Page 6 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

His eyes return to Patrick.

For a second, I wonder if Dmitri already knows something I don’t. Patrick has been nervous all night, but this is Patrick. Nervous is his natural habitat when important men are near his bank accounts.

Dmitri’s phone lights again. This time, he turns it fully face down.

I don’t know why that tiny choice gets me. Maybe because everyone in Patrick’s world answers when power calls. Maybe because Dmitri looks like power himself, and he’s choosing to ignore whoever wants him for one more minute standing near me.

“You’re going to get in trouble,” I say.

He shrugs his broad shoulders. “I’ve been in trouble before.”

“Recently?”

“Always.”

I smile before I can stop myself. “At least you’re honest.”

His smile turns up a notch, making the corners of his blue eyes crinkle. “I’m honest when it matters.”

“Who decides when it matters?”

His gaze holds mine. “Tonight? You will.”

Oh, that’s unfair. That’s the kind of sentence that should require a permit.

Someone calls his name at this precise second, and he excuses himself. Not a moment later, Patrick is next to me, wearing the exact smile he uses when he wants witnesses to think he’s harmless. “Cara. You look pale.”

I blink at him, then press two fingers to my temple. The lie that comes is easy and useful. “Headache.”

Patrick takes my elbow. “I’ll have someone drive you.”

“I can get myself home.”

“You’re not taking a cab.”

“I’m twenty-five, Patrick. I can get home without needing a bodyguard.”

“Cara.”

“I’ll call my own car. I’ll text when I’m home. Happy?”

He studies me, looking for the trick. I make my face tired and annoyed, which isn’t hard because Patrick brings out both naturally.

“Fine,” he says at last. “Go home. And don’t wander.”

“Wouldn’t dream of developing free will at your party.”

Patrick doesn’t laugh. He looks past me once, toward Dmitri, then back at me. “Stay away from him.”

“Going home with a headache, remember?”

I head toward the guest bath, wait until Patrick turns back to his guests, then cut through the service corridor. His cameras are expensive, but I know the blind spots. I made half of them useful by accident when I fixed his system last spring.

The service elevator takes me to the garage. Dmitri is beside a black car, jacket buttoned, phone in hand. “You’re late,” he says.

“I had to fake a migraine.”

His phone lights before he can answer. He looks at the screen, and his face changes. The hard edges ease.