CHAPTER TWO

All things being equal, Viola St. James was not a particularly girly girl. She liked converse sneakers, jeans, combat boots, fleece jackets. She owned precious little in the way of jewelry, and the only thing she wore with any frequency was a single sapphire gemstone ring in white gold. She had one, and her sister had one, and she rarely took it off. Only on kill days. She collected tee shirts with puns on them, and genuinely enjoyed ugly Christmas sweaters. She wasn’t exactly what one might call stylish.

But she pulled out all the stops on the night of the Benefactor’s Ball. It was cool in early October, and she had chosen something simple but classy, understated elegance. It was a black chiffon gown, thin strapped with a plunging neckline that featured the gentle curve of her breasts. The skirt was full and flowing, and it rustled when she moved. Her favorite feature was, however, the pockets. This haute couture gown had pockets.

She wore no necklace, preferring instead to let the eyes be drawn up to her face, framed as it was by a pair of diamond chandelier earrings that glittered as though they themselves were their own source of light. Her black curls she had collected in a side chignon, a few errant tendrils left out to daintily frame her heart-shaped face. She lined her eyes, blue as aquamarine, in thick strokes of kohl, and made them pop with shimmering white shadow. Her lips, she glossed with pale pink. And finally, she wore a simple diamond tennis bracelet that caught the light with every graceful move of her hand. Smiling, she admired herself in the stand-up mirror, thinking that the effect was not altogether unpleasant.

At six o’clock sharp, Rowan let himself into the apartment. Viola flounced happily into the center of the room and did a little spin, but her smile vanished when she saw the way he was looking at her.

“What?” She asked, clutching her hands in front of her. “No good?” She peered down at the dress, smoothing the skirt over her legs. “I figured black would be safe, but—”

“You look…” His stunned expression morphed then into something of a grin. “Christ, I don’t know how you expect to blend looking like that.”

The assassin blushed very prettily and attempted to remind herself that she was going to this event to do a job, not to embark on some sort of ridiculous Cinderella story. “So, I look good, then.”

“You know you do.”

She wrinkled her nose, unable to keep from smiling. “I know, right? God, I love this dress. Please tell me I get to keep this dress.”

“You can keep the dress.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic.”

“But the diamonds have to go back. They’re on loan.”

She stuck her tongue out at him and really looked at him for the first time. It wasn’t uncommon for Viola to see Rowan in a suit, but this was the first time she’d ever seen him in a tuxedo. She drank him in with unabashed appreciation, noting how he held himself a little taller, perhaps a little more stiffly, than normal. “You don’t look so bad yourself,” she remarked.

“Yeah, I’ll do.” He offered her his elbow, and she snatched her purse from off the sofa, and darted toward him, sliding her arm through his.

Downstairs, a black stretch limo waited for them, and Rowan opened up the door for her to climb in. She was borderline giddy when she climbed inside, never having had the opportunity to rent a limo for prom, or even to buy a truly beautiful gown. Rowan climbed in beside her and closed the door, and the car—driven by some unseen figure on the other side of a partition—moved forward.

“Ok, one sec,” Viola said, and fished her cell phone out of her purse. She scooted closer to Rowan, and held the phone out, snapping a picture of the two of them in the back of the limo. “I can’t wait to show this to Verity. She’s just going to die of jealousy.” Viola immediately regretted the word choice, but she let it slide, and Rowan said nothing of it.

Instead, he opened up a briefcase and pulled a few items, which he pressed into Viola’s hands. “All right, here,” he said, and she examined them: a pair of glasses, a headset, a black leather zippered folder.

“What is all this…?”

“I wasn’t kidding when I said I thought you were too beautiful to blend. Put those on.” He indicated the phone and the headset. She obliged and placed the thick rimmed glasses on the bridge of her nose before donning the headset, which covered her left ear, and left her right free. A microphone curled around in front of her lips. These items would allow all the fancies in attendance to essentially ignore her. The gown was a costume just as much as the glasses, folder, and headset were. “McCallum will be arriving shortly after we do, according to the press release. And he has brought his cousin as his date, as she partnered with him in his latest investment venture. He’s mostly there to be thanked for being awesome, so he’ll be easy to watch, easy to stay away from. Everyone’s going to want a piece of him tonight, so it’ll be natural to keep your eyes on him. The hard part will be following him home without being seen, but we’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.”

