Red and white and silver and black. Everywhere. And what didn’t sparkle flowed or flickered or smelled of roses and chocolate. The Waldorf’s balcony boxes were draped with swags of fully opened thick red roses with heads larger than a man’s fist. Silver confetti glittered on the red carpets and traveling minstrels dressed in red-and-white harlequin costumes serenaded the attendees.
The table settings were extravagant mixes of roses, red candles and luscious sweeps of white chiffon, all grouped about white-and-silver carousel horses. It had been Lucy’s idea to do a Carousel of Love theme. Everything sparkled as if a fairy had swooped in and dropped the motherlode.
Indulging in a chocolate-covered cherry so sweet and juicy it was the perfect kind of sin, Becca turned, licking her fingers, to see Lucy approaching.
Spills of glossy garnet curls flowed to Lucy’s elbows and slithered across her deep violet gown. A heart-shaped neckline accentuated her buxom figure. Her signature white lily was tucked above her right ear. She absolutely beamed. “It’s perfect, isn’t it, Becca?”
“Flawless,” she agreed with a sardonic smirk. Flawless as a ten-carat diamond? Or flawless as an MI-6 agent’s lies?
And who was she to throw stones?
Becca wrapped the long silver cord of her satin purse about two fingers. “When do the children perform?”
“Early. Seven-thirty is what I’ve planned. They’ll promenade through the ballroom, instruments in hand, wearing perfect little black-and-white suits with red cummerbunds. They are so cute!”
“What are they playing?”
“The Midsummer Serenade.”
Becca’s jaw dropped, but she could not form words. The purse cord drew tight about her fingers. “My father’s piece?”
“The one he composed for you.” Lucy gave a sheepish grin, then paused. “Don’t be angry, Becca, it’s such a beautiful piece.”
“I’m not angry. Not at all. It’s a very difficult piece. What about the cadenza in the third movement?”
“Well…”
Oh no. She couldn’t possibly expect…?
Lucy had a way of saying things without uttering a word. Such hope and expectation glittered in her deep green eyes.
“There’s an extra violin in the office. Please, Becca?”
Becca raised an arm to touch a suddenly aching temple. Not good. Not this evening. Not…children.
“Too much danger,” she whispered, turning away from Lucy.
“Oh, Becca, it would mean so much to everyone.”
Becca put up her palm. Drawing in long breaths, she altered her focus. She was trained to anticipate the unexpected. Protecting children from a maniac SVR agent? Hell.
“It’s still an hour and a half until showtime,” Lucy chirped. “Think about it. I’ll touch base with you in a bit. Oh, baby.” She gripped Becca’s wrist. “Did I ever mention how much I appreciate the Italian designers?”
At Lucy’s appreciative growl, Becca turned to discover what had piqued her assistant’s base instincts.
A vision of chalk-striped Zegna approached, striding across the black-and-white-checked ballroom floor. Perfect Italian tailoring, from the fitted sleeves, to the short jacket, to the slender trousers. A micro-dotted red tie shimmered beneath a swanky grin.
“Who is that?” Lucy playfully nudged Becca in the side, but Becca ignored her. “Is he yours? Where did you get him?”
“Mine? Er, Agen— Aston—er, London. Just a…friend from London.”
“Nice.”
“I’ll talk to you later, Lucy. I’d better go say hi.”
“Say hi from me, too. Ask if he’s got a brother!”
Dane stood, one hand cocked at his hip. The tailored shirt knew how to work the ripped pecs. A heart-shaped wreath of bloodred roses on the wall behind him framed him like some kind of treat waiting for a taste. And he simply stood there, waiting for her to come to him.
Cheeky swank.
But she had no difficulty crossing the room.
Becca found herself turning into Dane’s proffered embrace. She spun, and he caressed her from behind as if in a Fred and Ginger dance move.
He leaned in and whispered, “That is a posh frock, love. I adore fur. It’s soft and touchable. Just like you. But where’s the rock? Are you hiding it in the depths of your soft, buxom—”
“Agent Dane,” she warned.
“Back to formalities, I see. Very well, then. Ms. Whitmore.”
“So you like the dress?” She smoothed a hand over the fur, hoping to cause interference on Alan’s end.
“That’s what I said. But I like you better. Bruises and all.”
“Can you see the bruises? I thought I’d gotten them all covered.”
“You did. You’re a bit uptight tonight, love.”
“I am surveilling.”
“I know, but there’s a dozen CIA agents wandering the room, doing the same thing. Some acting none too subtle. See Slim over there?”
Becca spied the tall, lanky waiter decked out in tails and white gloves. He pressed a finger to his ear and spoke. With no one in the immediate vicinity.
“Don’t you Americans train your spies better?”
“He could be one of the wait-staff. They all wear headphones to communicate with the kitchen.”
“Yes. But shouldn’t you have known that? Haven’t you cased the place? And now that I think of it, how are you here? Did you present an invitation?”
Oh, cold one.
“As much as you wish to keep me from the party, I persevere.”
Dane swept her into a waltz pose, one arm stretched out, her hand firmly held in his, then pulled her against his solid, muscular body. “You know I don’t follow the rules.”
“Oh, I know. I’ve also figured out you’ve been after Dimitri from the get-go.”
Dane’s breath brushed across her cheek. He hadn’t an answer for that one.
“Sergei the Dog,” she said. “An SVR snitch. He’s why you jumped on the case. I would have figured it out a lot sooner, but you were perfectly fine with letting me believe Dimitri could be Russian Mafia.”
“As I explained, MI-5 was out of its jurisdiction, love—”
“That doesn’t explain either suicide. If the men feared the Mafia’s retaliation, sure, but if they knew they were working for the SVR?”
