Page 20 of Captured

“What?”

Stefan remained at her side, loose and easy, but Lauren felt as if she’d been turned to stone. She pivoted in a careful three-pointed step, smiled an exact three-quarter smile, and tilted her head precisely eleven degrees as she registered the three people striding across the wide white drive, as if they’d emerged from a stroll through some garden idyll.

Three, not two.

She forced herself to focus. Her parents looked as they ever did, her mother blonde and exact, her father equally blond but far more expansive, his formerly excruciatingly fit body only now going to seed as the years, fine food, and expensive alcohol caught up with him. They both smiled at her with reasonable cheer, but then they would. She’d done a good job being the model daughter. They could have no complaints on that score.

Smithson’s, however, was the harder gaze to meet. He was the smartest man she’d ever known, and she’d realized eventually that he had a sort of sixth sense about her. He knew her weaknesses, her vulnerabilities. He could, at the beginning, actually seem to read her thoughts.

She’d gotten very good at helping to convince him of what she was thinking since then, helping him believe what she needed him to believe. And so at this moment, she knew better than to act too coy. He wanted to be coddled and appreciated, yes. But he didn’t want to be discounted. He’d meant to scare her with his little box trick. He had. He’d want to know that.

She stepped forward and hugged her parents—her mother delicately, her father more robustly, ever the doting daughterand proud progeny. Then she turned to Henry Smithson and swiftly raised her hand to strike him.

As she expected, he caught her hand before she could complete the blow.

Twelve

“Lauren!”

As the older blonde’s sharp cry echoed through the courtyard, Dimitri didn’t know what surprised him more. The flourishing smack the American had communicated that she had every chance of landing, or that she’d let the man opposite her catch her in time. As Dimitri discreetly radioed the arrival of Smithson to his men in the field, he watched the man neatly fold Lauren’s hand over his and kiss her knuckles, smiling broadly as he lifted his head.

“You must forgive me, but I couldn’t resist.” Smithson’s voice was smug and self-satisfied. Apparently, the attempted smack pleased him far more than anything else Lauren could have done. Had she known it would?

Dimitri suspected she did.

“You scared me to death!” Lauren seemed to relent, then leaned in for a brief hug as her mother kept spluttering. “I made an absolute fool of myself looking for whatever you’d sent in the box, only to realize you’d never intended to send anything at all.”

“My sincere apologies.” Henry Smithson spoke with sharp, squared-off edges to his words, much like the man himself. Smithson was tall and pale, as blond as the Grants. He was builtwell—slender, but hard. Someone who took care of himself with diligence. Though he didn’t appear to be tatted with Typhon’s signature ink—and wore no obvious jewelry that would tie him to the god, Dimitri didn’t like his energy. His eyes were dark and intense, and he swept the space every few moments, as if he expected trouble. When none came, he turned to continue his introductions. He shook Stefan’s hand as if it was a competition, and Stefan, being Stefan, showed no expression at the firm hold. “Stefan Andris, yes? Royal cousin, diplomat, general man about town. Your reputation precedes you.”

“Hopefully not in its entirety,” Stefan said smoothly, to another round of polite laughter. When he turned to escort Lauren up the stairs, Henry moved in swiftly, taking her by the arm. Lauren betrayed none of the fear—the terror—that she had the day before while talking about Smithson. She was laughing, happy, actually appearing a little charmed by Smithson’s high-handedness in taking her away from Stefan. Dimitri and the security team had planned for this, but not so soon in the evening, not when the remainder of the entourage had yet to arrive.

The small contingent moved up the stairs toward them, Mrs. Raptis leading the way as—thank God—the next vehicle turned into the gate at the bottom of the hill. Not an official limo, but the plant they’d had idling nearby. “Oh,” Lauren said, turning. “Is that Emmaline and Kristos?”

“We shall all greet them!” Raptis neatly solved the awkward moment by keeping the limelight on himself, and Lauren played her hand by disengaging from Henry’s hold to turn back toward the parking plaza. As her gaze found Dimitri’s, he tensed.

She was still scared to death.

The glance lasted only a breath, and then she was trotting down to the car, which, of course, didn’t contain Emmaline butanother friend of the family’s. Then the royal caravandidshow up, and all was set to rights.

In the soft light of the setting sun, however, Henry Smithson’s gaze remained on Lauren as she greeted her friends. Hungry. Self-assured. Resolute.

True minion of Typhon or not, it’d be Dimitri’s pleasure to permanently kick this asshole to the curb.

With the arrival of the royal family, the rest of the party followed in short order, and soon the house was full to bursting. Dimitri skirted the perimeter of the main reception room, with its miniature stage for pontificating, and its wide dance floor. The Americans seemed too subdued to his eyes, but anyone who didn’t know them well wouldn’t necessarily guess. And Lauren, for her part, kept up appearances the best she could. She’d already danced with Smithson twice, laughing and blushing as if she were bowled over by the attention. She’d danced once with her father, another time with Stefan, and once with Kristos.

Now, finally, the evening was drawing to a close, and Dimitri could practically feel the air crackle with tension. With a celebutante’s unerring sense of timing, Lauren astutely guessed the musicians were embarking on their last dance of the evening, a traditional Greek celebratory number. Smithson was engaged in a lively conversation with King Jasen, so she slipped out of the room without anyone noticing her. Whether she legitimately needed air or she was merely bored, her absence likely wouldn’t be noticed as anything other than a capricious escape. She wouldn’t be back until well into the speechmaking, he was certain, while the rest of the party would be trapped by their own politeness, listening to Raptis ramble on about the future of Oûros.

Dimitri’s gaze swept the floor, alighting first on Stefan, who was also scanning the room, and then on Lauren’s parents, cheerfully drunk and looking...far too happy with themselves.

He double-checked Smithson’s position.

Gone.Dammit.

King Jasen was making his way to his seat of honor, but Smithson had vanished.

Stationed by the door as he was, it was easy for Dimitri to blend back into the shadows toward the corridor, but before he could turn away, he felt a small, strong hand on his arm.

He looked down into the fierce face of Nicki Clark. “Where’s Lauren?” she hissed. Dimitri looked up and saw Stefan bearing down on him as well, his normally impassive face now bent into a scowl. “I saw that creep leave right before I realized she wasn’t in the room anymore. That’s no good. He’s seriously the worst. I want to find her.”

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