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I cast a surreptitious look around the room. Where was Rafe? But there was no help from that quarter—and really, why would there be?
I met Louis’s eyes. He was powerful, yet easy in his skin, with a native Quebecois’s dark good looks.
And I felt…nothing. No spark. No heat. Not even a hint of the belly-deep excitement simply being in the same room as Rafe ignited.
“I’ll consider it,” I said.
He inclined his head. “Thank you.”
We moved onto small talk. The weather and how the vineyards were having a good year. The human economy and how it affected the Syndicate’s interests in Quebec.
With each second, my body wound itself tighter and tighter, until it took all my self-control to keep myself from doing something very un-Zoe-like, like throwing back my head and laughing hysterically.
Rafe washere. A Kral, in the chateau. At the freaking Crimson Ball.
I should report him. It was my duty to report him.
Simply remaining silent made me complicit in whatever he meant to do.
And yet I couldn’t. Not until I knew why he was here.
By the time the song ended, I desperately needed a drink. I thanked Louis for the dance and headed for the crystal fountain spouting arcs of blood-wine—and almost ploughed into Rafe and the thrall plastered to him like a starfish.
The near collision lashed me like a jolt of electricity. I went stick-still, aftershocks reverberating in my chest, my stomach, even my fingers and toes.
Rafe’s mouth curled in his trademark lopsided grin. Without taking his gaze from mine, he set the thrall away from him.
“Some other time,” he told her in an American accent no glamour could camouflage.
“But—” She placed a hand on his arm.
“Later,” he said in a soft voice that somehow sliced like a knife. She jerked her hand away and slunk off.
Rafe’s dark eyes remained trained on me. Daring me to out him. “Bonsoir, Princess.”
Around us, couples danced and talked, but they seemed somehow far away. The music had grown softer, the lights dimmer, like we were alone in the ballroom.
I swallowed, unable to find the words to respond. Half-convinced I was dreaming and if I moved, I’d wake up and everything would be ruined.
Someone jostled me and I came back to myself. I’d taken too long to answer. People were shooting curious looks in our direction.
And no, this wasn’t a dream.
“Good evening.” I inclined my head and continued toward the fountain. A server handed me a glass of wine. I sipped it and waited through another song, smiling and nodding as people wished me happy birthday.
The aftershocks hadn’t settled. Instead, they’d generated new tingles. Excitement mixed with uncertainty mixed with flat-out suspicion.
I tracked Rafe from the corner of my eye as he moved to the edge of the ballroom and slouched against the wall like he had every right to be there.
What did he want?
And did I care? Because he was here, and that was almost enough.
But we couldn’t talk here. When the song ended, I set down the glass and left the ballroom.
Rafe would follow. Of that, I was certain.
Upstairs, I almost stopped in the conservatory. It was my baby, my happy place, an indoor garden with a fake sun to mimic the one I could only observe from behind smoked glass. The place where I felt most able to meet Rafe on equal ground.
