“Skit, Peter.” She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to calm herself down. “My heart is still racing. That was Lauren with Alex, right? His minder? Are you sure she was all right?”
“Yeah, that was Lauren. In the cast chat, he said he was bringing her tonight.” One hand resting protectively on her lower back, he used the other to scratch at his beard, the motion twitchy and fretful. “I don’t know for sure, but I saw her walking off with one of the event organizers afterward, and she seemed to be moving okay. And if she’d been seriously hurt, we both know Alex would have lost his shit entirely.”
“Instead of only partially.” Her weak attempt at a smile died immediately.
Alex’s bellow for help on Lauren’s behalf could have been heard at Stina and Olle’s home across the Atlantic, and no wonder. That sickly-pale intruder with greasy dark hair had appeared out of fucking nowhere. Babbling something about red pills, he’d forced his way through the crowds and leaped onto the red carpet, apparently in an attempt to attack Alex. Only to knock down Laureninstead, when she reacted more quickly than her charge and blocked the man from reaching his target.
Maria and Peter had watched in horror from their spot on the red carpet, too far away to intervene. They hadn’t been able to protect their friend or his minder. Not before the attack, and not before security dragged the man away.
When Maria sucked in a hitching breath, Peter pulled her into his arms, one big hand warm on her nape, the other rubbing her back. After a minute, her pulse no longer thumped in her ears. But when she tried to leave his arms, he didn’t let her.
In all honesty, she didn’t fight that hard.
“You have my phone.” Because fucking designers still didn’t put enough pockets in women’s clothing, and she hated fiddling with a clutch all night. “Can you text him and ask if Lauren got hurt?”
“Of course.” It was a low rumble, and he still didn’t let her go or reach for his phone. “Shit, Maria. Thank fuck you’re fine. I saw that asshole barge onto the red carpet, and I had no idea what to expect. If he’d had a gun and turned on you next...”
When his voice broke, he trailed off. His arms squeezed around her just a bit too tightly for comfort, and it was her turn to rub his back—which she did gladly, grateful for his own safety.
As another cluster of auction attendees arrived, he pressed one last soft kiss to her temple and pulled back, looking noticeably calmer. “Let me text him, and then we’ll grab you some free booze and spend tons of money on things we’d never normally buy. I personally enjoy bidding on signed headshots of Alex, drawing terrible, terrible things on his face with a Sharpie, and then sending him pics of the desecration while he complains about how I’m a monster who’s wounded him to his very soul. That’s a direct quote, by the way.”
The corner of his mouth indented in a subtle smile, another indication he’d relaxed at last.
“Hmmm. Evilandcharitable. I like it.” She tapped her chin consideringly. “But is the booze truly free when event tickets cost a hundred and fifty dollars apiece?”
It was a philosophical question rather than a complaint. She had the money to spend. They both did. And Alex’s choice of charity, a regional nonprofit working to prevent domestic violence and help survivors rebuild their lives, couldn’t have appealed to her more.
“Fine.” Heaving an exaggerated sigh, he tapped out his text and slid his phone back in his pocket. “I take it back. It’s not free booze; it’s boozeat no additional cost.”
He mumbled something under his breath, and it sounded very much likeyou Norse nitpicker. When she cast him a sharp look—because that was nothing less than blatant provocation, given their earlier discussion about the wordNorse—he smiled innocently and angled his elbow in invitation.
Arm in arm, they entered the expansive ballroom. This early in the evening, they still had plenty of time to grab a drink, eat hors d’oeuvres, and peruse the silent auction items displayed on long tables at the back of the room before the live auction began. Plenty of guests had already arrived, though, chatting in small groups and clad in everything from sparkly cocktail dresses to tube tops and ripped jeans.
The tube top people were probably musicians. Even she knew that.
“No one told me I could wear a tee instead of a dress,” she said as they stood in line for the open bar. “At this very moment, I could have been silently announcingAgnetha and Anni-Frid Were Robbedto everyone who glanced at my boobs.”
He pursed his lips. “Is this an ABBA thing?”
“Yes.”
“Do I want to know?”
“Probably not.”
“Am I going to find out anyway?”
“What do you think?” She smiled at him, beaming with good cheer.
Now at the front of the line, he heaved another exaggeratedly downtrodden sigh and ordered himself a mojito mocktail while she requested a glass of pinot noir. And by the time they crossed the room to the silent auction tables, his reserves of ABBA-related knowledge had expanded significantly.
“—though they didn’t write the songs, their voices and performances drove the success of the band, so they deserve more critical respect than they’ve traditionally received,” she finished. “And don’t even get me started on a newly divorced Björn having his very sad ex-wife sing ‘The Winner Takes It All.’ Even though she apparently loves that song, what a dick move, as you Americans say.”
He scratched his bearded chin. “You, uh, clearly have strong feelings about this.”
“I have thecorrectfeelings about this,” she told him, and he raised his hands in surrender.
When they reached the first table, she snorted when she saw the current bids for a two-night stay in a five-star San Diego resort and the opportunity to be a walk-on in a cult-favorite sitcom. The going price for the next item, an exclusive wine-tasting retreat in Napa, almost made her choke on the fig, honey, and goat cheese crostini a server had offered her moments before.