“Burn it?”

Rowan grinned. “That isn’t the expression?”

The limo pulled to a stop and Rowan climbed out, holding the door open for Viola, and taking her hand to help her. She had the dainty chain strap of her clutch over one shoulder, and she gripped the folder to her chest, her eye makeup hidden behind the glasses, her lip gloss hidden behind the microphone.

“Oh, here,” Rowan said, reaching into his inner breast pocket and procuring a very nice pen, which he handed over to her. “There’s a notepad in that folder. No one will pay you any mind so long as you look like you’re part of the event staff.” Event staff. Did Event Staff wear diamonds this fabulous?

She smiled, and took the pen, before turning to peer up the grand staircase in front of her. It was the Natural History Museum, and it was all alight. Search lights twisted and turned, casting bright columns of light up onto a sky mottled with clouds. The building itself was lit in bold hues of green, purple, and blue, and as she took her first few tentative steps toward the entrance, she found herself engulfed in a sea of the elite, whose heels clicked on the stone beneath their feet as they took long, easy strides toward the event. Yes, their easy gaits seemed to say, I belong here.

And Viola’s gait said the same. She clutched the folder to her chest, pressed the earpiece into her ear, and bent her head forward, moving at a pace that was just slightly faster than the other guests. She moved with purpose, falling easily into the role she’d been given.

When she reached the top of the steps, she looked up and noted a woman who was similar equipped with a headset, though where Viola was clutching paper, she was clutching a tablet. The woman—stern looking, wearing a pencil skirt and black silk blouse (slightly underdressed, if you wanted Viola’s opinion)—immediately approached Viola, looking down her long, beak-like nose at her.

“Who are you?” She barked. “Did the agency send you?”

And without missing a beat: “Je m’exuse,” Viola said. “Je ne parle pas l’anglais.”

The woman blinked, leaning in to try to spy some sort of credential. “I’m going to have to see your ID, miss, ah…”

“Un moment,” Viola said, and held up her finger, turning her gaze away to indicate that she was listening to some unheard voice in her headset. In fact, she was.

“Getting into trouble already, are we?” Rowan’s voice came in loud and clear. She could barely contain the grin threatening to light up her face. But contain it, she did.

“Oui. Oui, je comprend.” She turned a pair of uncompromising eyes back on the woman and lied through her teeth. “Madame, Je représente l'ambassadeur français, un invité de l'événement de ce soir. Je ai été envoyé à l'avance pour en savoir davantage sur les aliments préparés avec des arachides. Il est terriblement allergique.”

She rattled it off at such an impressive pace that the woman was beginning to lose interest. However, the words “l’ambassadeur français” had made something of an impression, so the woman simply bobbed her head. “Fine, fine,” she said, scanning through a list of names in front of her, and waving Viola through without a second glance.

“Why didn’t you just show her the ticket?” Rowan asked through the headset.

“Because my way was more fun,” she said quietly enough not to be overheard by those around her.

“Fair enough. Say, is the French Ambassador really allergic to peanuts?”

“Beats me.”

Viola made her way through the front doors and entered the grand hall of the museum, a wide-open space that, for the time being, housed only the following: marble columns, buffet tables, a seven-piece band, waitstaff bustling around with trays of champagne, mingling guests, and the bones of a long-dead Tyrannosaurus Rex. The lighting was largely warm and indirect, dots of candlelight flickering here and there on the tables. The band was playing something cheery, a throwback to Sinatra, but nobody was dancing.

“Hey,” she muttered into the earpiece as she scribbled a few lines of gibberish onto her notepad to make herself look more official, “get me an iPad for this next time.”

“An iPad?”

“Sure. That other lady had one. Why shouldn’t I?” She heard him chuckle wryly on the other end of the line, heaving a sigh to punctuate it.

“Ok, Princess. Whatever you want.”

Viola spied a few familiar faces, prominent businesspeople, B-list celebrities and musicians. It was the type of event major Hollywood stars would have been invited to and had to actually think about it before sending their gracious declinations. Viola roamed the periphery, by habit noting the exits and the best places to slip into the shadows.

“The eagle has landed.”

“What on earth does that mean?” Viola demanded. But he never had to explain, because in the next moment, she saw him.

