The man bent his head slightly toward me. His voice was deep and quiet. “Do you need help?”
I had no idea what he was talking about.
“Do you need help?” he repeated quietly. “One word, and I’ll take you out of here and none of them can stop me. I’ll make sure you have access to a doctor, a safe place to stay, and a therapist to talk to. Someone who understands what it’s like and will help. ”
The pieces clicked in my head. The bruise. Of course. “Thank you, but I’m okay.”
“You don’t know me. It’s difficult to trust me because I’m a man and a stranger. The woman speaking with Augustine is my aunt. The woman across the floor in the white-and-purple gown is my sister. Either of them will vouch for me. Let me help you.”
“Thank you,” I told him. “On behalf of every woman here. But I’m a private investigator. I’m not a victim of domestic abuse. This is a work-related injury and the man who put his hands on me is dead.”
The man studied me for a long moment and slid a card into my hand. “If you decide that the injury isn’t work related, call me.”
Augustine turned toward us.
The man gave him a hard stare and walked away. I glanced at the card. It was solid black, with the initials ML embossed on one side in silver and a phone number on the other.
“Do you know who that was?” Augustine asked.
“No.”
“Michael Latimer. Very powerful, very dangerous.”
“He wasn’t on my list.”
“He was supposed to be in France for the next month. What did he want?”
There was no harm in telling him. “He thought I was a victim of domestic violence. He offered to help.”
“I had no idea he cared.” Augustine narrowed his eyes. “Interesting.”
Men and women drifted by us as the announcer kept reciting a measured litany of names. So-and-so of House so-and-so. So-and-spouse of House Whatever. I saw Cornelius next to a woman who could have been his sister. He looked at me in passing as if he had no idea who I was and I returned his gaze in the exact same way.
Minutes drifted by.
I turned and saw Gabriel Baranovsky on the second floor above us talking to an older Asian man. Two large men with shoulders so broad they looked almost square in their expensive suits waited calmly nearby. Bodyguards.
According to our background check, Baranovsky was fifty-eight. He wore the years well. His build, slender, almost slight, pointed to a man who was either a habitual runner or had an iron will when it came to food. His dark hair fell in a loose wavy mane, framing an angular intelligent face with a long nose, narrow chin, and large eyes. I had studied his picture from the files. You couldn’t tell from here, but he had remarkable eyes, light brown like whiskey and possessing a kind of sorrowful, wise expression. The rest of him was perfectly ordinary, but the eyes elevated his face, transforming him into someone unusual, someone you would want to talk to because you were sure he would have something unique to say. The eyes of the man who looked into the future. No wonder he collected women.
And he wasn’t looking at me at all.
The announcer’s voice faltered and for once I tuned into it.
“Connor Rogan of House Rogan.”
The floor around us became still and quiet. On the second floor Baranovsky pivoted toward the door, frowning. The pause lasted only a couple of moments, the slow drift of bodies and hum of conversation resuming, but now the voices were lower and the seemingly casual movement had acquired a definite direction as the attendees tried to clear the middle of the floor without looking like they were tripping over their feet.
Rogan walked into the hall. He wore a black suit, but the way they looked at him, he might as well have marched into the room in full armor. He’d shaved and brushed his hair, but the circles under his eyes betrayed the fact that he probably hadn’t slept last night. A scowl hardened his face. He looked like he would murder anyone who got in his way.
One half of me wanted to punch him in the face for buying up my debts. The other half wanted to march into his path and chew him out for not sleeping. If this was love, then love was the most complicated emotion I had ever felt.
He saw me. Surprise flickered in his eyes and for a moment he was too stunned to hide it. The dress was worth every penny.
Rogan altered his course. Across the room Michael Latimer watched him quietly. The crowd’s reactions split. Most faces turned worried. A few others, men and women both, watched him the way Latimer did, not afraid but ready. They were all predators who’d agreed to play nice for one night and now they weren’t sure if the beast with the biggest fangs in the room would follow the rules.
Rogan crashed to a halt before me and held out his hand without saying a word. I didn’t dare to check if Baranovsky was watching but damn near everybody in the room was. Their stares pinned me down like daggers.
In for a penny, in for a pound. I put my hand in his.
He turned smoothly, sliding my hand down to rest on his elbow. We walked together up the stairs. I felt light-headed.
If I tripped now, I would never live it down.
We reached the top and Rogan turned left, away from Baranovsky, and back along the second floor. Ahead an open door led outside to a balcony framed with planters of roses, their fat blossoms a dark red, almost purple. Rogan walked through. The cold evening air washed over us in a rush.
I remembered how to breathe.
“Did you have to be so obvious about it?” I ground out.
“I warned you.” His voice was cold, his face distant. He was looking me over. “You wanted to catch his attention.”
I turned away from him and looked at the garden below. No man should have a garden blooming in winter but somehow Baranovsky had managed. Shrubs with yellow blossoms framed the whorls of garden paths; tall spires of unfamiliar plants with white triangular flowers beckoned; and roses, lots and lots of roses, in every shade from white to red filled the flower beds. Between them small gazebos offered a place to rest and enjoy the view. Bright canvas canopies, triangular and stretched tight into slightly curved shapes, like sails of some galleon, shielded parts of the walkways between them. The rest of the house curved into the distance, hugging the garden’s edge.
Rogan said nothing. Fine. We could just stand here and say nothing.
A gust of wind came. I hugged my cold shoulders. Evening gowns weren’t designed for dramatically running out onto strange balconies in the middle of winter nights.
Rogan pulled off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders.
I brushed it away. “Don’t.”
“Nevada, you’re cold.”
“I’m fine.”
“It’s a damn jacket,” he growled.
I squinted at him. “What’s the catch?”
“What?” Irritation vibrated in his voice.
“What’s the catch with the jacket? What will it cost me? You keep chipping away at my independence every time you try to ‘take care’ of me, so I’d rather know the price in advance.”
He swore.
“Colorful, but not very informative.” My teeth chattered. I clamped them together and my knees started shaking. Great.
“Take the jacket.”
“No.”
We stared at each other. It was good that stares weren’t swords or we would’ve had a duel right here on the balcony.
“You can go back now,” I told him. “I’m sure he’ll come and see what all the fuss was about if you leave.”
“I’ll leave when I’m damned good and ready.”
Judging by the set of his jaw, he wouldn’t budge and he was too big for me to shove him off the balcony into the roses down below. Although it would be tempting to try.
“I know about Castra.” Let’s see him deal with that one.
He didn’t react. “How?”
“Augustine made your people during one of the exchanges they secured.”
“Ah.” He grimaced. “Augustine started taking interest in my affairs after Pierce’s idiocy. I’ve invested in a canine unit to account for that possibility. He may change his appearance but he can’t change his scent. It seems I didn’t do it soon enough.”