Chapter 1 - THE WOMAN LARKIN DIDN’T RECOGNIZE
Larkin stopped three feet in front of me.
For almost four seconds, he said nothing.
That alone was worth at least half of the five thousand dollars I had spent.
His eyes moved once from my face to the black silk dress, then back to my face.
Not my body.
My face.
Recognition arrived slowly.
“Penelope?”
Thomas laughed from across the ballroom.
Loud enough for several people to hear.
“Oh, this is magnificent.”
I turned toward him.
Thomas Steves wore a white dinner jacket and the expression of a man who believed the evening had been created for his amusement.
“Something funny?”
His smile widened.
“No.”
He looked me over.
“Not anymore.”
Larkin’s jaw tightened.
Interesting.
Then he offered his arm.
“Walk with me.”
I did not take it.
His eyes dropped toward my hand.
Then back up.
“Is that an order?”
The question slipped out before I could stop it.
For three years, I had answered him with yes, Mr. Steves.
Of course, Mr. Steves.
Right away, Mr. Steves.
Now hundreds of criminals, lawyers, bankers, politicians, and women who knew exactly which secrets to ignore were watching us.
Larkin’s expression changed.
“No.”
He lowered his arm.
“An invitation.”
Better.
I followed him toward the far side of the ballroom.
People stared.
Some openly.
I heard one man whisper:
“Who is she?”
Another answered:
“Steves’s accountant.”
Secretary.
Accountant.
Furniture.
Whatever made them comfortable.
Larkin stopped beside a marble column.
“What are you doing?”
I smiled.
“Attending the gala.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Do I?”
His eyes narrowed.
Then:
“Thomas told you this was entertainment.”
There it was.
“He didn’t need to.”
“I didn’t invite you to humiliate you.”
That surprised me.
“No?”
“No.”
“Then why did you?”
Before he could answer, a man approached.
Late fifties.
Silver hair.
Deep tan.
Black tuxedo.
I recognized him immediately.
Roman Bellini.
Owner of Bellini Maritime.
Also one of the names that appeared repeatedly in shell-company transfers I processed every quarter.
He looked at me.
And froze.
Not because of the dress.
Recognition.
Real recognition.
My stomach tightened.
Roman whispered:
“Margaret?”
The name hit me like cold water.
My mother’s name.
Margaret Woods.
Dead twelve years.
Larkin’s face turned hard.
Roman stepped closer.
“My God.”
I held still.
“My name is Penelope.”
He stared at my eyes.
Then said:
“You have her face.”
I felt the room shift beneath me.
Larkin moved subtly between us.
“Roman.”
The warning was quiet.
Roman ignored him.
“To think you kept her here.”
I looked at Larkin.
“What does that mean?”
No answer.
Roman smiled without warmth.
“Your boss never told you?”
“Told me what?”
Larkin’s gaze moved toward Thomas.
Across the ballroom, Thomas was no longer smiling.
That frightened me more than anything.
Roman leaned closer.
“Your father tried to destroy half the men in this room.”
My lungs stopped.
My father, Joseph Woods, had died when I was nineteen.
Officially, car accident.
He had been a forensic accountant.
Quiet.
Meticulous.
Nothing remotely connected to organized crime.
At least, that was what I believed.
Roman continued:
“He had records.”
Larkin finally spoke.
“That’s enough.”
Roman laughed.
“You hired her without telling her why?”
I looked at Larkin.
“Why?”
He said nothing.
Then Thomas began walking toward us.
Not casually.
Fast.
And suddenly I understood.
May you like
The gala was never about making me look ridiculous.
Thomas wanted someone here to recognize me.