He arrived wearing a sort of abashed smile as people with cameras swarmed around him to snap his photograph. He waved, perhaps somewhat half-heartedly, and tried to look at ease under the weight of all that attention. Clad in a Giorgio Armani wool crepe Four Season suit, Graham McCallum looked stiff, but undeniably handsome. He had on a white shirt, white pocket square, and black tie, and his glasses and scruff gave him a youthful, hipster-ish appeal. But he was broad and muscular, like he spent his afternoons felling trees in the park. He relaxed a little when he passed through the metal detector and was able to put some distance between himself and the paparazzi; he reached out, offering his arm to his date—his cousin, presumably—who was (poor creature) instantly outshone by him. In fact, Viola couldn’t take her eyes off of him, and neither could most of the other women in the room. He had a magnetic quality, a good-natured boy-next-door sort of thing, except this boy could probably bench press your car after he offered to clean your gutters.

She was standing there, slack-jawed, like she was a teeny bopper who had just seen her favorite heartthrob, and she became immediately aware of how ridiculous she was when he stopped and stared back at her. There was a flash of recognition in his storm-sky eyes, and he parted his lips as though he would call her over. It broke the spell, and Viola glanced from side to side, making sure that he was actually looking at her. He was; why?

Her heart skipped a beat, and she turned on her heel to vanish behind one of the many stone columns that lined the perimeter of the room. Leaning back against one, she found that her heart was racing, and her breathing came in short, drowning gasps. Also, it appeared that Rowan had been squawking in her ear the whole time.

“Hello, earth to Viola, come in Viola.”

“Yeah,” she said at last, pressing the earpiece into her ear. “I’m here. What is it?”

“I just wanted to make sure you’d spotted him.”

“Oh, I’ve spotted him all right.”

“What does that mean?” She peeked out from around the column and watched Graham shaking hands with people, gesturing to his date to introduce them, accepting a glass of scotch from a waiter who’d no doubt had it at the ready. “Viola?”

“Radio Silence, Rowan,” she said, and plucked the headset off, abandoned it—and the notepad, glasses, and purse—at the foot of the column. She’d been seen, so very, very seen. There was no sense in trying to hide when the first thing her mark had done was drink in the sight of her like a man dying of thirst.

Viola walked so that her skirts fluttered in her wake and plucked a glass of champagne off of a passing tray. She sipped and pretended to be looking at the dinosaur bones when in fact she saw his every move in her well-trained periphery. Jutting one hip out to the side, she inclined her head just slightly, feigning absorption, and waited for him to come to her. They always came to her.

Didn’t they?

She glanced over her shoulder: apparently not. He hadn’t moved from his spot, where throngs of people were trying to ask him questions or shake his hand or draw him away for just a second to talk about some investment opportunity or to congratulate him on his acquisition. She wasn’t sure that he had so much as looked her way since he’d first laid eyes on her. Had she read it all wrong?

She couldn’t very well stand there staring at dinosaur bones for the rest of the night. So, she did whatever she usually did when she was feeling nervous, or really any heightened emotion she didn’t know what to do with: she ate.

Shrimp cocktail, crackers with brie, fingerling sandwiches, chicken satay, chickpea and beet salad, she ate, and ate, all the while never losing track of Mr. McCallum. But when he broke free of his coterie and made his way toward her, she had to wipe quickly at her lips with the back of her hand to make sure she was crumb-free.

He stood next to her and began piling food onto his small plate at the buffet, and she proffered a thin smile as she munched on a cracker.

“The Tyrannosaurus Rex was thought to have been cannibalistic,” He said to her, his voice low and gruff, eyes twinkling with amusement.

She turned to face him, unable to conceal her bewildered expression. “Excuse me?” She asked, begging him to explain his non sequitur. He smiled.

“I saw you admiring the fossils,” he said, gesturing to the dinosaur bones, “for what seemed like quite a stretch of time.” Viola blushed very prettily. “And I recently read somewhere that the Tyrannosaurus Rex would sometimes feed on its own kind. The scientists could tell because they found teeth marks on leg bones, and they thought that it would be too difficult for them to attack that way during a fight. So: Cannibals.”

“Well, that’s hardly unprecedented in nature,” Viola said, setting her plate aside in favor of her champagne glass. “Cats sometimes eat their young during difficult births in order to save their own lives.”

