From outside the car, he could hear laughter drifting over the bass, raucous, unrestrained in a way that Vincent distrusted on instinct.

He paused just long enough to let the valet take his keys.

“Enjoy yourself,” the woman said with a suggestive smile.

He returned the smile with a much more reserved one before entering the estate. Passing from the soft breath of the night into the bright excess inside the house was jarring.

The mansion’s rooms unfolded into one another with wide-open archways that encouraged guests to move in whirls and eddies as though sound itself was current. Curved stairs welcomed guests like arms. Furniture invited sitting. Trying to navigate through would be a voyage of its own.

People leaned in—toward drinks, laughter, one another. Touches lingered. Masks slipped. The party pressed around him, urging participation.

He adjusted his own plain black silk mask. He had chosen something forgettable on purpose. At gatherings like this, attention was one of a long list of things he did not want to catch.

A server offered him champagne only moments after he stepped inside. He took a glass, his attention distracted from the taste of the bubbly as he sipped.

Making his way deeper into the room, Vincent catalogued the space as he always did, flagging exits, determining sightlines, spotting cameras disguised as décor and security dressed as guests.

Finally, as he penetrated far enough into the crowd, he spotted his target: Germaine Guy, tonight’s host. He stood in the center of the room, exuding confidence despite wearing no costume or mask.

Germaine Guy didn’t need one. A too-perfect black suit caressed his slender frame like a lover. His laugh sucked the air from the room, his touch lingered, and his memory for names was almost unsettling. Wherever he went, conversation rose and fell in his wake, as though people leaned toward him without realizing and then jerked back into place as they left his orbit.

Vincent blinked away the pull and reminded himself of his purpose. He was deep into an investigation that included financial crimes, influence laundering, and emotional manipulation that—to everyone’s frustration—left witnesses vague on details. Tonight, he would meet his contact, gain access to Guy’s private office upstairs, copy what he could, and then make a quick and quiet exit.

While keeping his eye on Guy was important, finding his contact was his priority. “You’ll recognize her,” his handler had said. “She’ll say, ‘The house dislikes impatience.’”

When he looked around the room, he felt an immediate and uncomfortable sense of recognition as he saw her.

She stood near the bottom of the nearest staircase, unapologetically unmasked, red and gold-threaded fabric molded into a timeless style framing her curves in a way that caught the eye. Broadcasting complete ease, she watched the room with open amusement, hands free of either a glass or plate.

Their gazes met, and her lips tipped into a coy smile. He almost heard her eyes tell him: I’ve been waiting for you.

Vincent started moving toward her before he even thought.

“You’re late,” she said teasingly when he got close enough to hear her over the music.

Even though the tone of her words was more like a shared joke than an accusation, Vincent’s answer was a little defensive. “The invitation said nine.”

“And yet,” she said, tilting her head, “the night has already begun.”

Now that they were close, he breathed her in and smelled warm brown sugar and sunshine—his favorite olfactory memory. It made him more aware of his own body—how the mask pressed against his cheekbones, the feel of the glass in his hand, the way the music vibrated through his frame and under his feet.

“Brown sugar,” she murmured.

Vincent blinked.

“That smell,” she continued. “You associate it with something warm. Safe.”

He studied her. “You profiling me?” If so, she was adept at it.

Her smile curved. “Something like that.” Then she shifted topics: “You found the place easily enough?”

“Yes,” he said. “Though perhaps we should—”

“Talk somewhere more private?” She finished the thought for him and stepped close enough that, even though they weren’t touching, he could feel the warmth from her body. “We will. But not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Houses like this tend to dislike impatience.”

The phrase hit wrong—close to the signal, but not exactly. Either she was the contact improvising, or someone had caught wind of the operation and part of the details.

Vincent clenched his jaw. He could disengage, report back, regroup—that was the smart move.

“You’ve worked with him before,” Vincent stated, letting it masquerade as a question.

A soft laugh tumbled from her luscious red lips. “Worked is such a dreary word.”

She trailed her fingers along his wrist as she spoke, and—though the touch was brief—it sent a zing of unwelcome delight through him. He forced himself not to react.

Confidence of the sort that oozed from this woman often smoothed over oddities and invited assumptions. She either knew what she was doing or had nothing to hide.

“Come on,” she said, already turning away. “If you wish to pass unnoticed tonight, you should at least look like you’re enjoying yourself.”

Vincent chose to believe she was who he thought and let her lead him deeper. If she wasn’t the contact, he told himself, she would lead him to the same place, anyway. And she was right—he needed to appear natural, blend in, and observe.

The crowd seemed to part for her without conscious awareness, conversations pausing until she passed. His attention wandered to her backside. Focus, Lewis.

Someone pressed another drink into Vincent’s free hand. The music shifted—or perhaps his attention did.

At the edge of the dance floor, she turned to face him. Again, they were close enough that Vincent had to remind himself to breathe.

“What are you hoping to find tonight?” she asked.

“The truth,” was his automatic response.

Maybe he was being fanciful, but the vibrations of her thoughtful hum affected him over the throb of the music. “People say they want the truth, but most of them are looking for their truth to be validated.” Her lips twitched in amusement, and her next words were teasing. “Like me, the unvarnished truth might be more than you can handle.”

Without letting him respond, she stepped onto the parquet floor and offered her hand over her shoulder without looking back.

Vincent hesitated, but then he took it.

Their dance wasn’t noteworthy, in the way of spy movies where the lead couple break into a tango while the crowd pulls back to watch. Instead, the rhythm, the air, the crowd all thickened around them until their bodies all moved to the same lazy beat.

Vincent followed without intention.

Her hand settled on his shoulder, and he found her waist a moment later, each point of contact warm and a little intoxicating. The room and everyone in it drifted around them in soft motion—a pleasant sensational cacophony of laughter, perfume, and the faint clink of glasses.

The sound reminded him that he wasn’t holding his champagne anymore. He had no memory of setting it down.

For a moment that seemed relevant, but then the thought slipped away, and the steady heat of her body moving with his replaced it.

“You’re very focused,” she murmured, the words brushing the edge of his ear. “It shows.”

“I’m working.”

“So am I.”

His awareness of the music drifted when she leaned close. For one hopeful heartbeat, he thought she meant to kiss him. Instead, her lips brushed his ear as she spoke. “Upstairs,” she said. “Wait until wanting grows louder than watching.”

She pulled away, ending their dance and their contact, disappearing into the crowd before he gathered his thoughts and asked her what she meant.

Vincent remained behind, his body still alight where they’d touched, anticipation gathering in his chest.

For reasons he couldn’t articulate, he knew this night would follow him long after the masks came off; long after the case was closed; and long after he should have forgotten her.