Chapter Fifty-Five

Lucien Kite Estate

October 31

T he party was a tribute to excess. Lucien Kite had never attempted to assimilate with the subtle wealth of his neighbors. The fountain in the middle of the circular drive featured a Jenga tower of gold bars with arcs of Krugerrands mimicking the spray of water.

The mansion was illuminated with ground lights, throwing massive beams up the white stone facade.

The theme was The Court of Louis XVI. Guests were greeted by valets at the gatehouse and transferred to vintage horse-drawn carriages for the long trek up the drive to the main house.

Clara was dressed as a young page in a brocade tunic with puffed sleeves cinched at the elbow and wrist. Her blonde mane was tucked under a brown wig tied in a short ponytail, and a simple mask covered her face. After the team dropped her near the entrance, Clara loitered near the hedge row, waiting for an opportunity to blend in. It didn’t take long.

A Bentley rolled to a stop, and a couple emerged from the front in a cloud of satin and tulle as the costumed valet ran over. The driver adjusted his white wig and stepped out of the way. “Am I the only asshole who drove himself?” He called across the car to his wife. “Who knew not having a chauffeur put you below the fucking poverty line?”

His wife laughed and set a crown on top of her mile-high hair. “Save the jokes for inside. You want them as clients, you better charm their asses off.”

These two were perfect—outsiders and attention seekers. When the Bentley pulled away, Clara slipped into the space between them and hooked her arms through theirs. “May I share your carriage?”

The woman’s scarlet gown was adorned with a collar of ostrich feathers that brushed Clara’s face. “Oh, Chet,” she cooed. “Isn’t this fun.”

Ten yards up the driveway, security stopped them, checked their invitations, and directed the trio to the line of waiting carriages.

“Are we early? I hope we’re not early,” the man grumbled.

“Early is good. You don’t want to wait until people are too drunk to have a conversation. I’ve heard Kite’s parties turn into complete orgies,” his wife replied with veiled excitement.

“I’m sure people are exaggerating, but who knows? Maybe we can show the boys those magnificent tits.”

“Chet,” she scolded halfheartedly.

Clara cleared her throat and dropped the pitch of her voice. “You’re not too early. Lots of guests have arrived.” She gestured to the group of people waiting to enter at the main doorway.

“Well, that’s good,” Chet said.

A costumed footman was waiting to assist them at the carriage. The sun had set, but there was enough light in this staging area to host an NFL game. After a moment of awkwardness with the cumbersome costumes, the three of them settled in the single seat of the open-air conveyance.

The plumed horses had just begun clopping their way up the cobblestones when a sleek black Astin Martin Volante glided to a stop beside the coach. Clara wasn’t particularly impressed by cars, but she had to admit that car may have been the sexiest thing she had ever seen.

Until the door opened, and two black riding boots hit the pavement.

White britches, gold-trimmed, navy-blue military tailcoat—a simple black mask rested over his eyes beneath neatly styled dark brown hair.

Clara lost her breath. Miles Buchanan was a work of art.

And to top it off, he was dressed as the revolutionary Lafayette. He came with his own private joke, and Clara knew Miles was letting her in on it. God, she loved that.

“Have you got room for one more?” Miles asked in a crisp British accent with a panty-melting smile.

The husband began to decline the request when his wife spoke over him. “Of course! It’s a short trip. We’ll squeeze in.”

Miles joined the group in two long strides and leaned against the backrest of the coachman’s seat. He extended his hand to Chet, “Henry Rutledge.”

“Chet Neill.”

Clara saw the signet ring on Miles’s pinky and knew her role. If there was one party in all the world where a royal would be welcomed without question, it was this one. She stood and balanced herself using the armrest.

“Apologies, your grace. Would you take my seat?”

“Thank you, young man . You can sit at my feet,” he said—his words paired with a smoldering gaze.

“Oh, ah…”

“I insist.”

Clara had much more to lose in this little battle of wills. So, in an artless dance step, they switched positions, and Clara sank to her knees at Miles’s feet. The couple didn’t seem to notice the overt sexuality of the position. Clara rather enjoyed it and used a convenient bump on the cobblestones to steady herself by leaning on his thigh just below the outline of his growing erection. She kept her hand where it was.

