But they were there to maintain peace, not fan the flames of unrest or mistrust.
More than he could say for the thirty-plus cowboys swaggering around in Crowe Industries uniforms, each with a pair of sidearms bobbing at his hips. Lucan glowered as the preening peacock in command of those clueless yahoos started strutting toward him from across the wide floor of the crowded reception.
Next to him, Gabrielle put her hand on his arm and casually leaned toward him, speaking through her pretty, diplomatic smile. “Try to be nice. This is a party, remember?”
Eyes on Reginald Crowe, Lucan lowered his head and growled.
Filthy rich and oily with a born salesman’s ready grin, Crowe strolled over in his black tux and white shirt, a slender flute of bubbling champagne caught between the fingers of his left hand. He was tall and fit, carried himself with an air of entitlement—of ownership of all he laid eyes on—that made Lucan want to punch the arrogance out of him on sight. Crowe’s thick yellow mane held the golden glint of a Krugerrand, slicked back tonight, making his broad grin seem to take up even more of his Mediterranean-baked face.
“Chairman Thorne,” he said, that grin seeming even tighter, far less friendly, up close. “Good evening to you.”
Lucan had little choice but to take the offered hand and give it a firm shake of greeting. But he didn’t have to curb his glare as Crowe’s gaze shifted to Gabrielle. He looked her over from head to toe, stunning in her simple dove gray sheath and delicate heels. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”
“My mate,” Lucan snarled. “Gabrielle.”
She gave a polite nod of her head and Crowe’s face lit up with appreciation. “Enchanted, to be sure.” He bowed slightly, then gestured with his champagne glass. “May I get you a cocktail or some hors d’oeuvres? It would be my pleasure to serve, Lady Thorne.”
Gabrielle’s smile went a bit strained at the unwanted attention. “No, thank you.”
“What do you want, Crowe?”
Crowe swung his head back to Lucan. “Actually, I wanted to commend you on the decision to move forward tonight with the gala. Director Benson would’ve wanted that, I have to believe. He and the rest of the GNC—yourself included, of course—have done so much to make this summit happen. It would’ve been a shame to see it fall apart at the last minute.”
Lucan grunted in acknowledgment. “Especially after you’ve obviously invested so much into the event personally.”
Everywhere he looked he saw Crowe Industries’ stamp on the party: from the security staff to the catering service and video crew broadcasting the reception for the rest of the world. For crissake, even the ten-man orchestra at the back of the lavish hall played under a digital banner bearing Reginald Crowe’s smirking image.
And then there was the centerpiece of the man’s ego—the crystal sculpture he was to dedicate to the GNC tonight in commemoration of First Dawn and the summit’s mission of securing true peace—situated in the center of the grand hall. At least this wasn’t a blatant ode to Crowe’s arrogance. Not the life-size likeness of the man that Lucan had half expected but a tall obelisk carved of glittering, multifaceted crystal. The ten-foot sculpture tapered at its peak, on top of which sat an orb that gleamed as flawless and cool as a diamond but glowed faintly at its center in palest shades of peach and gold.
It was, Lucan had to admit, if only to himself, a stunning work of art. Most of the mingling dignitaries agreed, crowds drawn to the obelisk like a beacon in the middle of the sea of formally attired attendees.
Crowe took a sip of his champagne, surveying the reception he’d bought with what had to easily have been millions. He exhaled a beleaguered sigh and slowly shook his head. “A pity, really. This evening was supposed to have been a celebration of all the good things still to come. A recognition of all the promise the future holds. To have lost one of the world’s most brilliant scientific minds and a respected statesman, both to violence in the same week . . .” Crowe clucked his tongue. “Well, it’s unthinkable. Such a tragedy.”
“Indeed,” Lucan replied.
Crowe’s gaze locked on him, as shrewd and sharp as a bird of prey. “And the Order must be in shock as well, not without its own losses this week. Terrible business, learning one of your flock has turned traitor. A former warrior, gone to the dark side to collude with the rebels . . . astounding.” Crowe peeled his lips back in a cold smile. “I hope you’ll forgive me for saying that’s one death today for which I did find cause to celebrate.”