Polly pressed a hand to her stomach, trying to still the cyclone of need.
It turned out the memory was exactly what she needed, because suddenly, the hotel’s interior wasn’t intimidating. It was…sexy. Luxurious. Lit with tasteful lamps, the lobby bespoke elegance with a hint of edge, achieved by the seductive strains of modern jazz. She and Sera were drawing the attention of the male clientele, as planned, while receiving reproachful once-overs from the conservatively dressed women who frequented the upscale hotel. Bowen eased the sting, however, by sending winks in their direction.
Henrik’s surly expression—whether intentional or not—garnered a different kind of attention. With his size and authoritative demeanor, he was intimidating under normal circumstances, but his lack of smile was in such contrast to the amused, half-drunk expressions worn by Sera, Bowen, and Polly, he stood out. They followed scripted signs through the lobby and down a wide, lushly carpeted corridor where big band music signaled the event.
Just before they reached the entrance, Polly tucked a hand inside the crook of Henrik’s arm, well aware of any possible eyes on them. Reitman was just inside those doors, marking the first time she would see him since the nightclub. God, had it really only been a matter of days? “Your animosity is showing,” Polly murmured to Henrik, smiling as she said it.
“Good.” His jaw flexed. “Tonight, I’m a fallen cop who’s been reduced to fighting for money. Not that far off when you think about it. I don’t have much of a reason to smile.”
Polly wanted to reassure him things would get better, but the words would have been empty. “You have every right to hate me for digging into your business, I—”
“The only person I hate is myself. For not seeing it coming. For needing the information you found in the first place. But I do. I need it.” He looked irritated with himself for revealing too much. “Your smile is slipping, Polly.”
He’s right. Polly mentally shook herself, putting her game face back on. Austin was probably shitting a brick, listening to her talking about anything that didn’t pertain to Henrik’s upcoming boxing match.
A man stood with a clipboard just outside the partially ajar door, watching the foursome approach with an expression of awe and apprehension. Before tonight, she’d never stopped to wonder what their band of ex-convicts presented to the world, but they were nothing short of daunting in street clothes. Throw in party attire and a fuck-off attitude and they were a force. She could hear Austin’s accented voice in her head. Walk in like you own the bloody place. For all they know, you do own it. Nine out of ten people abhor confrontation, so be someone they want to avoid. No one holding a clipboard is desperate enough to keep their job that they’ll fight you about entering a party where you clearly belong.
Bowen turned to Polly and Henrik, speaking loud enough for Clipboard to hear. “Just one quick drink, I swear, then we’ll get back to my place.”
“Thank God,” Polly returned, leaning into Henrik’s side. “I’ve been to so many of these fundraisers lately, I should be nominated for sainthood.”
Sera threw her a skeptical look. “Uh. I think it’s safe to say that last night knocked you out of the running.”
Three of them burst into laughter, Henrik being the sole holdout, as Bowen jerked open the ballroom door. They didn’t pause on their way into the noisy event, ignoring the suited gentleman’s muttered request to see an invitation. Polly trailed a finger over his chest as they passed, cutting him off.
And just like that, one obstacle was down.
The biggest one lay ahead.
Inside the semi-crowded darkness, playing the carefree party girl was easier than it had been in the lobby. For one thing, there were a lot of boobs on display, not just her own, although she could feel eyes traveling over her as they filtered through the guests on their way to the bar. My mistress.
Polly lifted a glass of champagne from a passing tray and tipped it to her lips, allowing the healthy swallow to slide down her throat. Immediately, the music sounded louder, the risk of their actions more pronounced. There were approximately two hundred guests at the function, wealth projecting from each of them. Reitman would see them as marks.