Chet’s wife leaned forward. “Joanne Neill.” She tipped her head to Clara. “Did he say ‘your grace?’”

Miles looked suitably abashed.

Clara said, “His Grace is the Duke of Pembroke-on-Trent. His picture was on Page Six this week.”

Miles rested his hand on the side of Clara’s neck and pulled her slightly forward. “No need for formalities, young man. In The States, Henry will do just fine.” Then he grabbed the traditional tricorn hat from his head and rested it on his lap. When Clara moved to withdraw, Miles snaked his hand under the hat and placed her fingers around his erection. He squeezed, and she, in turn, gripped him.

Miles turned his attention to Joanne Neill. “Let’s keep that information between us if you don’t mind. I’d prefer to be a regular party-goer tonight. It’ll be our little secret.”

Clara couldn’t stop the eye roll. Joanne Neill all but swooned at Miles’s attention. She tightened her grip, and Miles made a sound in his throat, a sort of moaning grunt. Clara didn’t know if it was their secret touching, the jostle of the wheels over the cobblestones, or the man at whose feet she knelt, but her body felt like a cracking dam about to give way.

Clara wished this carriage ride would go on forever. She lost sight of why she was there, forgot about the couple a hair’s breadth away. All that mattered was this man, this strange kismet between them.

The carriage rolled to a stop under a portico draped with garlands of roses and lilies, and they climbed down. Chet was overly casual as he clapped Miles on the back. “Looking forward to talking more inside.” Clara had to hold her hand over her mouth to stop the laugh from escaping when Joanne bobbed up and down in what appeared to be a curtsy.

Clara handed Miles his hat. “Your Grace.”

Miles grabbed her by the arm and hauled her behind the carriage. With a bite of her ear lobe, he whispered, “If you didn’t have a job to do, I’d put you back on your knees between my legs in that carriage and have the driver go until I was satisfied.” She started to pull away when he added, “And Clara, I wouldn’t be satisfied until we switched places.”

Her knees gave out, and Clara stumbled back.

Miles smirked, “You okay there, young man ?”

She ran her hands down the front of her brocade tunic and shot back, “I’d be a lot better if you stopped talking and started doing.”

He strode toward her in measured steps, unconcerned by the clip-clopping of hooves indicating another carriage was approaching. Miles was too close when he slipped his hand under her tunic and traced between her legs. She could feel his breath on her lips as he spoke. “After we do this, the real action starts. Now, tell me the word.”

Clara spoke with her lips touching his. “Valkyrie.”

“Good girl.” He dropped the tiny device into her palm. “If anyone says Valkyrie over comms, we abort immediately.”

She leaned back, and those hypnotic blue eyes met his. “What if I say it?”

“I’ll find you. No matter what.”

With a decisive tug on the short front of his tailcoat, Miles inserted the earpiece, brushed by her, and entered the party.

In the center of the grand foyer, a liveried attendant stood beside a large wooden panel with what appeared to be the handles of at least fifty knives protruding at even intervals. The attendant gestured to the makeshift wall. “Choose your seat assignment for dinner, please.”

Miles withdrew a dagger. “ Table Eight ” was printed on the blade.

Clara did the same. “Table seventeen,” she said.

“Very good. Dinner will be served at nine. Enjoy your evening.”

“W ell, buddy, the good news is if you fall in the pool, there’s no shortage of flotation devices.”

Steady’s running commentary over the comm in his ear had Miles fighting to contain his smile. It was true; he had never seen so many corsetted breasts in his life. Miles was living out some thirteen-year-old boy’s masturbation fantasy and had no one to blame but himself. After informing Joanne Neill in the carriage that he was a Duke, he had uttered the magic words to her: let’s keep this between us . Miles had all but handed her a bullhorn. Husbands had been lurking, and wives had pounced. He checked the time on an extravagant grandfather clock: 8:30 p.m. Clara had disappeared twenty minutes ago. It came as no surprise to him that in this ocean of ripe breasts and eager hands, she was the only woman that interested him.

She was the only woman who ever had.

She was the only woman who ever would.

