Dates from Hell(88)
“Hope?” Marsten grasped my shoulder, his grip hard enough to push back the vision.
“Sorry,” I murmured. “Just…ghosts.”
“Whatever you did, you thought you were—”
“Doesn’t matter, does it? It’s actions that count, not intentions. Ignorance isn’t an excuse. That’s what my ethics prof always said. Ignorance isn’t—”
I champed down on my lip hard enough to draw blood, then pushed myself to my feet. “So no gun, no body, but one guard down.” I paused. “Three guards, I should—” I shook it off. “One of Tristan’s guards. One goal achieved out of three. Not doing so hot, are we? So what’s next? Resume the plan and find a place to hide?”
He nodded. “We’ll try that.”
That didn’t sound terribly optimistic but, considering our luck so far, I can’t say I blamed him.
10
W e discussed options and settled on hiding in one of the less “sexy” exhibits—those displaying artifacts unlikely to interest a bored partygoer conducting his own off-limits tour. The ceramics or textiles galleries seemed like the safest bets.
Both required passing the party, but we would take the back hall around it, rather than walk through. Seeing two people die had convinced me this wasn’t the time to worry about my abandoned date.
We hurried into the hall skirting the gala, then veered left. We jogged through the looming skeletons of the dinosaur exhibit, and were crossing to the Greco-Roman wing when I picked up the twang of a supernatural vibe.
I grabbed Marsten’s arm and told him. He listened for footsteps, then inhaled the scents.
“Tristan and the other guard,” he said. “Coming right where we’ll be going. Is there another—”
He stopped and answered his question by looking at the open doors down the hall. A quartet of men lounged in the doorway, ties and jackets off. Beyond them were more gaggles of partygoers.
“We could go back,” I said.
“Too late,” he said, and steered me toward the party.
“We’ll cut straight across to the main exit,” I said as we moved. “From there, the first left will take us to ceramics.”
We squeezed past the drunken quartet who were ill-inclined—or too unsteady—to move out of our way. Once inside, I motioned to our goal across the room. We were passing the buffet table when I caught sight of Douglas, less than ten feet away, still talking to the Bairds.
Seeing me, Douglas blinked, and looked beside him. Figures. Here I was, worrying that he’d been searching for me, and he probably hadn’t even noticed I’d been gone.
Marsten reached for my arm, to steer me away from Douglas, but I waved him back and veered onto a new course myself. Douglas only lifted his brows in polite question. When I gestured to the buffet table, he smiled, nodded, and turned back to the Bairds.
“Don’t mind me,” I muttered. “I’m just passing through, killers in hot pursuit. No, no, it’s okay. You go back to whatever you were doing. I’m fine.”
Beside me, Marsten chuckled. “Your mother knows how to pick them, doesn’t she?”
As I rolled my eyes, Marsten’s gaze shot back to the door, and I saw Tristan and the other guard brush past the drunken quartet. At that moment, Douglas turned and lifted a finger, motioning me over. Probably wanted me to grab him something from the buffet.
When I hesitated, trying to gesture back, Marsten grabbed the back of my dress and nearly yanked me off my feet. I backpedaled as fast as I could to keep from tripping, as Marsten dragged me into a large group of people and out of Douglas’s sight.
“He’s coming,” he hissed by my ear, as I spouted apologies to the partygoers whose circle we’d invaded.
Tristan’s guard was striding around the back of the buffet table, moving as fast as he dared without calling attention to himself. How he’d seen us in the crowded room, I couldn’t imagine.
As we broke free from the group, Marsten gave me a shove, none too gently, toward the main door. With him behind me, I hurried out it, then left, toward the exhibits.
When I rounded the first corner, Marsten caught up and pushed something at me. A tuxedo jacket, which presumably he had grabbed from a chair in the gala.
“Take it,” he said when I made no move to do so. “Put it on.”
I almost said, “But I’m not cold,” an automatic response that, under the circumstances, would have made me sound like an idiot. Instead, I settled for an equally idiotic “huh?” stare.
“Your dress,” he said.
My…? Oh shit. My canary yellow dress. How had Tristan spotted us in that crowded room? Well, duh. When I’d bought this dress, I pictured myself as a glowing beacon in the black night. Now, I had my wish.