In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)(89)

She was passionately glad to have Sam there. Always a step away, even if he had to elbow some diamond-studded dowager or tuxedo-clad tycoon physically away from her. He’d just give them a sweet, charming smile and stand there, monolithic. Never ceding an inch.

Every time she looked at him, his conspiratorial grin gave her strength. He was her anchor, and her shield. Her private place. One sweet, precious thing that did not belong to these people. It was hers.

No, not just hers. Theirs.

The awards ceremony was the hardest part. Being shy and introverted, she found speaking in public difficult in the best of circumstances, but she’d learned ways to cope. She’d polished a speech weeks ago, before the wedding, Sam, the attack. But the girl who had prepared that speech was a different Sveti, someone she no longer even recognized. She was something raw and torn open now. Utterly new.

She stared down at this expectant crowd and began to speak.

The whole tale. Papa’s punishment, the abduction. Aleksandra, Yuri, the rescue. Her stolen family, her stolen childhood. Her stolen heart, ransomed in the nick of time. She told them what she’d done last year in Portland, and why. It was her job, to be the face of the faceless slaves and trafficked innocents. She offered her experience up like a sacrifice, with all its shock and entertainment value.

They looked up at her, judging and appraising, and she tried not to hate them for it. Stupid, to resent a person for being lucky. For having a father to protect you from monsters who would tear out your heart. For having a mother who would not jump off a bridge. Or get thrown, for that matter.

She used her favorite trick for staying centered as she stared out. She just remembered that each face she saw was once a helpless newborn baby, and that all would one day stand at the doorway of Death, the great equalizer. The gap between her and them was not so wide. And Sam was always there, waiting. Giving her his strength.

“If not for the people who rescued me, my heart would be beating inside another woman’s body,” she concluded. “My corneas would be on another person’s eyes. My kidneys filtering someone else’s blood. I have to pay it forward. The Illuxit Foundation Victim’s Fund will be an even bigger, wider net, to catch the ones who fall. Let’s spread that net of hope and healing together.”

The applause was loud and prolonged. Everyone stood. Several hands reached up to help her down from the stage, but she stepped straight into Sam’s arms. He hugged her, tightly. “Crushed it,” he whispered. “Beauty, brains, and a heart of gold. What a huge turn-on.”

That approval from him gave her a sweet little rush, before Hazlett scooped her up and flung her to the crowd again. She was passed from hand to hand, hugged and squeezed by tearful ladies who told her how moved they were, how brave she was. Checked out by keenly interested men, all of whom swiftly retreated from Sam’s menacing stare.

All except for Hazlett. His hand came to rest against the skin of her shoulder, left bare by the plunging back of her gown. It fixed there, hot and damp, as if it were stuck to her. She wanted to shrug it off.

It took hours to work through them all, but finally she stood at the dessert buffet, sipping an espresso and wobbling on those treacherous spike heels Nadine had sent. Hazlett kissed her hand, with a courtly flourish. “Excellent,” he whispered.

“Your mother would have been so proud,” Renato said, beaming. “You played that crowd. Completely in control, and yet completely open at the same time. I was more moved than I can express.”

She stuffed a sharp comment behind a tight nod and smile. Sam spread her wrap over her shoulders.

“The crowd is starting to thin,” he said.

“Thank God,” she replied. “I’m dog tired.”

Sam passed her a small plate piled with lemon cream profiterole and tiny, chilled cannoli. The sugar gave her a welcome jolt.

“So, my dear,” Renato said. “Not to pressure you, but have you given some thought to my invitation to Villa Rosalba?”

“I haven’t had a second to think. Could I come the following day?”

Renato looked regretful. “Actually, no. I’m closing up the Villa Rosalba and going back to Milano the day after tomorrow, and Michael, too, has pressing business in London. I hope you can come tomorrow.”

Shit. “I would love to see the Villa Rosalba,” Sveti said. “Mama talked about it so much in her letter. Especially her last one.”

Renato looked out at the sea, dabbing beneath his eyes with his finger. “Ah, did she,” he said, voice muffled. “What did she say?”

“She described the sculpture garden in the atrium,” Sveti said.

Renato smiled wistfully. “Yes, she loved the sculpture garden, and the views. And the maze. We spent hours strolling in it sometimes.”

Her hairs prickled up, a chilly shudder. “A maze? Really?”

“Yes, planned in the eighteenth century, by my great-great-great grandfather. The maze amused her. Do you still have her last letter?”

Sveti hesitated, jealous of her treasured letter. The only thing remaining of her mother that was exclusively hers. “I have it somewhere, in my things,” she hedged. “It’s not the kind of thing you throw away.”

“Certainly not. I know it is presumptuous, but do you suppose, if you find that letter, that you might let me read it?”

She hesitated, suddenly speechless. Mind blank. Her mouth opened and closed, no words forming. “Ah . . .”