I let out a sharp, noisy little laugh, turned on my heel, and headed for the far end of the hall. Pushing through the crowd circling the band, I said to Severin,
"Now what, genius?"
After a beat, Severin's voice crackled in my ear:
"Did I hear that right? You two were flirting?"
I blinked, stunned, and stopped dead. A waiter glided past with a tray and dipped his head to me.
"Fuck you, Severin," I muttered, eyes on the floor. "Don't shred my nerves."
Grinding my teeth, I kept my gaze on the girls dancing on the poles.
"Did you miss it? Ashur and the Rose organisation are here. And the Union's sold the painting—we just don't know to whom."
Severin's tone tightened, bored and cold as ever.
"Okay, okay… I'm on it. You heard the fat bastard: sold to the Russian intermediaries. Find the Russian contact; we need to know who we're up against so we can read their next move. I'm working it from my side."
I drew a deep breath, tried to settle my pulse, and swept the room.
There were too many guests to pick out which one might be Russian.
And I no longer blamed the weight of the stares on my dress alone. Any one of them could be Rose—under orders, like Ashur said, to take me in.
I scanned the hall, stopped near the band, and spotted Ashur at a distance… talking to a tall woman in a lavish gold dress, blonde hair, a thin frame.
"I think I've found the Russian contact."
Severin rushed back, all jokes gone:
"How can you be sure?"
I kept still, pretending to enjoy the music, eyes pinned to the woman in gold.
Ashur stood beside her. They touched glasses.
I swallowed and watched them through narrowed eyes.
Three men in suits lingered at spaced intervals around her, pretending to be busy; all three were tuned to her—and to her chat with Ashur.
From their hands and the way they stood, I could tell they were bodyguards. Which meant she mattered.
I picked up a glass of wine from the table and deliberately lifted it to my lips.
"Ashur doesn't make conversation unless he's ordered to. He won't even meet your eyes unless you're either Rose—or an enemy."
Severin was silent. I sipped and went on:
"Ashur's hunting the painting too. Our next step is finding the Russian contact, so of course he'll want that contact to get to the piece. Which means she's probably the one."
Severin's voice came back, cheerful and mocking:
"You're becoming almost bearable."
I couldn't stop the tug at my mouth. The music swelled; couples spun into the centre to dance.
I swept the edges of the room… praying I was right.
Ashur left the woman and moved off, swallowed by the dark and the crush.
I set my wine down and, tired of the noise and heat, fixed on the pianist at the keys.
Severin snapped me back:
"You're right; I pulled her details from the guest list. Leave the rest to me—they're in our net."
He paused, then:
"Check your right. Ashur's talking to the chubby blowhard. Go… distract him."
My brows knit. I growled,
"What are you thinking?"
No answer. I took a long breath, grabbed my glass, drank a little more, and then, glass in hand, drifted towards them with an easy sway.
Breathe evenly. No trace of nerves. No trace of rage.
The suited man with the mask and gold tie broke off his talk with Ashur as soon as he saw me. He turned, baring a greasy smile.
Ashur turned, too. The way his lips parted—cold, empty—set my teeth on edge.
"The beautiful lady, again!"
He gestured at my dress and said to Ashur,
"Do you agree with me—she is a goddess, isn't she? Or a miniature painting come to life?"
I nearly gagged on the spot. Severin hissed in my ear:
"He clocked the value of that dress, and you didn't!"
I bit my lip to smother a laugh. Couldn't decide whether to kill Severin or keep him for the punchlines.
To the man, I said sweetly,
"Thank you… a gift from a famous Italian designer."
Severin snapped, icy:
"A gift? A gift? Do you know what I paid for it?!"
I pressed my lips together to stop the laugh. I could feel Ashur's stare.
I flicked a glance back, catching him off guard for half a second; calmly, he still didn't look away.
The man smiled at Ashur.
"Do you two know each other, or shall I make introductions?"
Ashur lifted his wine to his mouth, took a sip, and, eyes locked on mine, said in that strange, unreadable tone,
"Yes. We met a long time ago."
The man grinned; two gold teeth flashed. I wanted to plant my fist in his mouth.
He turned to me, oozing,
"But I haven't introduced myself to this beautiful goddess."
He reached for my hand and bent, eyes glossy and dark, and said,
"Gustav."
One of my brows crept up. We'd already run his file as host of the auction.
He worked for the filthy Triangle Union and handled their illegal, inhuman deals.
I smiled wide and offered my hand.
"Pleasure."
Gustav bowed and kissed my knuckles—but Ashur stepped in on a long stride, reached out, and snatched my hand back from Gustav's hold. Clasping my hand tight, he said to Gustav, cool and firm,
"Forgive me, but I'm mad about this song… and this lady promised me a dance."