in the room had shifted, charged with a presence she would know anywhere. Turning, Mena saw Wangari entering with her husband, Okeyo Lagat, the Director of Public Prosecution. Two serious-looking bodyguards dressed in dark navy suits and sunglasses cleared the way through the crowd as Wangari and her husband proceeded to the center table.
Mena couldn’t take her eyes off the lead bodyguard. Commanding and confident, he scanned the room, assessing the exits and the guests for threats.
