Reece was a lucky bastard, and he knew it.
One of the doormen opened the door, choir music drifting on a rush of warm air. “Welcome to the Palace Hotel.”
“Thank you.” Reece handed each of them a ten. “Happy holidays.”
The doorman grinned. “Thank you, sir. Happy holidays to you, too.”
They stepped inside, and Kara gave a little cry, gazing around them with wide eyes. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
The Palace Hotel was famous for its historic décor, which it brought to life every holiday season with the most spectacular Christmas decorations in the city. The hotel’s eight-story-high atrium glittered from the floor to the very top with white lights, the arches of the mezzanine level and the massive chandelier decorated with light strands, pine boughs, and red ribbon. In the center of the atrium stood a tall Christmas tree, its top rising to the mezzanine level, its branches decorated with white lights and hundreds of delicate blown glass ornaments that were probably antique. A children’s choir stood in white robes and red sashes off to one side of the lobby, singing “Silent Night,” a fire burning in the big fireplace nearby.
Kara stopped to take it all in. “It’s like something from a postcard.”
“Yes, it is.” Reece leaned down, spoke for her ears alone. “I’d hate to pay their December electricity bill.”
She laughed. “Don’t be such a Grinch.”
Reece was familiar with the hotel and guided Kara to a bank of elevators that led to the mezzanine and the Grand Ballroom. He withdrew the formal printed invitation from his pocket, knowing security would stop them outside the ballroom.
A voice came from behind them. “I guess they let anyone in this place.”
They both turned and saw Joaquin Ramirez, the Denver Independent’s Pulitzer Prize-winning photographer, walking up behind them. He was dressed in a sharp black tux, black bowtie at his throat, heavy camera bag slung over his shoulder.
Kara and Ramirez were old friends. They had worked together at the paper until she’d married Reece. Now she worked as a freelance journalist, writing articles for big papers and magazines, while Ramirez still worked for the paper.
“Hey, good to see you.” Reece reached out, shook Ramirez’s hand.
Kara kissed his cheek. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
Ramirez looked confused. “I always come to the holiday party.”
“Oh!” Kara laughed. “The Indie is having its holiday party here tonight?”
Ramirez nodded. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”
“We’re going to the British Consulate General’s Christmas party.”
“Fancy.” Ramirez grinned. “Baird, the new publisher, wants me to take photos. Harker is bringing Holly. I want to get a shot of Tom’s face when he sees her.”
“Seriously?” Kara laughed. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day. I wish I could see that.”
She looked hopefully over at Reece. “Maybe we can pop in and say hello to everyone.”
Reece shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”
He had to fight back a grin at the relief on her face.
* * *
19:00
José “Pepe” Rojas Moreno parked the Lexus, got out, and lit up a cigarette, the bastard’s ten dollar bill still in his hand. The stupid hijueputa thought he was so generous, so powerful. He would never understand real money or true power.
Pepe had recognized him immediately as Reece Sheridan, the state’s lieutenant governor, one of the top names on the list. The bastard would find out soon enough that he had power over nothing, not even his life.
Pepe made his way back down toward the entrance, not giving a damn if his boss caught him smoking and fired him. This job had only ever been the means to an end, a way of getting to know his way around Denver and the hotel. After tonight, he would no longer need it. Either he’d had leave this freezing cold city and head back to the warmth of Colombia—or he’d be dead.
Ahead of him, well-dressed couples made their way toward the hotel’s front entrance. Slowly, two by two, the rats were walking into the trap. He felt nothing but contempt for them.
Hijueputas. Comemierdas. Malparidos.
Sons of whores. Shit-eaters. Bastards.
Some were laughing and smiling, oblivious to what awaited them. Others seemed to be angry or worried. But the fears that oppressed them at this moment were petty compared to what lay ahead of them.
He had planned this for more than a year, moving men into position, getting the arms, ammo, and explosives he’d need. He was the nephew of La Culebra, and he wouldn’t let his uncle or his cousin down, even if he had to kill every man, woman, and child here. Even if he had to die.
He glanced down at his watch.
The fun was about to begin.
2
Chapter Two
19:00
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Holly Andris lied.
She usually had no trouble hiding her feelings from people, but tonight she was failing miserably.
Matt Harker turned the car into the hotel’s parking garage. “I might not be a super-spy like you are, but I can tell you’re feeling down.”
“I’m not a spy. I was never a spy. I’m an intelligence expert.” She hoped Matt would drop it.
He didn’t. “Yeah, whatever. Something has you upset.”
Journalists could be such a pain in the butt.
“Nick and I got into a fight.”
“Don’t the two of you bicker a lot?”
“Yes, but not like this.” The whole thing had left her feeling sick, their last words to each other running through her mind on a loop.
“You’re thirty-five, Holly. I’m almost forty. If we’re going to have kids, we need to start soon.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one who has to go through it. All you have to do is come.”
Well, it was true, wasn’t it? The male contribution to reproduction was unimpressive compared to that of females—unless you were a seahorse.
