Page 127 of Untamed Sinner

I return my attention to the room.

Two entrances.

Three exits available to guests. One service corridor behind the temporary wall near the bar. Elevators on the north side. Stairs opposite.

Security cameras cover every public approach except the west hallway. That has a blind spot. It’s a small one, but it’s still there.

While I’m studying it, a waiter with a stack of toilet paper push through a service door at the end. The door swings closed behind him.

Almost. The latch catches on a folded piece of cardboard wedged into the strike plate.

I pause with my glass halfway to my lips. Interesting. Security is set up by human beings, and human beings are exceptionally talented at being mediocre. I should know. I've made a very good living exploiting that particular character flaw.

Casually, I look around. Most men are wearing dark suits or tuxes, but bodyguards are easy to pick out, mostly because they look like they have sticks up their asses. I clock two at the edge of one of the galleries, not because they look uncomfortable but because there’s no way they haven’t noticed the door wedged open.

The first one sees it and turns his back. The second one sees it, checks his phone, then the west hallway, and then his watch.

Huh.

I meander their way and into the gallery, stopping in front of the painting closest to them. It’s one my older brother would hang in his bedroom, of a naked woman holding a knife behind her back.

He has a type.

I sip my champagne, pretending I’m into the painting. It gives me cover to watch the two bodyguards as well as search the crowd for a woman with red hair.

My phone vibrates again.

Mandy. Persistent woman. I silence it and put it back in my coat pocket. I’m scanning the room again when both bodyguards straighten. I’m not surprised when the crowd parts and I see her.

Clara Whitlock.

I go still.

Fuck.

The picture Mandy sent me didn’t do her justice. In it, she looked young enough that I dismissed her immediately. Too young for me.

Seeing her in person, I have no idea how I made that mistake. There is nothing girlish about this Clara Whitlock. Red hair swept up off her neck. An understated black gown with a suite of emeralds that are anything but understated. The slit that bares a long length of creamy thigh.

She's smiling at an elderly man beside her. Not the polite society smile everyone else in the room has perfected—a real one.

Her head tips back when she laughs.

I forget what I'm doing for approximately two seconds.

Shaking my head, I focus on the two additional bodyguards who enter behind her. One scans the room. The other checks the guy posted at the door, who seems more interested in the time than the woman he’s supposed to protect.

Then he checks his own watch.

Interesting.

Three men. Same detail. Two of them watching the clock instead of the room.

Taking another sip of champagne, I watch Clara stop to speak to a woman. I glance up as Watch Guy turns, and our eyes meet.

His expression doesn't change, but I see something there I didn’t expect. Recognition.

He knows who I am.