Page 172 of The Wild Charge

Stupid.

You stupid tit, Tenny was always saying, but it was accompanied by a gleam in his eyes, and a playful elbow; counterbalanced by the warm knowledge ofI love you.

Hunter thought he was just plain stupid, though. No gleam, no love. He didn’t want the knowledge to hurt – by all rights it shouldn’t have – but a wave of disquiet shifted in his belly; the sense that he’d performed poorly. That he’d displeased. Disappointed.

“I am what he made me,” he said.

That was the truth, wasn’t it? No matter how far he went, who he associated with, what he called himself…he would always be the boy in the shed, Hunter’s contempt laced through every use of the wordagain.

~*~

“You’re in position?” Fox asked into his phone. He nodded. “Good. Wait for us there.” He hung up and slipped it into his pocket. He twisted around in the front seat and his gaze swept the interior of the SUV. “Topino’s ready for us.”

Tenny was aware of the others responding. In a detached part of his mind, he recognized that the first hurdle had been cleared. Walking in as part of Ian’s security detail, they wouldn’t be able to take all their gear with them; having Dogs smuggle their stuff in through the catering kitchen was a small triumph, one that would enable them to take the next step.

But Tenny was deep in the zone. Nothing could reach him: not triumph, nor satisfaction – most especially not grief.

Through the window, he saw the gathered crowd: the velvet ropes and the brand-ambassador backdrop and the red carpet. The SUV eased to a halt, and a woman in a black dress and a headset approached.

“We’re security,” Fox reminded. “No one wants pictures of us anyway, but don’t make eye contact with a camera.”

Tenny piled out of the car with everyone else, and stood, expressionless, unspeaking, as the headset woman went to Ian, from the car ahead of theirs, conferred with her list and verified him. They clumped in with a knot of Ian’s own security and followed him, at a distance, as he made a hurried, though graceful trip down the red carpet, eschewing photos or interviews, despite the shutter clicks and the barked calls from the microphone-wielders leaning over the rope.

At Tenny’s side, Devin let out a low whistle. “Isn’t that that girl from all those secret agent movies? Portia something?”

“Portia Whitman,” Fox sighed, “yes. Don’t speak to her.”

“I wasn’t going to, Christ. But look at the legs on her.”

Stupid, inane chatter that Tenny couldn’t have cared less about.

“Here we go,” Abe murmured, and they were through the door, and inside a wide, echoing lobby filled with the crash of an indoor waterfall. The air smelled of chlorine, and too many competing perfumes and colognes.

Tenny did a sweep of their surroundings: high ceilings, lots of people in evening wear. Flash of diamonds and cackle of laughter and waistcoat-clad servers floating around with trays of canapes. Devin snagged a bit of prosciutto-wrapped melon off a passing tray and Fox shot him a dark look.

Meaningless. Superficial. Tenny’s team wasn’t up to scratch on this one. He would be better off to go on alone, and leave them to their eating and talking and time-wasting.

A hand caught his arm, and it was only then that he realized he’d been striding for the elevator bank.

Fox turned him around and stood up on his tiptoes to get in his face. His expression had shifted, no longer rolling his eyes at Devin, but serious, focused. “Ten. I need you with me here. Are you with me?”

Fox was, he reminded himself, not wholly incompetent.

“There’s a plan,” Fox reminded. “We have to stick to the plan.”

Tenny nodded, and settled. There’d been something thorny rising up in his stomach, pressing at the base of his throat, but it dropped back down beneath the calm, still waters of his mission protocol.

Plan. There was always a plan.

“Alright, boys,” Ian said. “Shall we walk?”

They walked. Bruce and another of Ian’s people led the way, parting the crowd around them. Behind them, Ian wore back land lilac, his hair gleaming under the lights, his ensemble completed by a new addition: a black walking stick with a silver wolf head; he wielded it with the skill and panache of a Broadway performer, his smiles and hand-kisses straight out of an old movie. Women blushed and murmured and men gave him sideways glances tinged with jealousy.

At another time, Tenny – Tennyson Fox, that was – would have enjoyed this immensely.

As it was, he counted the steps until they pushed through a set of open double doors and into the wide ballroom where tonight’s dinner and show would be staged.

It was a vast space, ceiling studded with crystal chandeliers, floor dotted with round, white-clothed tables set with flower arrangements and white china. A few guests were already milling about, checking place setting placards, but most were still in the lobby, drinking, snacking, and shaking important hands. Despite the size of the room, it was quieter here.

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