She opened her eyes. “Yeah. I am actually reliable. Those are the magic ones.”
“I never said you were unreliable,” I muttered as I slipped the original invitations, the ones spelled with some kind of magical watermark, into my bag. Then I picked up the forgeries and reached over to smack Ezra’s arm. “Wakey, wakey.”
He jerked awake, throwing his hat from his head and running a hand over his face. “Wha?”
“Time to put these back, New Guy.”
“What?” He blinked blearily at me.
“You have to put the tickets back, or else they’ll know they were stolen and they’ll tighten security.”
I handed him the forgeries and waited to see if he noticed anything off about them, the missing magic Poppy couldn’t replicate. But he nodded, used them to salute us, and then slipped out the same way he came in.
And so the forgeries went back to Rob Jurski, Christine Horridge-Shale, Phillip Dodd, Laurie Love, and Phil Collier. None of whomare recognizable enough that the attendants would know what they look like.
At least, that’s the hope.
I’ve gone through three rounds of deep breaths before the attendant returns the tickets to Rook.
“Welcome, Mr.and Mrs.Lapicki.” He moves aside to let us pass.
I have to give Rook a tiny nudge to get him to move forward, through the arch, and into the formal gardens of the Getty Villa.
The courtyard, called the Outer Peristyle, is surrounded by a colonnade and filled with Mediterranean plants, a long rectangular reflecting pool, and re-creations of classical statues and sculptures. Everything about this place—the fountains, the marble walkways, the tile mosaics—are meant to evoke an ancient Roman garden.
It’s still early, but the peristyle is already filled with people in extravagant dress. There’s a small orchestra on an overlooking balcony playing slow songs I don’t know but that others are dancing to. We pass a refreshments table, and Rook picks up a glass of champagne and hands it to me before choosing one for himself. He tilts it toward me, and I clink my glass to his, counting the exits, which so far is one: the way we came in.
“You know, the French believe it’s bad luck not to make eye contact when you toast,” Rook says.
I bring my eyes back to his and lift a brow. “Oh? What are we toasting?”
I’m trying not to get distracted by the intensity in his expression, trying to be aware of what is happening in my peripheral vision. I can flirt with the mark and stay sharp on the job. Both things are possible. Yup.
“To raising spirits,” Rook says with a smirk.
I touch my glass to his. “To slipping past defenses.”
We don’t break eye contact as we bring the glasses to our lips, so I’m startled when a voice chimes up beside me.
“Isn’t it marvelous?”
I manage not to spit out my champagne as I turn to find a woman at my side, young with long blond hair and a dress so tight I’m surprised she can breathe.
I swallow, the champagne bubbles tickling my throat. “Sorry?”
“I’ve tried to imagine champagne for ages,” she says, “but I just can’t get it right. This is my first glass in a hundred years.”
“Seventy,” I say, gesturing to myself, laying on the accent thick. “I think the last glass I had was at Frank’s fortieth.”
“Frank?” she asks.
“Sinatra.”
She smiles uncomfortably. “I’m afraid I don’t know him, dear. Perhaps after my time.” She holds out a hand. “Mary Eccles.”
“Sofia Lapicki,” I say, taking her hand. “And this is my husband, Tad Lapicki.”
“A pleasure,” she says. “And might I say, what a remarkable dress you’re wearing!”
