Page 7 of Skotos
I grunted and stood, slipping into my tuxedo jacket and running a hand over the lapels. “It feels good, like we tilted the scale a tiny bit.”
Thomas smiled. “It feels like justice.”
I couldn’t help the grin that crept over my face. Pride filled the air, hanging between us like the scent of Thomas’s sweet cologne.
“All right,” I said, shaking off the weight of it. “Time to trade espionage for etiquette. We’ve got a dinner to attend.”
And this wasn’t just any dinner.
French President Vincent Auriol was hosting Swiss President Max Petitpierre at the Élysée Palace, and—by some miracle or bureaucratic fluke—we’d made the guest list. The palace would be humming with diplomats, foreign ministers, royalty, and at least a dozen spies pretending to be trade attachés.
I reached for my overcoat. “It’s hard to believe we’ll be in the same room with half the continent’s power brokers.”
Thomas smirked. “Just keep your hands off the dessert tray and your eyes on the ambassadors. One of them might be our next assignment.”
I laughed, then turned back to him with a frown. “Your bow tie’s crooked.”
“That’s the third time you’ve said that.”
“And itstillis,” I insisted, stepping closer to fiddle with it. I smoothed it out, then stepped back, frowned again, then leaned in to do it all over.
Thomas caught my hands mid-fuss, his grip steady and warm. “It’s fine, love.”
I looked up into the deepest pools of brown, my heart tripping over itself like it always did when he held me like that.
He brought my hands to his lips and kissed my knuckles. “We’ll be late if you keep fussing, and I don’t think we should keep two presidents and half the French government waiting.”
I gave his bow tie one last unnecessary tug and stepped back with a grin. “You think they’ll serve duckà l’orange? Or one of thosemille-feuilletowers with spun sugar and gold leaf?”
“You’re always about the food.” Thomas rolled his eyes and grabbed his jacket. “We could be meeting God Himself and you’d ask who He hired to cater in Heaven.”
“Well, it’s a fair question,” I shot back. “I’ve heard Heaven has terrible hors d’oeuvres.”
Thomas chuckled. “Just promise me you won’t talk to any ambassadors with a mouth full offoie gras.”
“No promises,” I said, tossing him a wink.
The moment lingered, soft and grounding, before we turned for the door.
Our drive to the Élysée Palace was smooth, the black Citroën sent by the French government gliding through the Paris streets like a ghost dressed in chrome. When we turned off the Champs-Élysées and passed through ornate iron gates, a hush descended, as if the very air around the palace had been trained in etiquette.
Floodlights bathed the stone façade in golden globes that bobbed and shifted as cars advanced, each highlighting carved cornices and arched windows. The palace itself stood like a grand, old sentinel—regal, symmetrical, and utterly Parisian. Flags flanked the entry, fluttering gently in the cool night air, while the gardens surrounding the approach were manicured to perfection with hedges clipped like origami and roses blooming as if they’d been coached.
Our car eased into a slow-moving line of diplomats, dignitaries, and finely dressed attendees. Every few minutes, a footman in livery would open a door, offer a gloved hand, and usher another pair of guests up the broad stone staircase to the receiving line. Warm light spilled out from tall windows, casting dancing shadows across the gravel driveway.
We watched as gowns of silk and tulle swished past, accompanied by tuxedos and military dressuniforms so sharp they could cut glass. Laughter floated through the night, mingling with the faint notes of a string quartet drifting from within.
The mood was formal, certainly, but not cold.
There was joy here, the kind that only came from surviving too many winters and wars. Guests smiled and embraced old friends. Most flowed inside, but small clusters remained outdoors, smoking cigarettes and sipping champagne. This was a night for toasts and waltzes, not treaties and threats.
As our car inched closer to the entrance, Thomas straightened his jacket beside me as I exhaled slowly, taking it all in.
“Not bad for a Tuesday,” I murmured.
He grinned. “Try not to start an international incident before the soup course.”
“Just to clarify, what constitutes an international incident?”
