Page 73 of Capitol Matters

Mischief glittered in her gray eyes. “Not by accident, I’m guessing.”

“I have no idea what you mean.” I offered my arm. “Shall we?”

She hesitated. I recalled her concerns when she met me at the French bistro a month ago. “A PR nightmare,” she’d called our rendezvous. My image was far from squeaky clean, innocent verdict or no, and her attempt to keep me away from this gala had not been forgotten.

“All right,” she said at last and looped her arm through mine.

After dropping my drink off at our table—set for ten but currently empty—Holland let me lead her to the front of the room. I needed to survey the crowd for the faces I’d done my best to memorize, and the forward position of the dance floor provided an ideal vantage point.

When Holland realized our destination, she put her foot down. Literally. We pulled apart, and her eyes darted around, finding scornful stares aimed our way. She may not have been used to the hatred of the masses, but I was long since numb to it.

“This is how rumors get started,” she hissed.

I shrugged. “People love to talk. Might as well givethem a reason.”

Offering my hand again risked rejection, but I needed to keep her close. She was a distraction, yes, but not to me. Hers was a presence meant to disarm my victims, who would keep their distance from the criminal formerly known as Marionette but would warm readily to a guest of Miss Holland Lyle.

But first, I needed to find them. For that, I needed to dance. And to dance, I needed a partner.

“It’s not professional,” Holland said in the same hushed voice.

My brows arched. “I didn’t realize we were here in a professional capacity.”

She frowned. “Everything I do is in a professional capacity.”

Throwing out a loop of thought, I caught her waist and pulled her in. She stumbled, and her face blanked with surprise as I spun her to land against me in a dip. Her hands latched onto my shoulder and elbow, seeking unnecessary support. Even if my arms hadn’t been around her, I wouldn’t let her fall.

For a moment, she stayed frozen, gaping as I bent over her. With a wink, I drew her upright and held her hand while she steadied herself.

“Don’t do that,” she gasped.

“Is that a ‘no’ to another spin?” I asked.

Her shock melted away, replaced by amusement. “Do you even remember how to dance? We were just learning, and that doesn’t seem like the thing most gang members practice.”

Gang members, no, but young guests of theBlooming Orchid got lessons from Isha Kapoor’s School of Charm. Learning how to bed a woman was one thing. Getting that woman into the bedroom in the first place required an entirely different skillset.

“Afraid I’ll step on your toes?” I teased.

Pulling her in, I rested one hand on her shoulder blade while keeping the other extended in a classic ballroom pose. Her body was rigid at first but relaxed as we fell into step with the music and joined the other couples mingling on the dance floor.

A few turns in, Holland laughed softly. “You aren’t bad at this.”

“Thanks for saying so.”

With our heads more beside each other than facing, I was able to scope out the room and its occupants. The men wore basic black and white tuxedos, waddling around like penguins with heaping appetizer plates and glasses filled from the champagne fountain next to the bar. The women varied, clothed in slinky cocktail dresses or frilly gowns in every color.

Maximus Lyle milled the crowd, schmoozing with his constituents. Jacoby Thatcher—AKA Grimm in disguise—trailed behind him.

My search continued from them, but I didn’t identify either of the people I sought. Instead, I found a pair of more familiar faces. A gaunt teen wore an all-black suit that hung off his coat hanger of a body. He might have blended into the crowd if not for the fedora hat shadowing his face and bicolored eyes. His date’s updo spilled over with hair the same bubblegum pink as her dress. Her head turned as though on a swivel, and herexpression was full of delight as she soaked up the splendor of the gala.

Ripley and Maggie. Not on the guest list, I would guarantee it.

I stopped cold, causing Holland to crash into me.

“Ow, Fitch!” she exclaimed as though I’d stepped on her toes after all when she was currently standing on mine. She frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“I think your dad waved at you.” I gestured to the corner where Maximus and Thatcher chatted—conveniently across the room from the Goth duo lurking near the champagne fountain. “Must want to give you a peptalk before your speech.”

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