The Espionage Effect(47)

My face fell into a frown as I turned toward Alec, whispering, “‘Celestial explorers’?”

His brows drew together. Then he gave me a short nod before a slower headshake. Space exploration had nothing to do with our mission. Got it.

Escobar droned on as he held the focused attention of everyone in the cavernous room. Except me. Instead, I watched them all, puzzled by how enraptured they were. The density of the ego in the room likely depressed the surface of the planet in this one concentrated spot, yet they all seemed to have checked their self-centeredness at the door in favor of the man spouting salvation for our world as if he’d become their prophet.

“Did everyone drink mind-altering punch before I got here?” I whispered.

“Good idea. Let’s get a drink.” He’d either misheard or ignored my sarcastic jibe as he grabbed my hand and led us toward the other side of the crowd.

A fresh wave of waiters descended into the room right as we began working our way through the guests. Each waiter held a tray laden with a dozen Champagne glasses. They methodically worked their way before every guest, waiting until a flute had been accepted while Escobar continued with his mesmerizing speech.

I reasoned he had to be offering them something they all wanted. But his topic continued to focus on energy and resources. Although, for a man who’d harnessed the power of water beneath his own home, the idea of him being passionate about natural resources shouldn’t have surprised me.

When a waiter blocked our path, holding up his tray of Champagne. Alec shook his head. “No, we’re heading to the bar.”

Intrigued by his refusal of bubbly, I grinned. “Not into the fancy stuff?”

He gave an impressive scowl. “Fancy because they pour it into a pretty glass from a bottle with gold foil? Tastes like piss.” He spat out the last words.

I fought a laugh. “I hope never to taste piss. But I’m with you. Bitter crap.”

We reached the bar. It had a curving mahogany top with maple inlay designs, a striking dark contrast amid all the paler ivory marble and shining clear glass.

He gave a short nod to the bartender, who moved aside when Alec stepped behind the counter. I slid one hip onto the black leather seat of a backless barstool.

“What’ll ya have?” Alec asked with a horrific western drawl.

I pressed my lips into a firm line, then scanned the brightly colored top-shelf liquors behind him. “What are you drinking?”

He angled back, glanced below the bar top, then pulled up a slender bottle filled with amber liquid. “Ronmiel de Canarias. It’s a Spanish honey rum from the Canary Islands. My father’s favorite drink—now mine.”

My heart warmed at the sentimental connection. “I’ll try one of those.”

He twisted and reached toward the back bar counter, slipped his fingers into the rims of two squat beveled crystal glasses, and slid them onto the bar top between us. Then he poured two shots of rum into each tumbler.

Right as Alec handed me my drink and raised his own, Escobar’s voice boomed louder, moving from background noise into the foreground again. Alec paused, diverting his attention to our host. I half-turned, taking in the room and listening.

“Raise your glasses in a toast to our future,” Escobar said.

Rising crystal waved up across the room in reply.

“May we set aside our differences and unite together in a cause greater than any one of us. To feed the nations, quench the thirst of their people, and power the world.”

Cheers shouted out as glasses rose higher.

When I raised my glass for a taste, my gaze collided with Alec’s at the same moment a caramel aroma wafted up. I held his solid stare as we took our sips together. “Mmm…” I licked my lips, pleasantly surprised. “It’s sweet. Intense, but soft at the same time.”

He nodded. “My father described it simply as ‘smooth’.”

Then his ever-watchful gaze drifted over my shoulder. I sat more fully on the barstool and also turned my attention back toward the party at large.

As I observed while marginally participating, an intrinsic protective sensation rippled through me, part exhilaration from the combined power in the room, part familiar adrenaline from my dangerous personal darkness that I harbored deep inside. Like a jet aircraft, out of sheer survival, I’d learn to pressurize myself from the inside out, enabling me to function in the harsh conditions of the unforgiving world around me. I saw through the fa?ade to the true nature of humanity and cloaked myself within its shadows, enabling me to blend into their environment.

And blending? Made me invisible. Without alerting them to my presence, I’d become one of them. Not corrupt. Not out to harm the innocent. But one born from the devastation of the world, all the same.

None of the concentrated danger in the room threatened me. Not the Iranian president. Not Escobar, father or son. And not the spy mere inches away from me.

I wondered at the wisdom of that. Then self-awareness struck a piercing jolt of fear through my bulletproof egotistical armor. No one was invincible. My gaze tracked back to the menacing guards. One thing I’m not? Immortal. I blew out a reassuring breath, then took another fortifying sip of my drink. A small amount of nerve-settling alcohol couldn’t hurt.

A string quartet began playing classic standards after Escobar’s speech concluded. Near the waterfall, couples paired off to dance, arms held at respectable distances, bodies swaying in perfectly trained steps.