Chapter Nine

The shopping trip had been a bit of the familiar, something she could center herself in. It was a change, seeing the new fashions—so different from her clothing back in Valhalla. Maybe when she returned, she could discuss it with Freyja, give their wardrobes an update—

“What are you thinking about?” Trace asked as he took the dishes to the kitchen.

“The shopping trip today. It was nice. Fun.” She let it go at that, not wanting to give all of her thoughts away. “So now we wait until they come to us?” She finished off her glass of wine and moved to the living room, sitting on the sofa. “How am I supposed to introduce myself?”

He went to draw the curtains, cutting the setting sun out of the conversation. “You’re a mystery woman, my new client. You don’t know much about antiques but have enough money to buy the best, and that’s what you want—which is why you picked me.” He tapped his chest. “You don’t want the regular off-the-shelf relics. You want the rare and expensive items, and you’re not a stickler for legalities.”

It seemed reasonable enough. “So, how long do we wait?”

“We’ll go to the nightclub tonight, see and be seen. I’ve already called ahead, made sure they know we’re coming.”

“The club’s a front for the auction?”

“In a way—it’s a neutral zone for Jerry to assess potential bidders. If he sniffs anything about you that he doesn’t like, you don’t get the invitation.” Trace smiled. “He also uses the club to launder money, so he wins on all fronts.”

“How long before we go?” She watched the setting sun, the different shades of red clinging to the horizon for a few more minutes.

“There’s no set time, but we don’t want to be the first ones there.” He scratched the stubble on his chin. “Any chance you can ask that thing to signal if we’re close to the cane? Or if the person I’m talking to is telling us the truth, anything…?”

“That’s not how it works.” She lifted her arm, studying the dull metal. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure how much more help it can give us.”

“It got us this far. I think we can manage from here.” He smiled as he moved toward the hall. “If you don’t mind, I’ll clean up a little—shave, so I look presentable.”

Laila bit back the urge to tell him he looked fine with a bit of beard.

Very. Fine.

“Go ahead.” She rested her arm along the back of the sofa. “I’ll be here when you’re done.”

Laila looked at the shopping bags lying on the sofa, letting her breath out slowly as he headed down the hall.

Is the Wolf nearby?

The sensation of dread, the darkness clouding her vision… It could be the Wolf, blocking her from using the bracelet. This was both good and bad.

The good—it showed they were on the right path, in the right place.

The bad…

She didn’t dwell on that. All she needed to do was get the cane.

And keep Dyson from becoming a casualty along the way, especially if the Wolf and his minions were afoot.

…

A few hours later, Trace sat next to Laila in a private car on their way to the nightclub. He noted the way her foot tapped on the floor in hard, fast steps, signaling her discomfort with the situation.

“Don’t be nervous,” Trace said. “Leave as much of the talking to me as possible.” He resisted the urge to put his hand on her bare knee, try to comfort her. “Just look beautiful and secretive. Like you are right now.”

“Does that line work with all the ladies?” Laila fidgeted with the silver purse she carried. The red dress hugged her in all the right places, enough that Trace suspected there’d be more than one man slipping her notes tonight for a hoped rendezvous.

“Can’t blame me for telling the truth.” He glanced outside as the car drove on. “These people, they know me as Trace Beaulieu. If they ask you about me, be coy and tell them we met through mutual friends.” It was hard not to smile. “It’s true, in a way. Don’t be afraid to tell them your name. Laila Nyland, like you told me. They’ll try to track it, but they’ll hit the same wall I did. It’ll add to your reputation.”

The frown stroked the nervous fire building inside him. “Excuse me?”

“I did a search on you. Took your prints from the water glass back in New York City.” He held up a hand, stalling her response. “Don’t get mad. It’s the cop in me.”

“And?” The single frosty word sliced the air.

“As far as the world knows, you don’t exist.”

She narrowed her gaze. “So, what does that mean?”

He lifted his hands in surrender. “Not a bad thing to be a ghost—it’s a bonus we can use to our advantage. They’ll be curious and drawn in, wondering who you are.”

“And you? Who do you think I am?” Laila whispered.

Trace stared at her. “A strong and beautiful woman.”

The car slowed and came to a stop.

“Just don’t go too far away from me. Guys like this, they’d love to get you in a dark room and see how far they could push their luck.” He got out and stretched a hand back for her, hating himself for that mental image.

Her smile was more of a smirk, the sly look cutting his imaginary scenario to ribbons. “My knight in shining armor,” she murmured as she exited to stand beside him.

“Always,” Trace said under his breath.

Enough daydreaming. Time to get his head into the game.

There were dozens, hundreds of nightclubs in Los Angeles, each trying to outdo the other in membership and entertainment. The Cat’s Claws wasn’t one of those—it was off the beaten path, keeping to local bands and cultivating a steady, loyal following to those in the know. The ground floor was open to the public, with the top level reserved for patrons with a more…discerning taste. The front was clogged with hopeful customers, men tugging at their expensive suits and women clutching fake Prada purses, all glaring at them as they stepped out of the car and slid by the velvet rope barricade to the front door.

“These people…” Laila kept her voice down as they followed the doorman down the narrow hall to the actual club entrance. “Why would they wait in line to come in here?”

“To see and be seen.” She entwined her fingers with his, a tight grip betraying her nervousness. “It’s a game. You get noticed by one of the big fishes, earn a chance to name drop, might make a deal somewhere down the line.”

“Ah. Politics.” The scorn in the single word made him chuckle as they entered the main floor. “The bane of everyone’s existence.”

