Chapter 41
Julian's POV
"What kind of problem?" I was already moving toward the stairs, my instincts screaming that whatever had happened, it was bad.
"Caldwell felt ill about ten minutes ago," Webb said, falling into step beside me. "Stomach pains, dizziness. We followed protocol—moved him to the VIP lounge on the second floor for medical evaluation, posted three men on the door."
"And?" I prompted, even though I already knew what he was going to say.
"I just went to check on him." Webb's jaw was tight. "The three guards are unconscious. Caldwell's gone."
The world seemed to tilt sideways for a moment as the implications crashed over me. Gone. My client was gone, taken right out from under my security apparatus, while I'd been dancing with the woman who'd orchestrated the entire thing.
"When did you try to report this?" I demanded, taking the stairs two at a time.
"I've been trying to reach you for the last ten minutes," Webb said, frustration evident in his voice. "Used the emergency channel, sent texts, even tried calling your cell. Your comms were dead and your phone was on silent."
Because Evelyn Valentine had cut my earpiece wire while I'd been too busy playing games with her to notice. Because she'd used the Exchange Waltz as cover to disappear, and I'd been arrogant enough to think ten seconds wasn't enough time for her to do any real damage.
I'd underestimated her. Badly.
We reached the VIP lounge, and the scene was exactly as Webb had described—three of my best men unconscious on the floor, no sign of forced entry, no indication of struggle. Professional work. Clean. Efficient. The kind of thing that took years of training to execute flawlessly.
And it had happened while I'd been downstairs, congratulating myself on keeping Evelyn occupied and away from her target.
"Medical status on our men?" I asked, crouching beside the nearest guard and checking his pulse. Steady. Strong. Whatever had been used to knock them out, it wasn't lethal.
"Drugged, probably," Webb said. "Fast-acting sedative, based on their symptoms. They'll wake up with headaches but no permanent damage."
I stood, looking at the empty room where Caldwell should have been safely secured, and felt something that might have been admiration if it wasn't wrapped in such fury. She'd done it. Evelyn Valentine had walked into a charity gala in a designer dress, disabled my security, and made off with a United States Senator right under my nose.
"I tried to report it through your earpiece as soon as we moved him," Webb continued. "Standard protocol—client relocated, new position secured. But you didn't respond."
Because I'd already been dancing with Evelyn by then, my earpiece already cut, my communications already severed. She'd timed it perfectly, made her move at the exact moment when I'd be too distracted to coordinate a response.
"Pull all security footage from the last two hours," I ordered, my voice coming out colder than I'd intended. "I want to know everyone who came near this room, everyone who had access to Caldwell's champagne, everyone who so much as looked at him funny. And get those guards to medical. I want a full toxicology workup."
Webb nodded and disappeared, already pulling out his phone to coordinate the response. I stood alone in the empty room, staring at the space where my client should have been, and let myself acknowledge the full scope of my failure.
I'd been played. Completely, thoroughly, professionally played by a woman I'd thought I was controlling, a woman I'd underestimated because she looked like a grieving widow and moved through Manhattan society with perfect grace.
But Evelyn Valentine wasn't a widow. Or if she was, that was the least interesting thing about her. She was something else entirely—something dangerous and skilled and utterly ruthless. Something that had looked at my security apparatus and found it wanting, that had studied my patterns and exploited my arrogance, that had turned my own confidence against me.
I pulled out my phone, looking at her number on the screen, and almost called her right then. Almost demanded to know where she'd taken Caldwell, what she'd done with him, whether she understood the magnitude of what she'd just accomplished.
But that would have been admitting defeat, and I wasn't quite ready to do that yet.
Instead, I walked to the window, looking out over the glittering Manhattan skyline, and let myself smile despite the disaster unfolding around me. Because yes, Evelyn had outmaneuvered me tonight. Yes, she'd made me look like an amateur. Yes, she'd proven that every assumption I'd made about her capabilities had been woefully inadequate.
But she'd also shown me exactly what she was capable of. She'd revealed the extent of her training, her resources, her willingness to take enormous risks for whatever goal she was pursuing. And that information—that glimpse behind the carefully maintained mask—was worth more than one failed security contract.
I'd lost this battle. But the war? The war was just getting started.
The orchestra was still playing downstairs, the gala continuing as if nothing had happened, as if a United States Senator hadn't just been kidnapped from under the noses of Manhattan's finest security apparatus. I should go down there, should maintain appearances, should pretend that everything was under control.
But instead, I stood at the window, looking out at the city that had just taught me a valuable lesson about underestimating beautiful women with dangerous secrets.
Evelyn Valentine had won this round. Completely. Decisively.
And God help me, but I'd never been more fascinated by anyone in my entire life.