“Hamsters,” he said, “Right? Hamsters constantly eat their young.”

“Mmhm,” she confirmed, sipping the Dom Perignon, “And, of course, the praying mantis will rip off the head of her partner after they’ve mated, and then eat it.”

“Yikes,” he was grinning. “Lobsters. I’ve heard that lobsters eat each other.”

“And who can blame them? They’re delicious.” They both laughed, their little moment of intimacy interrupted by an assistant that leaned forward to whisper something into Graham’s ear. In fact, the assistant had to stand up on his tip toes to even reach that high. Graham gave a nod of his head, and the assistant went scuttling off.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “duty calls.”

“Of course,” Viola said breezily.

He turned away, but paused, giving a slow shake of his head before turning around again. “Sorry, this is corny,” he said, one corner of his mouth hooking up in a grin, “but…I just have to know your name.”

“Viola,” she said, extending one delicate hand. He took it and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, making her feel like Victorian aristocracy instead of an urban orphan. “And you are?”

He blanched, and stared up at her, wide-eyed behind his glasses. His expression was unabashed shock: didn’t everyone knew who Graham McCallum was? But he transitioned gracefully into an earnest smile that bespoke how much he wished he could fade into obscurity. “Graham,” he said. “Just call me Graham.”

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she said, reluctantly withdrawing her hand.

“Likewise,” he replied, “truly.” He turned on his heel then to disappear into the crowd that was vying for his attention, and Viola was left staring after him. She finished off her champagne and abandoned the glass before slipping back into the shadows.

She felt fingers curl around her upper arm, then, and haul her behind one of the columns. Rowan glared fiercely down into her face, his teeth clenched. “Did I ever tell you to make contact?” He breathed, infuriated. Viola jerked herself free and glowered back up into those yellow-green eyes.

“Babysitting me now, are you?” She hissed.

“Because apparently that’s what you require.”

“I do not require you to come in here and tell me how to do my job.” She pressed her index finger into his sternum. “I didn’t even want this gig, Rowan,” she said, punctuating her words with a sharp jab to his chest.

“That’s why I’m here. To make sure you don’t throw the job, which was clearly your intention.”

“That was not my intention!” She left out an aggravated sort of grunt and moved away from him, sidling along the far wall until she came to the column where she had previously abandoned her affects. Bending at the waist, she retrieved the items, with Rowan hot on her heels.

“What do you propose to do now?” He asked. “He’s seen you; he’ll notice you. The entire point of the night was to blend.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t help it if I’m gorgeous,” she joked, trying to add a little levity to the situation to calm him down. She pressed the headset, notebook and glasses into his hands, and he heaved an exasperated sigh.

“This isn’t a joke, Viola. This man is really goddamned powerful. And you gave him your name.”

Viola parted her lips to say something, to shoot back some rejoinder that would shut Rowan up. But the truth was, she had no idea why she had given him her real name. It just sort of slipped out. She cast her gaze to the floor, chagrined.

“I’m sorry,” She murmured at length, “you’re right. I guess I’m just out of my element on this one.”

She heard him sigh but would not look up to meet his gaze. He gripped one of her shoulders, giving it a squeeze. “Should we call it?” He asked.

“No.” She shook her head, sending a few errant locks of jet-black hair into her line of vision. “No, I can do this.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.” She took the disguise items back and set them all on the floor again. “Yeah, just come dance with me.” Lacing her fingers with his, she led him out from behind the column and to the dance floor where dozens of other couples were pressed cheek to cheek and swaying to the music.

Viola pressed herself close to Rowan, whose hands came up to rest gently on her hips even as she snaked her arms around his neck. They were locked together, but Viola’s eyes were already scanning the expanse of the room in an attempt to locate Graham McCallum. Rowan held her firmly against him, leaning in to take in a deep breath of the scent of her hair, and moved in step with her to the gentle lull of the music.

“You really do look fantastic,” He murmured, and she glanced up at him with a quick smile.

“Thanks,” came her easy reply, “You do, too. Oh, there he is.” She’d spotted him at the edge of the dance floor, alone for the moment and looking at her again. “Dance me this way,” she said, and they naturally began moving closer to Graham.

