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From the backseat of their hired Mercedes, Sam watched the entrance where the luxury sedans dropped off the formally dressed guests, then departed. Slipping into a tightly controlled and heavily guarded event unnoticed wasn’t going to be easy. Liveried personnel stood at the doors checking invitations before allowing entry.
“Ideas?” he asked Remi.
“Waltz in like we own the place?”
“Don’t think that’s going to work. What we need is some sort of distraction. A bottleneck of some sort. Something creative . . .”
“The royals are always good for a distraction.”
“You happen to know any who are coming?” Sam asked as the Maybach pulled to a stop.
“It’s called A Royal Night at the Museum. Surely one or two will be attending.”
“Or it’s just a theme, which explains the liveried servants.”
A footman approached and opened their car door. A moment later, Sam and Remi stood waiting behind a number of other people near the entrance.
Sam noticed a few admiring glances turned their way, undoubtedly directed at Remi, who wore a sleeveless black silk gown and a diamond pendant at the neckline that drew the eye to the hint of cleavage. Some designer. Chanel? Armani? The moment she rattled the name off, he put it from his mind, not that it mattered. What did was that his wife looked amazing.
Remi nodded at the footmen. “They’re announcing names at the door.”
“That presents a slight problem. At least if we want to stay low-key.”
“So what’s the plan?”
“I’m working on it.” The truth was, he hadn’t yet come up with anything. Within seconds, they’d be at the door, only two more couples ahead of them.
He glanced around him, hoping something would come up, as he heard the footman announce, “Sir John Kimball, Lady Kimball.”
“Sam,” Remi whispered, a smile pasted on her face. “We’re almost up.”
“Isn’t that Charles Avery’s Rolls-Royce?” he asked. “Or, rather, his hired henchman Fisk?”
She looked back. “It would seem so.”
“What are the chances he or his driver has a gun in the car?”
“About a hundred percent.”
Sam leaned toward her, whispering, “And what would happen if a beautiful, frightened woman were to make that fact known?”
“You know any?”
“Beautiful? Yes. Frightened? Never.”
“One way to find out . . .”
As they reached the doors, the so-called footman asked for their invitation. Remi placed her hand on her throat, her beautiful green eyes turning all doe-like, as she said, “Thank heavens.” She moved in closer, lowering her voice. “I’ve never been more frightened in my life. There’s a man with a gun.”
The footman, his shoulders tensing, scanned the crowd behind her. “Where?”
“Standing near that Rolls-Royce. He’s tall, dark hair, graying at the temples. You see the way he keeps looking at us? It’s like he knows.”
“Wait right here, please.”
He left them to go talk to a couple of men in dark business suits standing about ten feet to their right, undoubtedly part of the security detail.
Sam used that moment to take Remi’s arm and lead her in. They were stopped by another footman, who asked for their invitation. “I gave it to that other gentleman,” Sam said, pointing to one of the three men who were now walking toward Fisk and the Rolls.