Miles was shaken from his epiphany by a new pair of breasts nudging his bicep. “Tell me, Henry, how long are you staying in town?”

Miles leaned back to escape the press of her cleavage. “Leaving tomorrow, sadly. Duty calls.”

“Well, I’d love to help make this a memorable visit for you. Lucien is a close friend. I know all the secret spots in the house.”

A master at the art of cocktail party extraction, Miles said, “How kind. Excuse me for a moment.”

A bony hand gripped his forearm as he made his way through the crowd. Miles turned to find a woman in a high-necked black gown, holding her mask by the end of a stick and giving him a thin smile.

“Good evening, madam. I’m in search of a libation.”

“Pembroke-on-Trent, you say, your grace .”

Uh oh. Miles cleared his throat.

The lady continued, “It must be a very small dukedom.”

Miles removed her hand and gave it a gentle pat. “Very.”

“Funny, I thought I knew them all.” She arched a penciled brow.

“As you said, it’s quite small,” Miles replied.

“I assume your reasons for attending this gaudy fete are rooted in pleasure, not ill will. My son, Lionel, lost most of his assets in crypto; he’s here scouting out investment opportunities for his next sure thing . He’ll learn eventually. I just hope he has two nickels to rub together when he does. My point is, I would hate to think there are people here who would take advantage of his na?veté.”

Leaning closer, Miles replied, “There are many people here who would take advantage. I am not one of them. My interests this evening are purely hedonistic.”

The woman patted his hand. “Spoken like a true royal.”

Miles laughed. “Indeed.”

The lady examined his costume with dancing eyes. “A commoner, pretending to be a Duke, costumed as a revolutionary—I wish we had time to get to know one another. Enjoy your evening.”

His crisp bow had the old woman chuckling as Miles left the ballroom. The expansive front hall was equally bustling as guests continued to arrive. A wide corridor at the back was punctuated by paned double doors, which led to a vast terrace where dinner would take place. Round tables with white cloths and massive floral arrangements dotted the flagstone.

In the foyer, the split curved staircase was roped off, but that didn’t stop people from coming and going to the second floor.

The attendant with the daggers still stood at the ready, but now only half a dozen knives remained. Miles guessed the blade was removed from the board as each table was filled. The pearl-encrusted handle he had chosen still protruded from the wood. The distinctive curved handle Clara had selected was gone. Miles felt a pique of irritation imagining Clara surrounded by lascivious old men pawing at her.

A servant rang a handheld gong announcing dinner, and a group of costumed courtiers brushed by him, heading to their tables. He surveyed the crowd, looking for Clara with no luck. He stifled his unease. Clara didn’t come to be the best thief in the world without incredible agility, timing, and skill. Nevertheless, Miles would keep an eye on her. He always did.

A hand on his shoulder stopped him, and Miles turned to face their host. Lucien Kite was a pompous fool aptly dressed as Louis XVI.

“You must be Henry Rutledge.” Kite held out a hand.

It didn’t much matter to Miles if Kite knew he was a poser or not. He had a play either way. He was either a corrupt royal interested in partnering with Kite or a con man out to bilk would-be investors. Kite would welcome both versions of his backstory. Either way, Miles was exactly what he was supposed to be: a distraction.

“Lucien Kite.”

“Mr. Kite, a pleasure.” Miles shook Kite’s offered hand.

“Please, call me Lucien. I was intrigued when your people called to secure an invitation to my little shindig. But then, I did a little research.”

Miles withdrew a silver case from his breast pocket, took out a cigarette, and tapped it on the closed lid before slipping it between his lips. “And what did you discover?”

Kite withdrew a lighter and held the flame up to Miles. “That your family’s shipping business and ties to the Turkish government are being underutilized.”

Once again, Twitch’s cyber skills have proven unmatched.

Miles let a hint of pleasure show—just enough for Kite to detect it—before masking his emotions. “I’m interested in hearing your thoughts on the matter, Lucien. I’ve recently inherited control of the company, and I’d like to employ some creative expansion strategies.”

“I may have a few ideas. Have your office set up a meeting. No shop talk tonight. Enjoy yourself.” Kite leaned closer. “Have a taste of what life is like when you’re in business with Lucien Kite.”

