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“Ahh!”
I let out a shriek of surprise as the service door suddenly swings outward, almost knocking me off my feet. I manage to grab Reeve at the last minute, and keep from sprawling flat on my ass.
An unsuspecting cater waiter emerges with a trash bag. He pauses, looking at us in confusion. “What are you…?” he starts to ask, frowning.
I bounce up. “Hi,” I blurt, my mind racing desperately for an excuse. Then his eyes zoom in on my cleavage, and I realize: excuses are for regular old Ivy Fortune.
Lola doesn’t need them. Not when she has other, more important assets.
I lean closer, stick out my chest, and fix the boy with a sultry gaze. “Could you be a doll, and let us past?” I murmur, trailing one hand over his lapels. “Whoops,” I add, tugging at his bowtie. “You’re all askew. There, perfect,” I add, adjusting it for him.
He blinks, dazzled.
“I … uh … sure.”
He stands aside, and holds the door for me.
“Thanks, darling,” I give him a wink. “Happy Halloween.”
I tug Reeve inside, and walk fast down a dim delivery hallway, my heart pounding. “Quick, before he regains his senses!”
“I don’t know that I’ve regained mine,” Reeve mutters, and I laugh, adrenaline fizzing like champagne in my veins.
This super spy business isfun.
Inside, we navigate past the kitchens, and slip unnoticed into the ballroom. Reeve grabs a couple of discarded masks from a table, and we pull them on: a Zorro-style bandana for him, and an elaborate feathered affair for me.
Party crashing: accomplished.
Reeve looks around, and gives a low whistle. “Somebody’s splashing out tonight.”
Lavish doesn’t begin to cover it. Hundreds of elegant guests dance and mingle under the grand mirrored ceilings. There’s a champagne fountain flowing, a jazz band playing raucous tunes, and a dessert table the size of small yacht at the other end of the room.
A waiter passes us, and I grab a couple of delicious-looking hors d'oeuvres. “Thank you kindly, Captain and Mrs. Bucky Von Riesling.”
“Bucky who now?” Reeve procures us a couple of glasses of champagne.
I nod to the elaborate welcome sign, which looks to be carved out of ice and adorned with real pearls. “All proceeds will support protecting the habitat of the Brown-headed Nuthatch.”
Reeve snorts his champagne in a spray of laughter. “Say that five times fast.”
We move deeper into the crowd, drawing a few looks for our costumes, but mostly, everyone seems too drunk to care. There’s a festive spirit in the air, buzzing with laughter and music, and I’m just congratulating myself on my persistence-slash-borderline-illegal activities getting us in, when Reeve puts down his drink, holds out his hand, and flashes me an irresistible smile.
“How about a dance?”
I pause. I’ve never been particularly graceful on my feet, but clearly, the gods of Halloween are still shining on me, because the band suddenly switches to a slow, sultry Sinatra song.
“Witchcraft,” I say, smiling as I recognize the melody. I take Reeve’s hand, and he leads me onto the polished dance floor. “My grandpa was a Sinatra nut,” I confide. “He had all his records, he played them all the time when I was a kid. He was pretty good on the piano, too.”
Reeve pulls me smoothly into his arms, and I’m suddenly pressed up against him, close enough to breathe in the woodsy, natural scent of his cologne as he rests one hand softly on my back, and folds the other around my palm.
Hello.
I inhale in a rush as we begin to sway; nerve endings I didn’t remember I had suddenly sparking to life at the contact.
“Were you close?”
It takes me a second to realize he’s asking about my grandfather. I nod, trying to pull it together. “We had a lot in common,” I reply, carefully relaxing against him. “He would joke that his genes skipped a generation, straight to me.”