“I can’t change human biology, but if you think I’d leave you to face it by yourself, you’re wrong. I’m not that kind of man.”
“Lots of women have babies in their forties.”
“How many of them do it without medical intervention? How many face complications as a result of their age?”
“I’m not ready.”
“Okay. When will you be ready?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yeah? Well, maybe you need to rethink your priorities.”
He’d seemed so angry. She hadn’t been able to tell him that she was afraid.
What if something went wrong? What if she turned out to be like her mother? Or, worse yet, her father?
No kid deserved that.
Besides, having something the size of a baby come out of her vagina seemed like a very bad idea. She hated pain.
Matt stopped his car, put it into park. “Whatever it was, I’m sure you’ll move beyond it. Nick is crazy about you.”
“I hope you’re right.” She and Nick hadn’t had time to resolve the argument before he’d had to leave for his conference call with Javier and the Pentagon, and she’d left home bleeding inside. The last thing she wanted to do was disappoint Nick or make him worry that he’d married the wrong woman. She knew how ugly divorce could be. Her parents had spent more time cheating on one another and fighting in court than they’d spent married. She couldn’t let her marriage turn out like theirs.
Matt looked over at Holly, his hand on the door handle. “Are you ready?”
Holly took in a breath, released it, doing her best to set her emotions aside. She smiled. “I’ve waited a long time for this.”
Holly had worked for the Denver Independent as an entertainment writer until two summers ago when a corrupt CIA officer had tried to have her killed, his actions exposing her role as a non-cover officer for the Agency. Tom Trent, the paper’s editor, had been furious t
o discover that an operative had been working in his newsroom and had fired her, even though her work as a reporter had been outstanding and her job for the government had never entailed spying on the paper.
At first, she’d been crushed, but life after journalism had turned out much better than she could have imagined. She and Nick had both gone to work for Cobra International Solutions, a black-ops firm owned by Javier Corbray and Derek Tower. She often worked side by side with Nick, traveling the world with him on what felt like a grand adventure.
There was no revenge sweeter than success, and she was here to show Tom that her life was good without his newspaper—better, even.
She stepped out of the warm car into the freezing cold and hurried over to Matt, hugging her cropped coat of faux white mink tightly around herself. “Let me fix that tie.”
He glanced down. “It’s fine.”
Holly shook her head. “What would you know?”
For the decade she’d known him, Matt had looked like he dressed out of his laundry basket, his shirts and slacks wrinkled, his one-and-only tie crumpled. As it turned out, he did dress out of his laundry basket. Holly had taken it upon herself to rent his tux, wanting to make sure he looked his best.
He was her “date” for the night, after all.
“Are you ready?” Shivering, she stepped back, looked him up and down, and was pleased with what she saw.
Clean-shaven, his hair combed, and wearing Armani, Matt was a surprisingly handsome man.
“Are you kidding? I can’t wait to see Tom’s face.” Matt slipped his arm around her shoulders. “Let’s get you inside before you freeze to death.”
“Good idea.”
At their approach, both doormen jumped forward, opening the doors.
“Good evening, miss,” said one.
Holly flashed them both a smile. “Thank you.”
Matt tipped them, then took Holly’s arm, a grin on his face. “They couldn’t take their eyes off you.”
But Holly barely heard him, her gaze fixed on the beautiful Christmas decorations, the scene like something from an age gone by. Some of her sadness slipped away, warmth chasing away the chill.
Matt leaned down, spoke for her ears alone. “Men are staring at you.”
“What? Oh.” She’d put some effort into her appearance tonight, choosing a short illusion slip dress of champagne-colored silk with strategically placed black and gold beading by Basix Black Label and paired it with strappy Manolo Blahnik heels in gold.
Matt chuckled. “You might be used to that, but it’s a new experience for me.”
She smiled up at him. “We need to find someone for you.”
“With you on my arm?” He laughed again. “Not gonna happen.”
Matt’s wife had divorced him the same crazy summer that Holly had met Nick, and he hadn’t yet gotten back into dating. She knew it was probably hard for a man who was almost fifty to put himself out there, but she was determined to help him do just that. If tonight helped bolster his confidence, so much the better.
They headed up the wide staircase—Holly thought it allowed for a better entrance than a crowded elevator—then checked their jackets with the cloakroom, and made their way along the wide mezzanine balcony toward the Onyx Room.
Matt glanced through the door of the Grand Ballroom. “I wonder what’s happening in there? Check it out. They’ve got a chamber orchestra, decorations up the wazoo, armed security.”
Holly glanced over, saw Ambassador DeLacy, who looked distinguished as always, and Secretary Holmes, who’d ditched the ubiquitous beige pantsuit for a long gown of black velvet. “It’s the British Consulate’s annual Christmas party. Oh, hey, Kara and Reece are here.”
She would have to stop in later to say hello.
For now, she needed to focus on her mission.
They stopped at the table outside the Onyx Room, where a woman with a list of staff was checking off names.
Matt held out his employee ID. “Matt Harker, plus one.”