“Looking forward to it.”

Kite straightened his powdered wig with a bejeweled hand, then traded his empty rocks glass for the cocktail from the waiter. “It’s whiskey. I can’t stomach the bubbly. Cheers to an eventful evening.”

Glancing past Kite’s bejeweled grandeur, Miles followed the server as he navigated the crowd and saw a small gloved hand pluck the empty glass from the tray. Miles toasted King Louis as he and his entourage departed, Kite’s parting words tipping his lips. Eventful, indeed.

Miles dropped the unsmoked cigarette in a half-full champagne flute, strode out to the terrace, and chose the seat at his table with the most direct line of sight to Clara’s. After swiping Kite’s glass for the needed fingerprint, she would rendezvous with Calliope to change. Her dinner companions were primarily men, and Miles once again bristled at the thought of her surrounded by the letches attending this function. Where was she? How long could it possibly take to change costumes?

The brakes slammed on his thoughts as he followed the turning heads. Miles hadn’t even realized he was standing as he shifted to improve his view. He had to have imagined the collective gasp. The band finished a song. Conversation dimmed. Miles could hear the silence. Even his thoughts stopped racing. It was as if all the little demons chattering in his brain, for once, just shut the fuck up. And stared.

She stood at the threshold of the french doors, bathed in the glow of the house lights. Blonde hair cascaded over one shoulder, falling across a sapphire-blue brocade bodice. The bare skin of her chest glowed, and her lips were stained berry red. The gown’s skirt was comprised entirely of peacock feathers—the blue and green catching the light and the fronds fluttering in the gentle breeze. Across her eyes was a matching mask, and though her face was hidden, there was no mistaking that vivid blue.

Clara Gautreau was magnificent.

Music and talking resumed, and Miles’s brain rebooted as Clara floated across the terrace. She stood by her table while three men fought to hold her chair.

The woman next to Miles asked, “Did you just growl?”

“I beg your pardon?” Miles replied, affronted.

“I could have sworn… Oh, never mind. What brings you across the pond, Henry?”

Miles wanted to snap the woman’s head like a twig, but he had a part to play. So, he took his seat and resumed the idle chitchat, most of the time staring over the head of his dinner partner at the vision across the room.

Dinner was torture. Between the blowhards bragging about their racehorses and the women popping up at his shoulder to proposition him, Miles could barely monitor Clara. Every man at the party seemed to be stopping by her table to introduce themselves. Her dinner partner attempted to feed her. Miles watched as she reared back and held up a hand to stay him. Good girl.

As planned, Clara excused herself from the table during dessert. Kite’s parties were known to devolve into debauchery after dinner. Guests would be tipsy if not drunk and distracted by impending festivities. He watched from his seat as she wandered past the pool. A man dressed as a French soldier plucked two flutes from a passing tray and offered Clara one. She accepted and wound her free arm through his as they continued down the wide stone stairs to the elaborate hedge maze—the entrance bracketed by two immense topiary gargoyles. Miles was calm as the towering man led her into the labyrinth. He glanced around the perimeter and noticed Lucien Kite’s guards making the same observation. Fifteen minutes later, the couple reemerged, ascended the steps to the pool, and meandered to the dance floor. The orchestra had gone on break, and a notorious Vegas DJ was now spinning tunes. Colored lights flashed, and Miles watched as the pair danced to Nikki Minaj’s latest track.

Checking the time, Miles tapped a booted foot impatiently. Emily Bishop, in Clara’s peacock dress, and his brother continued their distraction on the dance floor, and, if all went according to plan, Clara had just entered Lucien Kite’s office.

A fter removing the peacock gown and giving it to Emily Bishop, Clara exited the hedge maze in the back. She skirted the edge of the property wearing the specially made gray gown. She glanced up at the party and spotted Emily and Tox on the dance floor, twirling and jumping to the thumping beat. When Clara had expressed concern about their ability to get into the party the guys had laughed. Clara, we once infiltrated the compound of a Congolese warlord. I think we can handle it.

Silent as a shadow, Clara wound through the formal rose garden at the side of the house and entered through an open patio door.

