might throw up.” What if her father had freed himself already and was there?
“Deep breaths. You can do this.”
The doorman opened her door, and Mirren swallowed her grumbles as she ducked her head to get out of the car. She relaxed her shoulders and kept her head and gaze level, as if she knew exactly what she was doing. It’s how her father stood.
She would be her father’s daughter tonight. She had to be in order to pull this off, but also, she was curious. If her father hadn’t shot her fiancé and hadn’t tried to take David from her, if he’d loved her and had invited her into his world, what would her life have been like? What was she turning her back on?
A warm hand at the small of her back signaled Vincent had given over the car keys and joined her. She liked him by her side. He made her feel grounded, an irony that wasn’t lost on her. For a man so fraught, he was like solid stone beside her. She didn’t doubt his promise of loyalty, however much she doubted her own.
He wore a perfectly tailored tuxedo pulled from his closet and had both shaved and done something to his hair that set it waving handsomely back from his face. He was waking world Vincent: carelessly handsome with a Hollywood smile. The wariness in his gaze and hitch in his breath hinted at his inner struggle, but only she would notice.
They entered together, and she found that she fit the pocket of air at his shoulder perfectly. They moved as a unit, a first for her. The madman and the nightmare.
“It’ll be fun,” Vincent said in her ear.
“And why not?” she murmured back at him. The project was so foolhardy that she inhaled for courage and ended up giddy. She’d been running from her father, afraid. Now she was heading straight into his people. Her people.
Inside the lobby, dark polished wood was set aglow by oversized crystal chandeliers that hung like stars captured from space and displayed for the pleasure of the elite guests who entered. The effect was both cold and rich at the same time.
Vincent stopped at the concierge desk. “Senator Fleight’s Literacy Power event?”
They were directed to the Roosevelt Room.
A tapestry rug ran the length of the lobby before breaking into a matching runner that stretched down a long hall with a series of double doors, each pair labeled with the name of an American president. A man in a black suit, clipboard in hand, stood outside the Roosevelt Room.
“Vincent Blackman and Mirren Lambert,” Vincent told him with a sideways lean to look inside the room.
Mirren worked hard to keep the tension out of her shoulders. Confidence. Power. She was a goddess. Her father had told her as much, and Vincent had said so, too.
“I’m sorry. You’re not on the list,” the man said.
“We’re guests of Agatha Fleight, the senator’s daughter,” Vincent said.
The man was unmoved. “You must be on the list to enter.”
Vincent stayed friendly. “How about you speak with Agatha and give her our names? Vincent Blackman and Mirren Lambert . We’ll wait here.”
Mirren was impressed with Vincent’s calm. He had to be just as wild as ever under that smooth expression and well-mannered tone.
The man at the door frowned but stepped inside the room. He spoke to someone, who spoke to someone. Vincent gave Mirren a quick, white smile while they waited. It would’ve irritated her if he didn’t follow it with a head-to-toe shiver, gritting those same teeth together. The smile turned to a momentary snarl. He glanced over at her, forcing the smile back on his face. “Don’t mind me,” he said.
Here she was, about to show someone what she really was, her true nature, and she wanted to laugh out loud. Funeral humor, she thought they called it.
A woman with a bothered expression on her face—mouth tight, forehead tense—came to the door and looked at them each in turn.
Mirren recognized Agatha from the picture on Steve Coll’s tablet—no makeup but polished, a little harried to be
“Deep breaths. You can do this.”
The doorman opened her door, and Mirren swallowed her grumbles as she ducked her head to get out of the car. She relaxed her shoulders and kept her head and gaze level, as if she knew exactly what she was doing. It’s how her father stood.
She would be her father’s daughter tonight. She had to be in order to pull this off, but also, she was curious. If her father hadn’t shot her fiancé and hadn’t tried to take David from her, if he’d loved her and had invited her into his world, what would her life have been like? What was she turning her back on?
A warm hand at the small of her back signaled Vincent had given over the car keys and joined her. She liked him by her side. He made her feel grounded, an irony that wasn’t lost on her. For a man so fraught, he was like solid stone beside her. She didn’t doubt his promise of loyalty, however much she doubted her own.
He wore a perfectly tailored tuxedo pulled from his closet and had both shaved and done something to his hair that set it waving handsomely back from his face. He was waking world Vincent: carelessly handsome with a Hollywood smile. The wariness in his gaze and hitch in his breath hinted at his inner struggle, but only she would notice.
They entered together, and she found that she fit the pocket of air at his shoulder perfectly. They moved as a unit, a first for her. The madman and the nightmare.
“It’ll be fun,” Vincent said in her ear.
“And why not?” she murmured back at him. The project was so foolhardy that she inhaled for courage and ended up giddy. She’d been running from her father, afraid. Now she was heading straight into his people. Her people.
Inside the lobby, dark polished wood was set aglow by oversized crystal chandeliers that hung like stars captured from space and displayed for the pleasure of the elite guests who entered. The effect was both cold and rich at the same time.
Vincent stopped at the concierge desk. “Senator Fleight’s Literacy Power event?”
They were directed to the Roosevelt Room.
A tapestry rug ran the length of the lobby before breaking into a matching runner that stretched down a long hall with a series of double doors, each pair labeled with the name of an American president. A man in a black suit, clipboard in hand, stood outside the Roosevelt Room.
“Vincent Blackman and Mirren Lambert,” Vincent told him with a sideways lean to look inside the room.
Mirren worked hard to keep the tension out of her shoulders. Confidence. Power. She was a goddess. Her father had told her as much, and Vincent had said so, too.
“I’m sorry. You’re not on the list,” the man said.
“We’re guests of Agatha Fleight, the senator’s daughter,” Vincent said.
The man was unmoved. “You must be on the list to enter.”
Vincent stayed friendly. “How about you speak with Agatha and give her our names? Vincent Blackman and Mirren Lambert . We’ll wait here.”
Mirren was impressed with Vincent’s calm. He had to be just as wild as ever under that smooth expression and well-mannered tone.
The man at the door frowned but stepped inside the room. He spoke to someone, who spoke to someone. Vincent gave Mirren a quick, white smile while they waited. It would’ve irritated her if he didn’t follow it with a head-to-toe shiver, gritting those same teeth together. The smile turned to a momentary snarl. He glanced over at her, forcing the smile back on his face. “Don’t mind me,” he said.
Here she was, about to show someone what she really was, her true nature, and she wanted to laugh out loud. Funeral humor, she thought they called it.
A woman with a bothered expression on her face—mouth tight, forehead tense—came to the door and looked at them each in turn.
Mirren recognized Agatha from the picture on Steve Coll’s tablet—no makeup but polished, a little harried to be
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