Trace nodded as he led her to the nearby staircase, roped off and guarded by a tall, muscle-bound man who smiled as he unclipped the barrier to let them through. “You got that right.”

The stairs took them to the second level, giving them a perfect view of the crowd below.

A throbbing bass beat came through the floor, vibrating through his shoes and upward. The black and red color scheme extended to the staff, dressed in red and black to enhance the dark, sexy atmosphere. Plush chairs and sofas sat everywhere on this level, private booths allowing discussion and deal-making without fear of being overheard, thanks to the loud music.

“Is this… usual?” Laila raised her voice to be heard.

“Yes, unfortunately.” He took her over to the bar at the far end, where the effect of the live band was less pronounced.

The bartender smiled at his new customers. “What can I get for you?”

“Whiskey, neat.” He looked at Laila.

“White wine.” She put her back to the wall and eyed the other people milling around. “This is insane.”

“Stay calm.” Trace paid for their drinks and dropped a sizable tip into the waiting jar. “We don’t have to be here all night—just long enough to be seen, make connections.”

As if on cue, he spotted Andrea Tagnetti a second before she made them. The svelte blonde sashayed over to them as if she were a model in a music video shoot, her black dress so tight he could see she wasn’t wearing a bra and, most probably, no underwear.

“Trace! Darling!” She bussed both cheeks, her eyes half-closed as she ignored Laila. “I’d heard you’d gotten into town and hoped against hope you’d be here tonight.” She giggled. “Always glad to have you stay at one of my hotels.”

“Of course.” Trace cleared his throat and turned to Laila. “This is Laila. She’s my newest client.”

Andrea eyed Laila with a predatory gaze, only to find it coming back at her with interest. Trace held back a grin.

This warrior woman might be on unfamiliar ground, but she wasn’t going to back down to some rich dilettante looking to score points.

Andrea nodded, as polite a greeting as could be expected. “Happy to meet one of Trace’s women. He’ll take care of you.” She nudged Trace’s hip with her own, letting out another giggle. “From top to bottom.” With a wave of her hand, she disappeared back into the growing crowd, setting her sights on another newcomer.

Laila let out an annoyed huff that sounded something like a curse word—not in any language he was familiar with, but he could guess at her meaning.

“I agree.” He leaned in, his mouth close to her ear. “But she’s also the heiress to a multi-million-dollar fortune, squirreled away by her grandfather, who owns a rather successful hotel chain. If she’s buying expensive antique trinkets, she’s not blowing it on drugs—a trade-off her family’s comfortable making.”

Before Laila could reply, Brian McNangue came at them, the former quarterback sticking out his huge hand on approach. He was a jolly man, and one of the few people Trace enjoyed running into at these events.

“Heard a rumor you might be here tonight.” The handshake was firm to the point of painful, as usual, but Trace didn’t give ground. “And a lovely lady on your arm.” He released Trace’s hand and offered his to Laila. “I’m Brian. If you ever want to trade up, I’m your man.”

His expression changed as they shook hands, his eyes going slightly wide before breaking off the contact.

“Lady’s got a solid grip, Trace.” He chuckled as he sipped his Scotch. “I like.”

“Thanks.” Trace scanned the room. “If you see Jerry ’round—send him my way. Curious as to what the market’s like these days.”

“I hear you.” He nodded at Laila. “Whatever you’re looking for, Jerry’s the man. Got me a Sumerian tablet out of Iraq at a decent price.”

“You collect antiques?” she asked.

“I love having things around that are older than I am.” His attention went past them to a woman standing at the far end of the room, wearing a tight dark red dress. The blonde smiled in their general direction, but her eyes were on Brian. He lifted his glass in return.

“And those that are much younger. You’ll excuse me. Have a good evening.” He gave them both a smile before moving on.

Trace spotted an empty booth nearby and maneuvered them there, sliding onto the red leather cushions. Laila shook her head as she sipped her drink.

“Why didn’t you arrest him? That’s got to be illegal, his owning that tablet…”

“It’s a fake. Brian wouldn’t know the real thing if it bit him on the ankle.” Trace bit the inside of his cheek as her leg pressed against his, the proximity taking its toll on his willpower. “But he wanted something cool, and Jerry gave it to him at a very low price. Jerry got paid, and Brian got an old piece of sandstone for his shelf.”

“But…” She frowned. “Shouldn’t you arrest Jerry for selling fake artifacts, then?”

“And I will. When Interpol can get the maximum return on our investment,” he whispered. “This sort of game is complicated and long.”

She settled back against the leather and nodded. “Now what?”

“We sit and wait.” He reached out and touched her bare forearm. “Just relax. Nothing’s going to happen tonight.”

“That’s not helping me relax.” She eyed Andrea moving through the crowd. “She doesn’t like me.”

“She doesn’t like anyone if they don’t do what she says. And she knew you wouldn’t play the game. I don’t, but then I’m a bastard who buys and sells antiques to anyone who’ll pay enough.”

She turned to face him. “But that’s not what you are, who you are. Doesn’t it hurt?”

“At times,” he confessed. “But if it gets me what I need, it’s worth it.” He suppressed a groan as Edward Montel approached, the former child star always on the prowl. “Hold your ground. This guy’s going to try and woo you away from me and into his bed.”

“Not a chance.”

Trace laughed. “He’s still going to try.”

Laila smiled at him over the top of her glass. “And he’s still going to fail. I don’t give myself to the first man who gives me a sweet smile.”

“No?” He had to ask. “So, what does it take?”

“You’ll have to figure that out on your own.” Her sly grin sent his pulse skyward.