Maybe it was her tone, for his response was more controlled as well. “With Capone?” Nevertheless, his teeth were gritted and his Gypsy eyes flashed with anger. “You have to be on his arm while there’s work to be done, protecting his fat ass—when he could do it himself if he tried.”
Macey shook her head, curling her fingers, then relaxed them and exhaled. She might as well tell him the truth. “Grady’s going to be there. Capone made it clear if I didn’t come, something would happen…to him. To Grady. I actually tried to resign today, to leave him for good, and that’s when he pulled this out of his hat.”
There was a beat of silence. Chas’s lips pursed and he shook his head. His expression was black. “You can’t keep allowing him to do this to you. There are too many vampires in Chicago, and too many deaths because of them. Haven’t you been reading the papers?”
“What am I supposed to do, Chas? Let Capone kill an innocent man?”
“There are a helluva lot more than one innocent person who are dying every night at the hands and fangs of the undead. You need to do your job.”
She clenched her jaw. “Not tonight, Chas. I’ll figure something out. But not tonight.”
His face set like stone, he turned away. “You’re a fool, Macey. You’re making a big mistake.” Those were the last words he said before he slammed the door behind him.
She swore, blinked back tears of anger and frustration, and grabbed her pocketbook. Just one more night. I’ll figure out something tomorrow.
Resolved and resigned, Macey left her rooms. She rode the elevator down to the lobby of the Lexington and arrived only moments before Capone did.
He gave her a smooth smile, which she returned with a cold glare.
This is it. This is the last night I walk by your side.
Now that she knew the prophecy didn’t apply to Capone, there really was no reason to hang around, being pinned by his mobster thumb. She just had to extricate herself from him without putting Grady at risk.
The Art Institute was closed to the public at this time of night, but open to those who had the social cachet—or the means to buy a ticket—to attend the gala. As such, the affair was a formal one, with top hats and tailcoats everywhere, snowy white bib shirts, waistcoats, pristine bow ties, and glittering evening gowns of every hue. Jewels shone everywhere: affixed to headbands, combs, wrists, throats, and even on long necklaces that hung nearly to the navel of its wearer. The men wore gems and other shiny accessories in their cufflinks, chunky rings, and in jet, silver, or gold beads on the spats covering their shoes.
Macey could safely say she’d never been in the company of so much wealth and power, nor so much net worth of jewelry and fashion. She wasn’t an expert by any means, but at least two of the gowns she saw were likely Worth originals, imported from Paris.
If she hadn’t been struggling with a riot of emotions—guilt, anger, and impatience—she might have enjoyed the sights and experience.
The bright flashbulbs from the press blinded her as she and Capone climbed the short side steps to the Art Institute in the company of other well-dressed attendees. Did that mean she’d be gracing the front of the papers again tomorrow, on the arm of the most feared man in Chicago? Damn.
That made her even more determined this would be the last time she was photographed with him. She firmly extricated herself from his grip in her arm, easing back to place a comfortable distance from him as he jovially greeted everyone from the institute director to the mayor to a Vanderbilt to Washington Porter—the man responsible for supplying most of Chicago’s fresh fruit.
Capone’s glad-handing gave Macey the opportunity to stroll along and admire some of the woodcut prints of spring landscapes in Japan, and to observe the layout of the gala.
In keeping with the theme of the evening, the high-ceilinged, windowless gallery in which the exhibit was displayed had been decorated in a minimalist Japanese fashion. Single fresh branches from cherry trees, likely cut today in the prime of their blooming season, stood in tall, elegant black vases and released a lovely fragrance to each passerby. Plain tapestries in the blues and violets often mirrored in Utagawa Hiroshige’s landscapes hung on the walls behind some of the framed prints. Silks of blue were draped over tables, cascading in smooth swaths like waterfalls to end in elegant pools on the floor. The servers were dressed in traditional Japanese kimonos, and each wore an ink-black wig sporting the gender-appropriate hairstyle. They carried trays with shrimp cocktails on tiny picks, small seaweed rolls, and rice balls, as well as small fried dumplings.