“Wait, hang on a sec,” Rowan protested, but it was too late, Viola had already caught Graham’s eye, and he had stepped out onto the dance floor.

“May I cut in?” He asked, just as she’d hoped he would. Rowan hesitated a moment, looking into Viola’s eyes as she dropped her arms from around his neck and opened up her body language to include Graham.

“Graham, this is my associate, Donald Driver.” Well, that was a terrible name. It sounded like a porn star. Rowan gave a barely imperceptible flinch and clenched his jaw.

“Je m’excuse,” Rowan/Donald said with a flawless French accent, never lifting his eyes to meet Graham’s, “mais je ne parle pas bien l’anglais.”

“Ah,” Graham said, clueless, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Driver.”

“Pardonnez-moi.” He gave a slight bow, shot a very pointed look at Viola, and turned on his heels to take long, gliding strides to the opposite end of the room. Viola chuckled nervously and moved closer to Mr. McCallum, who placed one of his hands on her waist, and extended the other to her. She took it, sliding her free hand up along his collar, and soon, they were dancing.

“I thought I knew everyone who ever came to these things,” McCallum said, moving her with gentle grace over the dance floor. The band was playing That’s All, and Viola could hardly help being swept up in the moment. “But I’ve not seen you before. For whom do you work? Or are you an independently wealthy, trust fund type, looking for some way to spend the millions she’s inherited?”

Viola scoffed, tossing her head back with a laugh. “Hardly” she said, swaying happily in his arms. But even though she’d made mistakes, even though she was in the midst of being dazzled, she could build a lie, quick as lightning. “Actually, I’m just an assistant,” she said.

“Ah, yes,” he smiled warmly down at her, “I believe I saw you in a headset earlier.”

“Mmhm.”

“But then you abandoned your work garb?”

“Mr. Driver came to inform me that Monsieur LaPlage—my boss—was feeling ill and could not attend. I decided to enjoy the party.”

“And what business is his, this Monsieur LaPlage?”

Viola angled her bright blue eyes up at him, peering through long, black lashes, and proffered her most winning smile. “Graham,” she said, only just loud enough to be heard above the music, “I’m off the clock now. Let’s just dance.”

And they did dance, with his hand on the small of her back, pressing her into him; with her fingers brushing lightly over the back of his neck. Their dances were interrupted a few times by people yearning for a scrap of his attention, asking questions about AquaFord, asking him about future plans for investment.

Finally, his cousin with whom he had arrived tugged on his sleeve, and he stopped on the center of the floor. She looked irritable, and perhaps more than slightly intoxicated.

“I’m leaving,” she announced to him, her face sourly puckered as though she had bitten into a lemon.

“Ah, Denise, this is Viola. Viola, this is my cousin, Denise Westin.” Graham gestured between the women with some decorum, but Denise Westin hardly glanced in Viola’s direction.

“I’m taking the car,” Denise said, propping a hand on her hip.

“Shall I escort you…?” Graham asked, though his hesitation was readily apparent in his tone of voice.

“Don’t bother, I can find my own way.” That was when, at long last, she glanced at Viola. If looks could kill…“She’ll give you a ride, I’ve no doubt.” And with that, Denise turned on her heel, abandoning her cousin on the dance floor.

Graham laughed nervously, a boyish smile tugging at the corners of his lips, and scratched the back of his head. “Ah,” he began, “it appears I’ve been deprived of my transport.”

“I have a car we can take,” Viola offered, brazen. “Where do you live?”

“It’s a bit of a drive, I’m afraid,” he admitted.

“I have all night,” she said.

Graham offered her his arm, and she took it, not exactly relishing the fact that all eyes were on the two of them as they crossed the length of the dance floor, breezed past the line of paparazzi, and exited the museum. All the while, Viola was glancing around trying to spot Rowan, but she never once caught a glimpse of those catlike eyes.

Spying her limo, Viola led the way, and McCallum opened the door for her. They both climbed in and settled side by side on the leather seats. Lowering the partition, Graham gave his address to the back of the driver’s head. McCallum didn’t notice, but when the driver turned his head just slightly to hear the directions better, Viola saw that it was Rowan. Her heart caught in her throat, but she said nothing, simply leaned back in her seat until the limo pulled away, leaving the glowing lights of the Benefactor’s Ball behind them.