Chapter 25
Evelyn's POV
My mind raced through possibilities, searching for any sign that he'd recognized me beneath the wig and contacts and carefully applied makeup. But his expression held nothing but the lazy confidence of a man who'd spotted an attractive woman and decided to make his move. No recognition. No suspicion. Just the practiced charm of someone who was very, very good at getting what he wanted.
Relief flooded through me, followed immediately by something else—something that felt uncomfortably like disappointment.
He doesn't know it's you. He's hitting on Emily Clarke. He thinks you're someone else entirely.
I should have been grateful. This was exactly what I needed—to be invisible, forgettable, just another face in the crowd. But instead, I felt a sharp twist of something bitter in my chest as I watched him look at me—at Emily—with that same predatory interest he'd shown in the alley last night, when he'd cornered Evelyn Valentine and seen through every lie she'd told.
So this was who Julian Russell really was. A man who flirted with widows in dark alleys and picked up nonprofit workers at political galas with the same easy confidence. A player. A collector of women.
The thought should have made it easier to dismiss him. Instead, it made my stomach knot with an emotion I refused to examine too closely.
"Emily Clarke," I said, extending my hand with Emily's nervous smile. "Boston Hope Foundation. And you are...?"
"Julian Russell." He took my hand, his grip warm and firm, holding it just a fraction of a second longer than strictly necessary. "Titan Security. We're handling protection for Senator Caldwell tonight." His thumb brushed across my knuckles before he released me, a gesture so subtle it could have been accidental. But I'd been trained to notice details, and I knew it wasn't.
He was good. I'd give him that.
"That must be exciting work," I said, channeling Emily's bright enthusiasm even as my mind continued to catalog every detail of his appearance, his positioning, the slight bulge beneath his jacket that indicated a shoulder holster. "Do you enjoy it?"
"I do." Julian's smile widened, his eyes never leaving my face. "Though I have to say, the most interesting part of tonight just walked into my line of sight about thirty seconds ago."
The line was smooth, practiced, probably something he'd used a hundred times before. And it was working—I could feel heat creeping up my neck, Emily Clarke's shy blush that I didn't have to fake because some traitorous part of me was responding to him despite everything I knew, despite every reason I had to keep my distance.
God, what was wrong with me?
"I'm sure you say that to all the nonprofit workers," I said, tucking a strand of the brunette wig behind my ear and looking away as if flustered. It wasn't entirely an act.
"Only the beautiful ones." Julian leaned against the wall beside me, his posture relaxed but his eyes constantly scanning the room in that way security professionals had—always watching, always assessing. "So what brings the Boston Hope Foundation to a political fundraiser in D.C.? Trying to secure donations?"
"Something like that." I launched into Emily Clarke's carefully constructed backstory, talking about community outreach programs and after-school initiatives and all the other boring, virtuous things that would make me seem harmless and forgettable. Julian listened with apparent interest, asking questions that seemed genuine, laughing at my self-deprecating jokes about being overwhelmed by the opulence of the venue.
He was charming. Attentive. He made Emily feel seen in a way that was both flattering and slightly dangerous.
And all I could think was: He's doing this to someone he thinks is a stranger. He doesn't know it's me. He's hitting on Emily Clarke the same way he cornered Evelyn Valentine in that alley, with the same confidence, the same predatory interest. How many women has he done this to? How many has he looked at with those gray eyes and made them feel like they were the only person in the room?
Just hours ago, he'd sent me that text—Remember to contact me, sweetheart—and now here he was, turning that same intensity on someone he thought was a complete stranger.
The thought twisted something sharp and painful in my chest, and I hated that it did.
"You know," Julian said, his voice dropping to something lower, more intimate, "I have to admit, when I took this job tonight, I wasn't expecting to meet anyone interesting. Political fundraisers tend to be full of the same people saying the same things. But you..." His eyes held mine, and there was something in them that made my pulse skip. "You're different."
Different. The word echoed in my head, and I wanted to laugh at the irony. If only he knew how different.
I was about to respond when a commotion erupted near the front of the ballroom. Raised voices, the sudden surge of movement as people turned to look, a woman's sharp cry of alarm. The crowd shifted, bodies pressing together as everyone craned their necks to see what was happening.
Julian's entire demeanor changed in an instant. The relaxed charm vanished, replaced by the cold focus of a professional. His hand moved instinctively toward his jacket, and I saw his eyes scanning the crowd, assessing the threat level, calculating response times.
But before he could move away, the crowd surged again—someone had fainted, I heard someone say, or maybe it was a fight, or a medical emergency—and suddenly bodies were pressing in from all sides. I stumbled as someone jostled my shoulder, my champagne glass tilting dangerously.
Julian's arm came around my waist, steadying me, pulling me against his chest as he positioned himself between me and the crowd. His other hand braced against the wall beside my head, effectively caging me in, protecting me from the press of bodies.
"Easy," he murmured, his breath warm against my temple. "I've got you."