Instead of spirits and wine, the official beverage being served was hot tea in small, handle-less cups. The waiters lifted short, flat iron-cast pots to pour the fragrant green tea in an elegant stream before offering a steaming cup to each guest.
Though the tea was the official drink, there were plenty of dim corners where the furtive glint of bottle or flask could be seen.
Despite noticing all of these details with interest, Macey simply couldn’t relax and partake of the festivities. She was too busy waiting for the back of her neck to get cold—which would actually be a relief, she freely admitted, for she knew how to deal with that—and both dreading and anticipating the possibility that she would encounter Grady.
When it happened, however, she wasn’t expecting it.
She was at Hakone, admiring the vibrant hues of the elegant, arched green mountains overlooking the subtle shades of blue ocean, when the back of her bare neck prickled with awareness. Not with undead awareness, but with something far more potent.
She didn’t have to turn to know it was Grady standing behind her. But when she did turn, her palms damp and her insides a basket of butterflies, she wasn’t prepared to encounter Grady and the young blond woman standing there with him.
“Miss Denton,” he said in a detached voice. “I thought that was you. I noticed your companion’s arrival, and assumed that would be you on his arm, though there were so many cameramen taking photographs I couldn’t see your face. But it appears I was correct.”
His voice was cool and detached, but his eyes…they were not. Oh, not by a long shot. They were a dark, wild blue, hot and probing as they caught her gaze. She found it difficult to look away, even more difficult to form words. What was that storming through his eyes? Anger? Accusation? Disgust?
Relief?
When she finally broke the connection, her attention bounced around to take in Grady’s whole person: his unruly cocoa-brown hair, combed back neatly except for a tiny curl flipping up behind his ear; the crisp black tuxedo jacket that made his shoulders look broader than ever; the pristine white bowtie, shirt, and textured white-on-white waistcoat; the faint ink stain on his hand that indicated he’d recently been taking notes—even here, during this formal occasion.
Macey dragged her eyes away and was doing her best to find something to say when Grady rescued her—so to speak. “Pardon me for my lapse. Miss McCormick, meet Miss Denton. She’s an associate of Mr. Capone’s.”
The venom in his voice when he said “associate” took Macey by surprise. It felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach; painful and as if she couldn’t snatch in a good breath.
Grady continued, “Miss Denton, please meet Miss Carol McCormick. The Colonel—er, my boss—is her cousin, in case you hadn’t guessed.” He smiled at his companion, whose hand was linked to his arm, and she smiled up in return. How cozy. Macey couldn’t help but notice there wasn’t a trace of the Irish in his tone tonight. Instead, they were stilted and formal, as if he were taking care with each word or syllable.
“The pleasure is mine,” replied Miss McCormick, bestowing the same warm, open smile on Macey. Apparently, she was oblivious to the undercurrents between her escort and Macey—or she was simply gracious enough to be able to ignore them.
Or perhaps there weren’t any undercurrents at all and Macey was exaggerating them in her own mind.
Which, really, would be the very best thing that could happen, she realized suddenly.
In fact…determination and relief took hold of her. This was the best thing that could happen. Capone could no longer use Grady as a threat to Macey if she didn’t care a fig for him—and vice versa.
And tonight would be her chance to demonstrate that to Big Al. To finally sever the ties, so to speak.
“And mine,” Macey managed to say. Now her smile was genuine, but when she transferred her attention to Grady, she made her expression turn cool and remote.
“Since he’s obviously not giving up the details, allow me to ask how you know Jameson,” said Miss McCormick, looking up at him as if he were a moving pictures star. “Obviously, I know him because he’s my cousin’s star reporter—you did hear about the counterfeit gang he busted up, didn’t you, Miss Denton? What a hero he was, nearly getting burned up in that warehouse fire!”
Several reactions pinged in Macey’s brain during Miss McCormick’s enthusiastic speech, but the one that settled right in the front of her mind was “Jameson.” So the J was for Jameson.
Quickly following that tidbit of information was shock that he’d nearly died. And she’d had no idea any of it had happened.