The second floor of Kite’s home was a labyrinth of hallways and alcoves. Memorizing the floor plan had been a complicated feat. There were stairways that led to hidden nooks, secret passageways, and even that spiral slide that descended to the kitchen.

Four guards were patrolling the upper floors—Kite had instructed them to be deferential to his guests and not interfere with partiers seeking out a private space to canoodle. Two stood sentry at Kite’s office. Clara passed them with a sultry smile as she slipped into the guest bath.

Once inside, she detached the specially constructed skirt of her costume—the four large pleated panels held everything she needed. Wearing the bodice and black leggings, Clara removed the small tool kit and the forgery from the lining.

After donning the latex gloves and setting her watch, she removed the access panel Miles had installed at the back of the tub when he posed as the plumber. Clara slipped through the small opening and stepped into Kite’s office. Somewhere was hanging above the fireplace.

With the penlight between her teeth, Clara stepped forward, then stopped. It was the smell of cut wood that struck her. Glancing at her feet, she noticed the altered floorboards. Kite was pulling out all the stops. He’d installed a pressure plate. Clara avoided Kite’s trap and disconnected the alarm. After removing the painting and replacing it with the forgery, she withdrew the small aerosol can that Very Valentine had given her and sprayed the surface of the copy. She gathered her supplies and stuffed everything into the nylon duffle also hidden in the voluminous skirt. She would lower the painting and the bag down to Ren, disguised as a caterer, waiting on the lawn with a serving trolly. Once again, Twitch had worked her magic to create Ren’s airtight employment background.

Thirty seconds to reroute the balcony door alarm, pick the lock, and be gone without a trace. Clara slipped onto the balcony and readied the wire. Just as she was about to attach the painting, a hissing scream and a pair of yellow eyes sent her flailing.

M iles choked down what he was sure was a delicious meal as he made small talk. He rechecked the time, convinced the tricked-out watch the Bishop Security team had given him was broken. How could seconds tick so slowly? Twitch had rigged a two-minute delay on the security feed. If all was going to plan, Clara would be finished in Kite’s office, as the video showed her climbing the stairs.

Miles laughed along with the table at a joke he hadn’t heard when he spotted Lucien Kite and a phalanx of security storming toward the house. That was his cue. The Duke stood and delivered a half-bow to the table. He started to turn away when a tug on his tailcoat halted him. The hand restraining him belonged to the drunken companion of the woman who had been dry-humping him all through dinner.

“Wallet or wang?”

“I beg your pardon?” Miles replied, still tethered by the man’s grip on his coat tail. This night was timed to the second; he didn’t have a moment to waste on this idiot. Nevertheless, he couldn’t make a scene.

“Wallet or wang? Portfolio or package? Dollars or dick?”

“I’m just popping into the loo,” Miles explained.

Drunkie was having none of it. “Every bitch here has been eye fucking you all night. So which of yours is big? Wallet or wang.”

Miles pried the man’s fingers loose, leaned over, and gripped his shoulder. “Both.”

Curtailing the urge to run, Miles skirted the sea of round tables and cut Kite off at the French doors.

“Lucien,” Miles held out his hand.

“Henry, are you enjoying your evening?”

If Kite was upset or off his game, he gave no indication. His outward calm unsettled Miles.

“Very much. Although, before the evening gets too Dionesian, I thought we could chat. I leave for London tomorrow. I’d prefer to discuss opportunities in person.”

“I understand. Unfortunately, my hosting duties are required at the moment.” Kite leaned closer. “There’s a little shrew inside that needs taming.”

At that moment, Miles had such a clear vision of smashing his fist into Lucien Kite’s face that he had to shake his head to clear it. With a tight smile, Miles bit out, “Another time then.”

He waited ten seconds for Kite to move away. The band had stopped, and the orchestra was tuning up poolside to accompany Kite’s famous fireworks display. As Miles turned to the house, a shriek above his head had him looking up just as something fell from the balcony into the bushes.

Miles turned the opposite way and headed for the main stairs.

