She smoothed down his lapels. “There we go. You look quite smart.”
“Meaning I looked stupid before?” He scowled at her.
“Smart as in dashing.” She lied effortlessly, then dusted off his shoulders before miming brushing away some imaginary lint from his sleeves. “Quite presentable.”
“Smart and presentable.” He seemed to be trying to mimic her intonations. “You look hot.”
She managed to turn her back and not roll her eyes. At the end of this, she would’ve mastered the ability to keep a straight face in any conversation. Collecting her clutch, she headed for the door, and unlike most gentlemen, Uranium didn’t even try to make it there before she did to open door for her. Fortunately for him, she was quite liberated. Once she had the door open, she glanced back.
Still standing next to the dresser, he fidgeted uncomfortably, then tugged at his collar. “I hate this shit.”
“You don’t have to enjoy it to get business done. Half the fun of this kind of dance is pretending to be someone you’re not. So, don’t be you tonight. Simply be a man who expects to be waited on, to be entertained, and remember all these people are here just for you.”
He grunted. “Keep an eye out. It could be dangerous.”
Was that a note of concern in his voice? He didn’t need to be going soft on her now.
“I’m always on my guard, haven’t you noticed?”
“I mean these are really dangerous people. You think you know what dangerous looks like, but Ricky surrounds himself with powerful—” He didn’t finish the statement. Instead, he simply shrugged. “Just stick with me. We’ll get this shit done.”
He strode out ahead of her and down the hall without waiting. Shaking her head, Arsenic closed the door before she followed. Downstairs, they found the party in full swing. The champagne flowed and the canapés were making their circuits.
What looked like a dinner party on the surface turned out to be nothing of the sort. A proper dinner party would’ve involved sitting to eat, hors d’oeuvres were reserved for evenings sans the serving a proper meal.
Footmen managed the serving and the wine. Yet, maids lined the room as well. It seemed like a mockery of fine events. As though someone had seen something in a film once about a high dinner party at an estate, then tried to mimic it with their own special touches.
Really quite vulgar. Pasting on her most pleasant smile, Arsenic encouraged Uranium into the crowd.Time to identify all the players.
Hitoshi Tesoro. A member of the chapter of the Japanese Yakuza.
Abdel Nazneen. A well-known terrorist with ties to ISIL.
Philippe Le’champes-Salogne. Former French intelligence, turned traitor after being caught selling weapons from a military base in Afghanistan.
These are all arms dealers.
Too many arms dealers.
She smiled and greeted, shook hands, and created her mental notes. Nearly a full third of the party were arms dealers of some kind—some small, some medium, and at least one large, that she knew of.
Manuel Ortega, however, didn’t do business outside of revolutionaries. He had a code that didn’t involve selling to criminals. Shockingly enough, of all those present, Arsenic actually admired him. He had the power and the influence to stay out of the legal crosshairs of multiple countries, yet he quietly funded the sincerest of resistance efforts.
He stuck out in this place like a vicar in a brothel. Gravitating toward him, she kept an eye on Uranium as he weaved through the crowd, looking for a drink. Their host was nowhere to be seen.
Ortega gave her a pleasant smile and inclined his head. Unlike their host, he didn’t bother to try and kiss her hand. “Good evening,Señora.”
“Señora?” She held up her left hand, bare of any ornamentation. “Not quite.”
For a split-second, Ortega’s smile went from purely polite and cool business to amused with a hint of sheepishness. “Lo siento, señorita. This type of party is not my forte.”
“Well, needs must,” she told him, not bothering to disguise her gracious acceptance of his apology. “It does seem to be quite the gathering. And very festive.”
Ortega shrugged. “It’s an option. Give a pig a bath, dress it in finery, and serve it wine. It is still a pig.”
She couldn’t have said it better, nor quite as colorfully.
“Despite having met probably the most fascinating guest in attendance, please excuse me.Venga.” He gave the last curt order to the two men with him. Ortega diverted across the room, and though she sipped her champagne, touching it to her lips periodically in the mimicry of taking a drink, she watched Ortega leave.