Claire squeezed Theo’s hand, and he squeezed back. “His passion is returned, my lady.”
The woman’s smile deepened. “It’s Antheia. Please, do call me that. I look forward to learning more about you tonight at our little party.” She put her black-gloved hand on Claire’s shoulder. “You’ll find it far more exciting than this sterile affair.”
And that settled it. Antheia was flirting. Claire blushed. A woman flirting with her? If she hadn’t already grown used to Theo’s strange ways… Then Theo said something that almost slipped past her.
“Excuse me?” she asked.
The president laughed. “Theo, you’ll have to watch my Antheia. She has low intentions with regards to Claire. Your Theo was introducing us. The brash man stole my name. I too am a Theodore. Theodore Christakos at your service.”
Laughter echoed around her. She managed to stumble through the rest of the conversation. Since others awaited their turn to meet the president, it was merely seconds before Theo continued on into the ballroom, and found their seats in the large alcove reserved for them. Arrowhead-shaped lamps illuminated the white linen of two oval tables and plush red chairs.
Theo directed her to throw her light fur wrap over a chair, then whisked her onto the dance floor. All the lessons in dancing over the past years allowed her to dance automatically without making a fool of herself. Her feet slid and spun across the shining timber floor while her mind skittered off into a maze of anxiety.
Above them hung crystal chandeliers, dangling from the ceiling three stories up. She knew who Inkline wanted assassinated.
The name had penetrated like a spear—Theodore Christakos. He’d been her target all along. Inkline would have already instructed her to eliminate her Theo if he’d been the target. Why wait for a highly guarded ball?
She twirled and flounced about the dance floor while her thoughts swirled far faster, and she sank deep into a mire of grief. Her lies had returned to torture her.
And still, she could not bring herself to do what she knew must be done. Not yet. One last time to be held in his arms…then, maybe. Her eyes brimmed with unshed tears. The dance music died away.
Their table was covered in delicate gold-embroidered linen. She stared at the fine needlework as waiters came and went, bringing food, before they withdrew and pulled the curtains across for privacy. The goblets, cutlery, and plates were beautifully designed. She ran a finger along the moisture on her goblet. Bubbles raced to the surface of the pink champagne.
What to do? Inkline wouldn’t just go away.
A scent of lemon came to her. The room jarred, shifting as if an earthquake had struck.
She found the next instruction under the table’s edge. Francine again—some imbalance of her body’s chemistry, something to do with the camouflage mechanism perhaps—meant the fragrance of lemon always accompanied the woman.
Inkline had the gall to request a meeting before she terminated the target. It was the first part of the message that had made the room spin.
Your mission reaffirmed. Kill Theodore Christakos. She was right. Shocking despite everything.
She stared at Theo.
“Claire? Claire?” He took up her hand, unclenched her fingers from the table’s edge. “What is it? You’re cold.” A deep crease furrowed between his eyes. Stricken, she bit her lip. Tears rolled from her eyes and down her cheeks, across her mouth. Here it was, the end of her world. She would not betray him this way. If someone was to be hurt, it must be her.
She slid off the chair and stayed there on one knee, feeling as if her throat had seized up. Not properly kneeling. True submissive posture seemed wrong. This was business, not sex, and begging off and pretending she was some little brainless type who hadn’t understood what she was concealing… So very wrong. If she’d hurt him, she’d take whatever was coming.
She bent her head, tugged her hand from Theo’s. He let her go, his fingers sliding across hers…and gone. Would he ever hold her hand again? The depth of her sorrow had stung him. He must guess she had something awful to tell him.
Dismayed, terrified, she looked at the tip of his shiny shoe and whispered. “I’m sorry. So very sorry. I’ve lied to you.” Her mouth and voice shook. She paused a few seconds to collect herself, then looked up at him. “I’m not a bodyguard. I’m an assassin and”—she swallowed—“I have just learned that my target was the president.” Behind and to her right, where Dankyo stood, she heard a sharp hiss of shock, then the thring of a sword blade being drawn.
“If you would let me make amends, if you trust me enough, I will help you to…to find Inkline. He’s alive, and here, somewhere.”