Holly smiled at the woman, gave Matt’s arm a squeeze, grateful that he was giving her this chance.
“Here goes,” he said.
He stepped back, motioned her toward the door. She lifted her chin, smiled, and walked into the Onyx Room as if she owned the place.
The onyx pillars for which the room had been named had been decorated with pine garlands and white lights, elaborate ceiling moldings framing a domed painting of naked cherubs, who seemed to stare down on them with delight.
Holly spotted her I-Team friends seated at a table to the right of the bar—Sophie and Marc, Kat and Gabe, Joaquin, and Alex Carmichael. Joaquin got to his feet when he saw her, camera in hand, a conspiratorial grin on his face.
Tom stood not far from them, scotch in hand, talking with a balding man Holly assumed was the new publisher. He had the look of a man who considered it his birthright to tell other people what to do.
She waved to her friends and made her way toward the bar. She knew the moment Tom spotted her. His head came around, and his face turned red. She smiled as she passed him, tickling his jaw with her manicured fingertips, her gaze meeting his.
She let her voice go husky. “Hi, Tom. Nice party.”
From nearby came muffled laughter and the whir of Joaquin’s camera.
* * *
19:15
Marc left Rossiter at the buffet and walked up behind Sophie where she stood talking with Holly. He touched his hand to her waist and whispered in her ear. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Ever since he’d gotten a glimpse of what she was and wasn’t wearing beneath that little black dress, all he’d been able to think about was getting his hands on her.
She shook her head. “We can’t leave yet. Baird hasn’t passed out bonus checks. If we leave before he does, he won’t remember I was here.”
Shit.
“I’ve got some important business to attend to.” He dropped his voice to a whisper again, nuzzled her ear. “Between your legs.”
Her cheeks flushed pink. “Now?”
“Come on.” Not bothering to wait for her to finish her conversation, he took her hand and led her out of the door and along the balcony.
“Where are we going?”
“To find someplace private.”
“What?” She stopped in her tracks.
He turned, bent down, and kissed her. “Right now, all I can think about is how very much I want to fuck you, so either we find someplace nice and private, or this will be remembered as the most awkward holiday party ever.”
“You’re out of your mind.” She laughed, shook her head. But her pupils had dilated, and the smile wouldn’t leave her face.
She wanted him, too.
He set off again, the thought of burying himself inside her making it hard to think of anything else. But that’s how it was. Once a person had sex on the brain, the only way to find relief was to fuck. “There has to be an empty conference room or linen closet or powder room around here.”
“I don’t want to end up in tomorrow’s arrest reports.”
“Neither do I.” It wouldn’t look good for a high-ranking city cop to be caught having public sex, even with his wife. Chief Irving would have his ass.
They came to a door labeled Marble Room but found it locked. A little further down, they discovered a janitor’s closet. Though it was unlocked, the door was slatted and would give anyone who passed a clear view. They’d be arrested for sure.
“Maybe we should see if they have any vacant rooms,” Sophie said.
“I don’t think this is a pay-by-the-hour kind of place.”
They went around the corner and found themselves in a service hallway behind the Grand Ballroom, the narrow space crowded with busy hotel staff and security. Marc was about to suggest they go out to the car when Sophie tugged on his hand.
“Over there.” She pointed to a family restroom.
They found the door unlocked.
Marc drew Sophie inside wit
h him, locked the door behind them.
Automatic lights flickered on, revealing a small anteroom with an antique leather wingback chair and a coffee table that held a vase of roses. Beyond stood a restroom with a white marble basin and floor, a brass changing table, and a single restroom stall.
“I bet this is for nursing moms.”
“I don’t care if it’s for masturbating extraterrestrials.” He turned Sophie toward the chair, desire for her thrumming in his veins. “Bend over.”
She did as he asked, grasping the chair’s arms, wiggling her ass, looking over her shoulder at him. “Hurry.”
He rucked up her cocktail dress, the breath rushing from his lungs as he took in the sight of her—dark garters against her creamy, pale skin, her rounded ass, the rosy slash of her exposed pussy. “You are so fucking hot.”
He reached down, explored that tender flesh. She was already wet, the scent of her making his pulse pound. He teased her clit, slid a finger inside her, stroking her. He wanted this to be as good for her as it would be for him.
His Sophie. His sprite. His wife.
Where would he be without her?
He loved her, would never stop loving her. She was his beginning and his end. She’d believed in him when the world had turned against him and he’d no longer believed in himself. She’d risked her career and her life for him. Though he could never be the man he’d set out to become, he tried every day to be the man she deserved—both in and out of bed. He’d made it his business to know how to please her, how to make her scream, how to satisfy her completely.
Already, her breath was coming faster, her wetness drenching his fingers.
She moaned. “I want you inside me.”
He forced her feet apart with his. “Spread your legs wider.”
He grasped a rounded hip with one hand and his cock with the other, then teased her with the engorged head, rubbing it against her cleft, nudging the tip inside her, then withdrawing again.