The Espionage Effect(44)
“How busy?” I arched a suspecting brow as I slipped on my flat sandals.
“Very busy.” Her lips curved into a devious smile. “But I left him wanting much more than a fifteen-minute ride.” She bent down, hooked her fingers into the back straps of our designer shoes, then stood with a pair dangling from each hand as she crossed her arms, staring pointedly at me. “Now you. Spill it. I know something happened between you and that Latin sex god.”
I huffed out a laugh. “Latin sex god?”
Now one of her perfectly sculpted eyebrows arched in accusation. “Well, is he?”
“First of all, he’s not ‘Latin’ anything, he’s a Spaniard.” Then I let out a long sigh, roping an arm around my closest friend, my only friend, as we left the five-star restaurant to make our way back to our room through the winding paths of the tropical resort.
“And yes,” I added. “He definitely is.” Memories flared into my mind of positions…sensations.
My pulse jumped, skin flushing. I sucked in a deep breath, attempting to stem my instant physiological response.
Psychologically? I had the sudden urge to make Alec break his “one-time” rule.
Three-and-a-half hours later, after a short ride in a luxurious Escalade sent by Anna’s doctor, the driver assisted us from the vehicle and escorted us down a long stone walkway that had a black carpet running lengthwise. On either side, large opaque hurricane lanterns on iron stands glowed with flickering light every ten feet, marking the edge of where a vast dark nothingness began.
Uneasy about waltzing into a scenario with unknown escape routes, I strolled toward one side as we walked to get a better look. My stomach dropped when I reached the edge. We were on a narrow catwalk, the tiniest bridge over a yawning chasm. With a steadying breath, I scanned up the side of the expansive marble-and-glass house that I’d only observed from the water, both in it and on it. Instinctual fear took hold, seizing my lungs.
But then I forced in another deep breath. Common sense told me the drop could only be down to sea level, some thirty-five feet. But that fall could still kill a person. And if the owner was as villainous as purported, he’d probably trenched a moat. And filled it with crocodiles.
So no catwalk sprinting in four-inch heels to escape. And no jumping out of windows.
After taking measured steps backward toward the relative safety of the black carpet, I hurried to catch up to Anna and the driver while taking in the palatial structure towering above us that seemed infinitely more imposing up close and personal.
As we walked through an echoing entrance hall and entered a main gallery, I craned my neck upward through a massive atrium-like space. Open balconies circled around us, stretching several levels up. Polished marble floors and gleaming glass windows were interrupted in perfect ratio by an occasional exotic orchid on a pedestal or a delicate arching palm in a corner. In the center of the back wall, a three-story sheet of water cascaded down, shimmering over thousands of tiny iridescent tiles until it splashed into mist over jagged rocks that were artfully arranged in a shallow pool at the bottom.
Champagne glasses glided by, perched on balanced trays held by waiters in formal attire. The male guests sported tuxes worn in an endless variety of styles, including their matching neckwear. One wore a wide crimson silk bow tie. Another, an opalescent cravat. A third man’s neck was graced with a diamond-studded triangular bolo tie, its two gleaming black braids dangling over a pintucked shirt that draped as long as his tuxedo jacket.
Women outnumbered the men two-to-one and outshone them in equal measure. Sleek colorful gowns swayed as they moved. Fabrics shimmered. Diamonds sparkled.
“Look, there’s Miguel.” Anna began weaving through the crowded room right as her doctor caught sight of her.
I remained where I stood, scanning faces, watching as tight political smiles battled for genuine laughter. A quick headcount projected two hundred fifty guests in attendance in the main gallery. A not-so-subtle security force lined the perimeter: black suits instead of tuxes, harsh countenances with no smiles and focused eyes.
My attention drifted to the security guards’ suit jackets. The way they carried themselves and moved, I surmised they carried concealed weapons beneath. Had one of those men shot Alec? I swallowed hard, suspecting they wouldn’t hesitate to shoot a spy, official or not.
A waiter paused in front of me, hovering his tray of Champagne in polite offering.
I shook my head. “No, thank you.”
With Alec’s mission unknown, I needed to stay sharp, not risk alcohol clouding my judgment. Remaining vigilant, I continued to assess the room, analyzing each guest, identifying every potential threat or asset.
Anna and Miguel had met together on the other side of the expansive room, crowding close in intimate conversation near a marble pillar. A pair of guests near them struck me as Indian dignitaries: the woman demure beneath flowing layers of shimmering lilac silk, her man proud beside her in a long dark-amethyst brocade overcoat.
Verifying a forming theory, I analyzed the crowd once more. Familiar faces began to register: the prime minister of Egypt, the sheikh of Dubai, the prime minister of Canada.
Tonight’s function was no mere party. It was an assemblage of some of the most influential people in the world—all gathered under one roof, on one night. A distinction among the security personnel began to appear; not all lined the perimeter, many wore varying lapel pins, which identified them to their respective world leader. Those without lapel pins? Had to be Escobar’s.