C lara locked eyes with the great gray owl perched on the wall guarding her nest. She had completely forgotten Kite’s mention of it. The bird screeched again, warning her away from the three owlets poking their heads out beside her. Scooting back on her butt, she stared through the low balusters to the place Somewhere had landed in the hedge below. Clara sagged in relief as Ren walked by, plucked the painting out of the boxwood, and stowed it beneath the white cloth on the lower shelf of his cart.

Over the comm, Ren said, “You’re out of time, Clara. Toss the bag and go.”

Even through the closed balcony doors, Clara heard the muffled shouting from the hall. She scrambled to her feet, unhooked the rappelling wire, and tucked it in the side pocket of her leggings. Thank god the owl was not between her and her destination. After chucking the bag, she climbed over the low wall and gracefully leapt to the neighboring balcony. Clara slipped inside Kite’s bedroom as the first fireworks lit the sky in a burst of red.

T he orchestra was playing the 1812 Overture as fireworks exploded in the sky.

Raphael Garza was waiting in the bedroom when Clara dove in through the balcony doors and rolled to a stop. His puppets were dancing.

Garza helped Clara to her feet, and she thanked him with a warm smile. Part of him hated doing this to her, but it was overshadowed by dollar signs in his eyes.

Clara moved to the safe without delay. He stepped back silently and let her work. Clara’s reputation was well-deserved. Garza watched as she used a captured thumbprint to bypass the biometric lock, then attached a small device to decipher the combination. In seconds, she had the safe open and Kite’s book in hand.

Silently, she passed the book to Garza. It was almost ridiculous how easily he had planted the idea that he should be the one to sneak the book out of the house. Clara’s asshole boyfriend had actually suggested it—the gullible fool. Garza slipped the small journal into his jacket pocket and helped Clara into the new costume skirt waiting on the bed.

When she was dressed, Garza wordlessly squeezed her hand and slipped out of the room. One final thing to take care of, and then he was home free.

Sorry, Clara.

C lara stood in the doorway of Lucien Kite’s bedroom and watched Raphael Garza depart.

Outside, the orchestra played a tango.

Her masked Duke bumped into Garza, muttering an apology and continuing toward her. Dramatic violin music filled the hallway as a tall party guest rounded the corner and crashed into Miles. Both men stepped back in unconscious, mirrored movements. The guest sidestepped. Miles did the same, and the men continued in opposite directions.

Clara looked past the handsome man headed her way as the other guest, Tox, hooked arms with Emily Bishop, still wearing Clara’s peacock dress, and descended the stairs.

T he double doors to the office flew open. Lucien Kite burst in, then stopped. The room was as he had left it, dark and quiet.

One of the door guards stepped forward. “Sir, I haven’t left the door all night. No one has been in here.”

In a manner befitting his kingly attire, Kite strolled over to his money throne and sat. “Maybe not yet, but she’s coming.”

The other man said, “We’ll be right outside.”

“No,” Kite instructed. “Patrol the floor. Be discrete, but check the rooms and surveillance. Something’s not right.”

When the men left, Kite drummed his fingers on the desk. Where was she? He sat back and adjusted his wig. He hated to miss the debauchery, but if he had to stand guard over the painting to ensure The Lynx didn’t steal it, so be it.

A subtle movement caught his eye. At first, Kite thought a moth had gotten into the room. He glanced at the art. What the? A section of the painting was bubbling and peeling. The paint was dropping in curls on the mantle below. Kite stood and walked to where Somewhere hung, mindful of the pressure plate he had installed to catch the thief. Before his eyes, the paint coiled and fell away. The image below was only partially exposed, but Kite could already make out what it was: the back end of a horse.

“No.”

He stumbled back, looking frantically left and right. “Noooo!”

A figure appeared in the doorway.

Kite turned and sat at his desk. “You. Get in here. We have a problem.”

Raphael Garza stepped into the room. “Yes, we do.”

A t the doorway to Kite’s bedroom, Clara stood face-to-face with Miles. “All set?”

Miles seared her with a fiery look and replied, “Almost.” Then he backed her into the bedroom and kissed her with a fire and desperation that left her breathless. He buried his face in her neck and said, “I’ve wanted to do that all night. Show everyone who even looked at you who you belong to.”

His words left her dizzy and elated, but there was no time. “We have to move,” she whispered.

