Page 5 of The Prize
“Did he see you?”
“I don’t think he recognized me.”
“I shouldn’t have left you.”
My gaze narrowed on him. “I don’t need protecting.”
“I know.” He dipped his head in contradiction. “We have to make a small adjustment.”
“Our exit?” I tried to read the answer from him.
“The fire escape’s guarded. Our only way out is the way we came in. The main elevator.”
“That’s doable, right?”
“Let’s hope no one notices we only arrived ten minutes ago. Ready to finish this?” He led me around to a quieter corner.
We weaved through the crowd of tuxedos and haute couture with both of us offering lazy smiles at the other guests who caught our attention. The people thinned out by the time we reached into what looked like a guest bedroom.
Carefully, Tobias took Burell’s tumbler from me and carried it across the room and stepped behind the curtain. I discreetly glanced up at the ceiling to see if any cameras were trained on us and couldn’t see any. Wilder was taking an extra precaution in case we were being surveyed. I stepped toward the window and peered down at the sheer drop. It reminded me how unnervingly high we were.
This was the proof I needed that Wilder was a master at his craft and I became riveted to the efficiency with which he used the thin piece of plastic tape he’d brought to slowly lift Burell’s prints.
He tucked the strip into his trouser pocket. “Let’s get out of here.”
We hurried out the doorway and he set the glass down on a passing silver tray that was hoisted above an unassuming waiter. The young man with a crew cut carried our specimen into the kitchen to be washed. Wilder interlocked his fingers with mine and led me into the sea of people toward the elevator. I drew strength from him and secretly savored being this close to such a charismatic man that the crowd parted at his sheer presence.
I yanked on his arm when I saw our way was blocked. Eli Burell was standing before the lift doors and was casually vaping; puffs of air curled into nothing and he turned slowly to focus on us. My body stiffened at that stark memory of how Eli had a passion for hunting stag and how he liked to shoot them in the head.
He’d already tried to kill us once.
“Okay, then,” Tobias whispered under his breath. “This way.” He pulled me into the throng and we moved fast toward the back of the room.
It was imperative to remain calm and not look any more suspicious then we already did as we rushed into an anteroom. A few guests were talking privately and several more were huddled in close proximity on a studded leather couch. They gave us a passing glance from behind their masks.
Hanging on the far wall was a large painting by Carle van Loo ofThe Victory of Alexander over Porus,a dramatic battle scene where men and their horses had fallen victim and were overlooked by an arrogant conqueror riding his frisky white stallion. Tobias yanked my hand when I slowed to admire the portrait, which I pined to spend more time with. This was my world, the one I’d left behind and I wanted to return to my beloved art world desperately.
Tobias gave a confident nod to a bouncer who granted us access into a glass elevator. When the doors closed on us I realized from the buttons on the panel the lift was only designed to ascend between this floor and the one above. I stared in horror at Tobias as the floating notes of a violin faded beneath us.
The doors opened to a night chill that I hardly felt. There was a vibrant throng of partygoers on the roof and Tobias and I stepped out onto a blue carpet and scanned the scene of guests who’d mostly discarded their masks. They looked like a younger version of the hors d’oeuvres–eating, champagne-drinking crowd from downstairs and were caught in a rave beat, leaping in the air in time with the bass. A DJ was lending an arty flair to the chaotic scene.
With my heart pounding, I pushed through the horde of dancers toward the entryway to the stairwell. I followed Tobias and the grip of his hand on mine verged on painful. The door burst open and an intimidating tuxedo-wearing guard appeared and spoke into a mouthpiece as he scanned the space.
The music slowed to a sultry “At Last,” by Etta James, and the bouncing mass morphed into couples slow dancing. We sought refuge in the center of the throng with Tobias yanking me against his chest and twirling me in a circle. If he was panicked too, he was hiding it well, and his firm grip was the only sign we were under threat.
“Well look at that.” Tobias seemed unafraid. “They’re playing our song.”
“Lovely.”
He turned us in a tight waltz. “This is nice.”
I scrunched my fingers into the fabric of his jacket and peered over his shoulder to see where that guard was. The man was staring at us.
“You okay?” Tobias looked so damn calm.
“Not exactly. They won’t hurt us in front of all these people, will they?”
“I’m here, Zara.”
