“Thank you.”
I slap the name tag she offers me onto my jacket and glide past the desk.
Just before I reach the ballroom doors, I smirk at Nika.
You want the locket? Come and get it.
Chapter 5
Nika
Too many bodies press into a space designed to make excess feel casually elegant. Lines of chandeliers hang overhead like crystallized stars. Christmas decorations crowd every surface in an aggressive, chaotic form of holiday cheer.
With my chin up and shoulders back, I try to ooze confidence as I march past the registration desk and through the double doors that lead to the ballroom. Though my black dress stands out in the sea of reds and deep greens, no one questions me. I chose this outfit for function, not fashion. Black to hide stains, and a hidden pocket at the waist. High slit because I might need to run or kick. A smooth fit so nothing can snag or grab the fabric.
The gown also serves as camouflage.
Despite the austere shade, I look like I belong, like I blend in with these people with their champagne flutes and auction paddles.
The crowd ebbs and flows like a tide. Clusters of conversation and bursts of practiced laughter float over their heads. In the corner, a string quartet plays a classical, forgettable tune. Waitstaff in crisp white vests circulate with trays.
As I glide through the crowd, I catalogue escape routes.
Two main doors stand behind me, and I spy emergency exits on the east and west walls. A row of windows sits along the north wall, facing the street. Plenty of options for egress.
Finally, I spot Max again.
He’s across the room, maybe forty feet away, “browsing” one of the auction tables.
The suit flatters his build, stretching taut across his shoulders without restricting his mobility. Tapering at the waist, the fabric ends halfway down his tight ass. His combed, dark hair still glistens from the rain.
His shirt collar and clip-on tie hide the cut on his neck, but my mark swells along the edge of his cheek.
His gaze locks with mine.
Electricity zips between us. The awareness sparks in my chest and slithers to my stomach before traveling lower. It’s as if we share the same frequency, which allows his signal to cut through all the noise.
Around us, people chatter, imbibe, and feast. Musicians play. Santa and his elves enter the ballroom, laughing and waving. Caterers wade through the masses. No one knows that two predators lurk in their midst.
Thus, the waltz begins.
I prowl through the crowd, weaving between discussions and bodies. Taking a circumspect route, I stop twice and pretend to admire an auction item. The whole time, my focus stays fixed on him.
He hasn’t budged from play-reading one of the description cards on another table.
When the distance between us narrows to ten feet, he catches my eye and winks.
The bastard knew I was stalking him all along.
Then his gaze dips lower.
Same as before, he tracks the line of my throat, my breasts, and then ventures farther down, following the slit in my skirt all the way to the red heels. It comes back up, just as slowly, settling on my face again.
That kind of blatant appraisal, that male gaze stripping me bare in a public space, should piss me off. How dare he undress me with his eyes?
Though I’m angry, another part of me responds differently.
Warmth floods my skin as I admire the tailored suit coat, narrow waist, tight ass, and the muscles accentuated by those dark pants. My pulse kicks up, tightening my belly.