Miles stepped back and took her hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

He led her down the long hall to the main stairs, looking perfectly in place—two guests exploring the house. When they reached Lucien Kite’s office, Clara paused. The door was open. It took a moment to process what she was seeing.

Lucien Kite sat at his desk with a dagger in his heart and a trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth. Clara had never seen a dead body before. Kite stared right at her. His gaze vacant yet somehow accusatory. The fireworks changed his powdered wig and the pallor of his skin from red to blue to yellow, and Clara stood transfixed by the sight.

She stood frozen in place, taking in the bloody ruffles of his blouse, the painted blush on his cheeks, the curved handle of the blade protruding from his chest.

It was the dagger that indicated her table assignment, the curved-handled knife Clara had chosen when she entered the party—the one she had gripped barehanded. She clapped a hand over her mouth to quell her rebelling stomach, willing herself not to throw up on the carpet.

Miles pulled her to his side, his body tense. It was only then that she noticed Raphael Garza standing in the shadows. He wore latex gloves and a menacing expression, looking nothing like her old friend.

“You shouldn’t have come in here,” Garza said in an icy voice.

“You’re setting Clara up.” Miles gestured to the knife and then her little tool kit on the floor by the desk. When had Garza taken it?

Garza lifted a shoulder. “It’s not personal. It’s just business. Someone has to take the fall. She’s the logical choice.”

Miles took a step forward. “You’d really ruin her for money.”

Garza looked at Miles like he was speaking gibberish. “Of course. Only now, I have to kill her and you.” Garza pulled a gun and came around the desk, telling his concocted version of events. “I came in to check on Lucien and found you attacking him. In an attempt to stop you, I shot you both, but was too late to save him.” He jerked the gun in a silent command for them to move to the desk. As they rotated positions, Clara saw her opportunity.

Rather than step to the right of the desk, Clara pulled Miles to the left, forcing Garza to step back. He was almost where she needed him. She brushed her hand across Kite’s desk, sending a half-full glass of whiskey flying. Garza retreated to avoid the liquid.

And stepped on the newly installed pressure plate.

In an instant, a trap door in the ceiling fell open, and a cargo net dropped over Garza, pinning him down and sending the gun spinning across the floor. Leave it to Kite to plan a grand scheme to catch her.

Miles was already moving when she regained her composure. With a kick to the temple, he knocked Garza out. Then he wiped the knife handle, grabbed Clara’s tool kit, and pocketed Garza’s gun.

“Come on, Bluebird.”

She tugged on his hand, inches from the unconscious man who had betrayed her. “The book.”

“It’s been handled.” Miles hurried her to the door.

“What do you mean? How?”

Miles all but shoved her into the hall. “You’re not the only pickpocket here, Clara.”

W hen they stepped into the hallway, Miles peered over the banister, spotting a group of determined security guards pushing through the crowd toward the stairs.

The pressure plate Garza stepped on must have triggered an alarm. Behind them was a dead body, in front of them, trigger-happy mercenaries. Miles spoke into the comm, “Valkyrie.” Then, he turned to Clara. “Plan B?”

“Always. Follow me.”

Winding through the corridors, she finally stopped before a closed door that appeared to be a closet. Clara pulled it open, revealing the top of the famed spiral slide that ran from the attic to the basement.

“After you,” she said.

Miles climbed over the low side rail. Then, without missing a beat, he scooped Clara up by her waist and placed her facing him on his lap. She hiked up her skirt and straddled him, wrapping her arms behind his neck.

She fit on his lap like a missing puzzle piece. Miles wrapped his arms around her and, with a push, sent them careening down the slide.

They spun and swooped down the spiral, eyes locked, holding tight. They were suspended in the moment as light and space revolved around them.

Miles slowed them with the sides of his boots, and they came to a smooth stop in a cleaning pantry. Neither of them wanted to move.

Clara pressed her lips to his. “That was dizzying.”

He chuckled. “Come on, Bluebird. I’ll hold you up.”

They passed through the kitchen, avoiding the catering staff, who were apparently unaware of the murder that had just taken place. Seconds later, they were outside, racing across the lawn.