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“Ugh, fine. Brunch, then.” Rocky had a bit of a lead foot, so I kept a tight grip on the ‘oh shit’ bar as she rolled through a drive thru and placed her order. “You want anything?”
I frowned at her. “That’s not for me, too?” My lips twitched and when her mouth turned down into a frown, I cracked. “No, I’m good. Too nervous to eat.”
“You’ll be fine,” she said, handing me the bag of food while she took us back to her place. Lasso was still sleeping when we arrived, and we snuck into one of the guest rooms.
“I’ve got everything all set,” she assured me. “I went to the hotel boutiques and got three different outfits, all perfect for a fair skinned…blonde?”
“Yes, going with blonde today.”
Rocky made quick work of two breakfast burgers, taking a break to look up at me in the second outfit, an emerald green shirt dress. “That looks great…but maybe a little too great. You look kind of hot.”
“Okay.” I picked up the final outfit, a hot pink dress with a matching jacket. “This style will probably be worn by half the women in attendance, with some variety.” I stood with my hands on my hips as Rocky looked me over.
“You still look hot, but I think you’re right. At least fifty women will be wearing something like this. Just, maybe hunch your shoulders a little.”
“I look ridiculous but once you do my makeup I’ll totally look the part.” I hoped. I bought a legitimate ticket under an alias just so I could be there when that motherfucker saw everything he worked for fall apart. Not in front of the world, because despite what Jag thought of me, I would never do that to teenage girls. Not even ones who went after married dudes. No, this would be a controlled explosion. One that would only detonate in front of the people who mattered most to him. Who held his career in their hands and wouldn’t hesitate to crush him before he brought the whole party down.
Rocky painted some pink gloss on my lips as a nice finishing touch. “Are you sure you wanna do this?”
I nodded. “I don’t want to—I have to. Thank you so much for this, Rocky. And remember, ninety minutes and then you can tell Jag.” I pulled her in for a hug and rubbed her belly for good luck before leaving.
I walked a few blocks and grabbed a taxi to the resort. There was still plenty of time before the fundraiser started and I didn’t want to draw any attention to myself. I needed to blend in.
After exchanging a few hundred bucks in chips, I hit the blackjack table, winning and losing at equal parts in an effort not to draw attention. I hit a few more tables and some slot machines before it was time for me to follow the herd to the ballroom for the high-priced, fund-raiser lunch.
Table nine was where they placed Amanda Schwartz, so I made my way there and looked around at my tablemates. I guessed mid-level political types happy to rub elbows with the party elite. I took a seat and sipped water from a crystal glass, smiling politely at the silver hairs and good ol’ boys hoping to get ahead this weekend.
The chicken was dry, and the green beans were undercooked, but the one glass of champagne I had was nice and cold. Just how I liked it. And by the time Blaise hit the stage, my hands trembled. Tingled, even. It started up my leg as he began his bullshit spiel about his family and his plans for the people of Florida and his party.
“We could all learn something from the great Americans who traveled west and turned this great state into what it is today!” The applause was thunderous, the crowd eating his bullshit faster than he could shovel it across the stage.
I bit the inside of my jaw to keep from groaning as he brought his pretty, underweight blue blood wife on stage along with his three adorable children. Then his chief of staff and his junior press secretary, smiling and glad-handing them, before he brought Sabrina, his girlfriend, on stage.
And that was my cue.
Sabrina walked across the stage in her cotton candy pink Chanel suit, and that’s when the twenty foot screen behind them faded from Blaise’s good looks and charming smile to the first photo. Blaise with Missy Keane, the family’s sixteen-year-old babysitter canoodling in the back seat of his silver Aston Martin. Next was Shannon Bell, the fifteen-year-old chef’s apprentice in her chef coat and a denim micro mini, Blaise’s hand between her legs and his lips on her throat.
Photo after photo went up of Blaise’s different underaged indiscretions but I saved the best part for last. Indigo Prescott’s face came up first, her blonde hair cut in damn near the same style as his wife’s and her smiling face young and vibrant. Next was the photo of Tricia Patterson, looking way too young and grubby in a halter top and denim cutoffs and beside her the same image on a Missing Person
poster.
The gasps from the crowd were deafening and Blaise was still oblivious. It was fucking glorious. The outraged cries grew louder and the disappointed groans from the men were probably because he’d gotten caught. Or worse, gotten caught on camera. I stood with a satisfied smile as several journalists scribbled furiously on notepads and iPads while a few discreetly captured the images playing on a loop on the screen.
I slipped out of the ballroom feeling just a smidge lighter as I dodged gamblers and revelers on my way out of this oxygen-deprived place. My eyes were peeled for trouble, because no doubt Blaise had decided to use his muscle as a precaution. I hadn’t spotted them yet, but I could feel eyes on me.
Fucking paranoia was a bitch. “Excuse me, are you Genevieve Montgomery?” The guy could fill up a barn door nicely.
“No.” I took a step around him and kept walking.
“I think you are,” he said as he walked beside me, reeking of government work.
“I don’t give a fuck what you think.”
He took two steps forward and stood in front of me and I had no problem going around him. “Agent Ryan, FBI Las Vegas office.”
“Congratulations.” The guy was a bit on edge for a Fed and immediately I was on alert, sliding my hand into my clutch purse.
“I’d like to talk to you for a minute.”
