“Oh, good. Nothing a woman loves more than being coveted like an object.” I glare at my father and silently vow to hide the painkillers in the morning from that tipsy turncoat.
“I’ll let you two get to know each other.” My traitorous father bows out of the conversation. Another portly man joins him into an adjoining side room, which is promptly guarded by a COfailing badly at not looking like a hired gun despite being in a tuxedo.
Clandestine Officers are not officially Force, our regional police, but rather mercenaries who are only a step above street thugs due to their organization. They’re meant to blend in and provide “clandestine” protection without looking gauche, but their stupid cropped haircuts and rigid demeanor give them away to anyone with half a brain. Which, in fairness, eliminates a lot of my father’s guests tonight.
“So, your father tells me you’re yearning to take over.” JJ takes a long, loud sip of champagne. “I like a lady with ambition, Luce.”
“Luciana,” I reply sharply. “And yearning is a strong word.” A champagne flute is offered to me and I down it in one fell swoop. I’m going to need more than this to get through the night, so I snag another before the server departs.
JJ giggles and runs his fingers through his oiled hair. “Well, what do you like to do? Personally, I’m into more leisurely activities.”
Oh, knock me over with a feather.“You don’t say?”
“Most definitely,” he says, and gestures at the servants. “Leave the hard work to the grunts, right? Myself, I keep my hard work in the bedroom.” How is this man not taken? Charm oozes from him.
“How charming.”
It’s meant to be sarcastic, but he smiles and remains blissfully unaware of my intent. He’s handsy as he talks at me about his father’s lucrative fishing business. This is not the first suitor to overstep his boundaries with me and likely won’t be the last. Still, my etiquette classes are coming in handy once again tonight, and I don’t recall “punching a grabby idiot” being on the list of appropriate behavior.
“Do you dance?”
“Oh, no, not really.” A blatant lie. Earlier tonight I danced in the arms of Papa’s personal copter pilot, Derek. He’s handsome and funny, as well as an excellent dancer. Of course, Derek is Underclass and Papa would have him fired if he knew I let him take me dancing. And Papa would kill him if he knew the other ways I let him take me.
“Very well. Then what do you say we take this upstairs for a glass of scotch and quieter conversation?” The glint in his squinty eyes is clear—his daddy promised me as his prize for the night. A self-inflicted decapitation with a rusty butter knife sounds more appealing.
As I deliberate how best to maim myself with a champagne flute, a throaty voice tingles in my ear from behind. “Hello again.”
When I turn, I’m staring at the top of the head of the mysterious blonde from earlier. Running my tongue across my lips, I cock an eyebrow and peer down at her. “Hello yourself.”
With a formal bend at the waist, she takes my hand in hers. “I’m sorry to bother you, Miss Piccolo, but I’d love to have this dance.” Deceptively kind eyes harden as she sizes up Jimmy Junior. “You don’t mind, do you?” It doesn’t matter if he minds, because she forcibly detaches his grip on my other arm, shoving my champagne flute into his meaty hand. “May I?”
I’ve barely finished nodding when she whisks me away to the dance floor. After we’re out of range of the lovely Jimmy Junior, I heave a sigh of relief. “You’re my hero.”
We join others on the dance floor and fall into place among those whirling around to the small orchestra’s arrangement. Our heels hit the waxed hardwood in perfect time to the music, weaving through the ballroom with ease. I enjoy a good waltz as much as the next heiress, but it’s poor form to dance with a stranger. Though, I have to admit, the impertinence of dancing with the region leader’s daughter without introducing herselffeels apropos for the same woman who worked Chief Jones into a rage.
“So,” I begin, “does my savior have a name?”
“Taylor.”
Traditionally, it’s customary to announce your first and last name, as well as your vocation, to someone of my stature. Her disregard for this pageantry is a little thrilling. Something about her makes me uneasy in the same way heights do, like staring off the edge of the Piccolo Building from the top deck.
“Taylor what?” I ask. Her eyes narrow behind her mask, as if I’m the suspicious one for interrogating a guest at my own ball. “Everyone deals in last names,Taylor, it’s better than money.”
If it turns out she’s some lowly factory foreman’s daughter trying to get in with Papa, I’ll be in trouble. Papa hates social climbers and I’ve been instructed to detect them, mask or not.
“I do not care about money.” Her voice is quiet but pierces through the din of dancers and orchestral music, straight inside me. “It is only a dance, Miss Piccolo.”
“I prefer Lucy.” This puts a brief but enchanting smile onto her face, quickly forgotten as we spin in our structured waltz. “So, you don’t care for money and you engage in inflammatory conversations with powerful men. I’m not so sure we should be seen together.”
“Would you prefer I return you to Mr. James Danzino, Junior?”
The mere insinuation I’d like to spend time with that gargantuan ass is highly offensive. “If JJ is the other choice, I’d prefer you threw me off the roof.”
“Understandable. He attempted to make my acquaintance earlier this evening. I was not as kind as you in my rebuff.”
Well, this woman isn’t interested in making friends, is she? I like her already. “I suppose I am lucky to have come upon you, then.”
She shakes her head. “There is no such thing as luck. Only opportunities taken or missed.”
