her. Right now, she wasn’t sure of much of anything.
There’d been a time, as a little girl, when she’d dreamed of staying in a five-star hotel like this one, in a big city, with all the glitz included. As a kid, after she’d finished her chores on the dairy farm, she’d hidden in her room, away from her drunken mother. For hours and hours, Hillary had played on the internet, escaping into another world. Researching other places and other ways to live. Clean places. Pretty, even.
With tables full of food.
She’d spent a lot of time thinking about the cuisine, learning recipes, planning meals and parties to fill her solitary world. Even if only in her imagination.
Once she’d turned eighteen, she scrounged together enough college loans to get a degree in hospitality and economics. Three years ago, she’d landed with a major D.C. corporation that contracted out events planners. Someday, she hoped to start her own company. Be in charge of her own business. She refused to live her life as the scared little country girl she’d once been, hiding in her room, too afraid to slip out and grab a mushy apple from behind mom’s beer.
The elevator doors slid open and she smiled her thanks to the attendant before stepping out into the wide hall, sconces lighting the way into the glittering ballroom. Nerves ate at her stomach like battery acid. She just had to get through this weekend. She’d make the proper identifications, which would help confirm her innocence. Or at least get her off the hook, even if they still didn’t believe she’d known nothing about what Barry had in mind for those supposed college scholarships.
Forging ahead, she passed her invitation to the tuxedoed man protecting the elite fundraising bash from party crashers. Media cameras flashed. Even with spots in front of her eyes, she already recognized at least two movie stars, an opera singer and three politicians. This party rivaled anything she’d seen or planned—and her standards were top-notch. The ballroom glittered with refracted lights from the crystal chandeliers. Columns and crown molding were gilded; plush carpets held red-and-brass swirls.
A harpist and a violinist played—for now—but from the looks of the instruments set up throughout the room, the music would obviously be staggered. The stage was set for a string quartet. A grand piano filled a corner, with a 1940s-era mic in place alongside.
The dance—at two thousand dollars a head—was slated to fund scholarships. But then that was the root of Barry’s scam—collecting money for scholarships, most of which were never awarded, then funneling the cash out of the country into a Swiss bank account.
Bile rose in her throat. She thumbed the charm clipped to her bag, rubbing the tiny silver cow pin like a talisman, a reminder of where she’d come from and all she intended to accomplish.
Men wore tuxedos or military uniforms, the women were in long dresses and dripping jewels that would have funded endless numbers of scholarships. Well, everyone wore formal attire except for the gentleman in a gray suit with a red tie. Her contact.
Colonel Salvatore.
She’d been introduced to him by her lawyer. Apparently, the colonel worked for international authorities. The CIA had promised he would ensure her safety and oversee her cooperation while she was in Chicago. Only one more weekend and she could put this all behind her.
The colonel stepped up beside her and offered his arm. “Miss Wright, you’re here early. I would have escorted you down if I’d known you were ready.”
“I couldn’t wait any longer to get this evening under way.” She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “I hope you understand.”
“Of course.” He started into the ballroom, moving toward the seating section with a runway thrust into the middle.
She recalled there being some mention of an auction of items donated by the elite from around the globe.
More money laundering? Couldn’t anyone or anything be genuine anymore? Was everything tainted with greed and agendas?
Salvatore gestured her toward a seat reserved with his name and “guest”. They took their places five rows back, not conspicuously in the front. She was also in the perfect spot to see both of the screens panning shots of the guests while a matriarch of Chicago high society took the stage to emcee the auction. Of course Colonel Salvatore had planned everything.
Hillary forced herself to focus on studying each face on the screen, on searching for the two familiar individuals who Barry had claimed were his “silent partners”—not that Barry was talking to authorities now that he’d lawyered up.
But then when had she ever been able to count on a man? Her father certainly hadn’t done anything to stop her mother from drinking or to protect Hillary and her sister. He’d buried himself in working in the fields, and as long as she worked alongside him, she was safe.
The hard work of her childhood had taught her to work hard as an adult. Life was just hard. Plain and simple. She was still trying to keep herself safe so her efforts could finally pay off.
As bid after bid went by for posh vacations, jewelry and even private concerts, her thoughts raced back to Troy Donavan and that hour of lighthearted banter on the plane. For a short snap, life had felt fun and uncomplicated.
Yet, it had all been a lie. She couldn’t have bantered with a more complicated person. Troy was a perfect example of the cold, hard truth. Everyone wanted something from someone else. People didn’t do things exclusively out of the goodness of their hearts. There was always a payoff of some sort expected. The sooner she accepted that and quit believing otherwise, the happier she would be.
Madame Emcee moved closer to the microphone, her gold taffeta dress smooshed against the podium. “And now, before we move on to dancing the night away, we have one final auction left for the evening, one not on your programs.” She swept a bejeweled hand toward the large flat screens. “If you’ll turn your attention to our video feed, you’ll see media footage you may have caught earlier.”
Troy Donavan’s face filled the screen.
Oh. God.
Hillary clenched her hands around her handbag, the silver charm cutting into her palm. She glanced quickly at the colonel to see if he’d noticed her panic. But her escort simply sat with his arms folded, watching along with everyone else.
In full color, high-definition, the whole runway scenario played out again in front of her. Troy, walking off the plane in handcuffs, wearing that quirky, undeniably sexy hat. Troy, escorted into some official-looking SUV. Hillary had been so rushed getting checked in and ready for the kickoff gala, she hadn’t even turned on the television in her room.
Madame Emcee continued, “But what does that have to do with us tonight? Prepare yourself.”
The lights shut off. The ballroom went pitch-black. Gasps rippled. A woman squeaked.
After a squeal of microphone feedback, the emcee continued, “For our final bid of the night, we have for you …”
A spotlight illuminated a circle on stage.
Troy Donavan stood in the middle, wearing a tuxedo now instead of his suit, but still cuffed with his hands in front of him. A white silk scarf gave him the same quirky air he’d had on the plane. Her eyes took in the whole man. How could she not? He’d been hot in a suit—in a tuxedo, he stole the air from the room.
“Yes,”