“You don’t know the SVR well, do you, love?”
“The driver?”
“As far as MI-6 can determine, there was a mistake. The suicide driver was connected to Katarine Veld. He had either intended to scare you or drive the car just far enough into the shop to grab the diamond from you, then leave. Poor bloke misjudged braking distance, is my guess.”
“Is that the truth? Because if not, I don’t even want to listen.”
“Ah, I think I begin to understand. Have you had a direct order from up high? Superiors admonish you to keep your distance from the foreign agent?”
They’d yet to make any sort of dance move. Becca felt conspicuous standing there, ready to dance but not doing so.
“Nothing’s changed,” she answered. “We’ve always been working against one another.”
“Good on you, New York, you’ve finally accepted that fact. Another fact— MI-6 has been monitoring Dimitri’s activities. Oh, you left the pretty stones in your apartment, by the by.”
If he had— “So my guess is you stole some diamonds this evening?”
“Only took what had been mine in the first place.”
“Did you get that, Alan?”
“Ah, so Alan is listening in. Hello, Alan. MI-6, here.”
“Cad,” echoed in Becca’s left ear. He had that one right.
“Come, come.”
Becca shuffled reluctantly behind Dane as he led her to the dance floor. Brushed by silks and taffetas, she smiled at people she recognized. The air smelled of chocolate and roses, and had a gaiety that worked against her ultrasensitive nerves.
Stopping in the center of the dance floor, where they were surrounded by dozens of couples swooping by, Dane drew Becca to him and skimmed his thumb along her cheek to her lips, the silver band glinting beneath the crystal chandeliers.
An irresistible offer. One that should conjure an easy answer—no. But to refuse after he had dragged her out here would surely draw more curious stares than she wanted.
“I haven’t yet made the rounds,” she hedged.
Her next inhalation drew in his Burberry cologne. Never before had she smelled such an enticing man. And while he rubbed the secret agent the wrong way, the woman inside wanted to eat him up, to drown in his taste and in the rough texture of his being.
“Don’t worry,” he said soothingly. “The CIA is in full force. Your crew is listening in on every word we mutter. And I’ve met your Sherri Grant at the door. Gorgeous young thing. She the photographer?”
Blinking to dispel the intoxication she felt, Becca nodded. “Actually, she’s a magazine fashion editor. Just here on business.”
“Right. All on the up and up. Nothing covert there. I like your ladies’ cover. New York heiresses taking down the bad boys.”
“He knows?” Alan hissed in her ear.
“Dane.”
“Ah yes, all a bit of hearsay, innit?” He leaned in and spoke next to her ear, and his every word sent a visceral thrill across Becca’s shoulders and scalp. For some reason, him knowing made her feel free. “Don’t worry, Alan, just a guess.”
A brush of his breath across her neck seeped into her bare flesh with an erotic shimmy. “Now, I know you’ve got to make the rounds, introduce yourself, make nice, talk up the big donations, but I think this dress calls—no, it absolutely screams—for an entrance, and I won’t take a sodding no for an answer.”
Before she could protest, Becca once more stood aligned with Dane’s fine physique, palm to palm, ready to dance. She looked to the side, avoiding aquamarine passion and intensity as if her very life depended on going to hell.
To their right a couple spun close and the man dipped his partner. The beat suddenly changed and the lights dimmed.
“A slow dance,” Dane murmured in the devil’s tempting tease. “What a lovely start to what may prove a harrowing evening. Loosen up, love. Where’s the sexy secret agent I know and love? The woman who thrives on danger?”
Christ, he was laying it on thick.
“Relax, Becca,” Alan said in her ear. “We don’t have any information yet. Your Brit is right. Act natural.”
She struggled to keep a balance between agent and socialite, while a disembodied voice in her ear was giving her dating advice.
To hell with discipline. Time to dance.
“Let’s do it.”
And for the next two minutes nothing in the world existed except their embrace and the intoxicating gaze of a most frustrating man.
He knows your secrets.
The secrets double….
Had she for one moment considered Dane a romantic prospect? A safe choice she needn’t fear would flee at her secrets?
Silly girl.
And yet…
“Laugh for me,” Dane suddenly said, middance.
“What?”
His cheek nuzzling against hers sent a shiver of possessiveness directly to her heart.
“I adore your laughter. It makes everything right.”
“Oh?” She looked at him askance, deciding her next move. “Do you want plain laughter or…a giggle?”
He purred. “I’ll take the laughter now and save that giggle for later, love.”
As they moved slowly about the dance floor she was aware of all the curious stares taking in her and her handsome partner. Whispers fluttered from ear to mouth to ear. Who is that? We’ve never seen him before. He’s holding her so close.
“Who’s that?” Dane wondered.
Becca spied Rubi Cho, her trademark purple rhinestone cat glasses glinting with her movements. The slender Asian gossip columnist wore pink floral Betsy Johnson fringed in red roses just above the knee. She winked at Becca, and then snapped a photo as Dane nuzzled her ear.
“Gossip columnist,” Becca moaned. “I’m sure we’ll be reading about our engagement by tomorrow morning.”
“Sounds promising.”
“You willing to cross the ocean and start a new life?”
“You making an offer?”
Becca couldn’t help a smile. “Never.”
“Then we’ve nothing to worry about it. Prepare for the big finale.”
Dane’s hand slid down her back and Becca felt him move in. His leg hugged her thigh. He was going to dip her. She reacted in kind, falling into the move. And there, beneath a massive crystal chandelier, she looked up into Dane’s eyes and fell—
“Becca, there’s a glitch.”
“What?”
Alan breathed in her ear. “Sabrina Morgan just walked through the door.”