Megan pretended to study the painting and took another sip of her champagne, and Wolfgang took her silence as permission to proceed.
“Everybody on the team respects you. Kevin waits on you like a freaking lap dog. You’re the only person whose opinion Edric blindly accepts. You’ve got me ready to jump off a building, if that’s your call.”
Megan rotated the flute in her fingers. “Your point?”
Wolfgang shrugged. “Doesn’t sound much like objectification to me. Sounds more like . . . a pedestal.”
Megan lifted one eyebrow, and he thought he saw that smirk playing at her lips again. She finished the champagne and turned away. Wolfgang followed her, casting casual looks at the passing art and settling on a painting that was most definitely a nude of some kind of princess. He twisted his arm until his watch camera captured the canvas, and Lyle uttered an involuntary snicker over the earpiece.
Megan jabbed him in the ribs. “You’re a child. Focus on your job for a change.”
A sudden rustle from the crowd brought a stillness to the room, and then everybody started moving toward another set of double doors at the end of the hallway. Wolfgang and Megan moved with them, checking every face they passed. There were lots of old, overweight men in tuxedos—one of whom actually wore a monocle—but no sign of the trim, dark Raven. Wolfgang felt uneasy again. In this crowd, it shouldn’t have been hard to spot the Russians. He needed only to look for men who weren’t twenty pounds overweight and guzzling booze. But that also meant there would be no confusion for the Russians in identifying Raven, or Spider, or himself, for that matter.
“SITREP,” Edric said.
“We’re moving into the ballroom,” Megan said. “I think there’s gonna be a speech.”
They passed through the double doors and into a massive square room. More appetizers lined one wall, while a string quartet in the corner sat stiff and upright on their stools. The center of the room was left open.
Wolfgang felt a twist in his stomach. Dancing. He didn’t dance. In fact, he’d never danced, unless you counted a quick movement of the feet to dodge a bullet. Wasn’t this supposed to be an art gala?
There shouldn’t be dancing.
A soft clinking sound rang off a champagne flute, and the crowd grew quiet. Then a short man with tiny glasses and a bald head appeared at the front of the room, standing on a low platform. He held a mic, smiled, and then launched into a quick salutation in French. Wolfgang couldn’t understand a word of it.
Megan stood attentively, appearing to watch the speaker while her eyes darted almost imperceptibly, scanning the room. Wolfgang followed suit but still didn’t see Raven.
Raven should be here by now.
The speaker concluded his monologue with a clap of his hands and a big smile, and then the quartet began to play. Everybody in the room turned to their partner, and almost in unison, started dancing.
Megan sighed, then twisted and offered her hand with the enthusiasm of a janitor approaching a soiled toilet.
“I can’t dance,” Wolfgang mouthed, feeling his face flush.
“What’s that? You can’t dance?” Megan was loud enough for at least a few people standing nearby to hear, not to mention the entire team.
Wolfgang’s blush deepened, and Megan offered a slight smirk. “Relax, dude. Just follow me, and don’t step on my feet.”
He took her hand reluctantly, and they swung into a smooth side-step, followed by a turn, then a backstop. Wolfgang struggled to keep up, even though Megan moved decidedly slower than the rest of the crowd. His face flushed again, and Megan actually laughed. It was a dull sound, but it still brought to life that warmth in his chest again.
“Relax,” she said. “Pull me a little closer . . . that’s it. Now, move like the wind. Smooth . . . easy. Feel the music.”
Wolfgang did feel the music. He focused on the violin’s gentle hum, matched by the deep throb of the upright bass and the rich gravity of the cellos. The beautiful, haunting sound, made him momentarily forget about the mission, and he lost himself in the reality of where he was standing. In Paris, the City of Lights, the city of love, dancing with a beautiful woman at a beautiful gala.
Her grey eyes flashed fire as she ducked and twisted, challenging his ability to keep up. Wolfgang was certain he looked like a waddling duck next to the rich and accomplished art connoisseurs around him, but he didn’t care anymore. He pretended he knew what he was doing, and it seemed to help.
The music wound down, and they stopped. Wolfgang wobbled on his feet a minute, suddenly feeling a little dizzy. He steadied himself and offered his best imitation of the bows the men around him performed.
“You’re pretty good,” he said.
Megan released him and stepped back. To his surprise, she offered another smile—softer this time.
“You’re not half-bad yourself.”
She led him to the edge of the room and selected two flutes of champagne from a server. She passed him one and held up hers. “You don’t have to drink, but at least pretend.”
Wolfgang returned her smile and lifted the flute, but Megan’s gaze darted over his shoulder to the far side of the room.
“Charlie Lead, I have eyes on Raven.”
Wolfgang started to turn, but Megan stopped him.
“Don’t look now. You’ll draw attention. He’s in the corner, near the hors d’oeuvres.”
“Charlie One, close on target,” Edric said. “Charlie Three, maintain surveillance.”
Megan drained her flute and set it down, then set off casually across the room without a second glance at Wolfgang. He felt a tug of longing watching her go, but he shrank back against the wall and scanned the room until he saw Raven.
The American stood alone in the corner, dressed in a white tux, sipping champagne. The string quartet had started up again, but nobody danced. The crowd milled about, enjoying the food and drifting in and out of the art galleries. Raven seemed to ignore them all, but to Wolfgang’s
