"Chin up! Shoulders back! You walk like a duck!"
The etiquette coach poked Vesper in the back with a ruler.
It was the third day of "rehabilitation." Eleanor was throwing a "Welcome Home" Gala. It was a debutante ball for a grown woman.
Vesper balanced a book on her head. She hated this. She knew how to walk. She had walked into embassies and bank vaults. But she had to play the clumsy girl.
She deliberately tripped. The book fell. She stepped on the coach's foot.
"Ouch! You clumsy little-"
"Problem?"
Harding leaned against the marble column. He was watching her. He was always watching her.
"She is hopeless," the coach huffed.
"She needs a partner," Harding said. He walked onto the parquet floor. He held out his hand. "May I?"
Vesper looked at his hand. It was a trap.
"I don't dance," she said.
"You'll need to dance at the Gala," Harding said. "Unless you plan to hide in the kitchen."
He grabbed her hand. He pulled her close. Too close.
His other hand settled on her lower back. His fingers splayed over her spine. He wasn't just holding her; he was checking for a wire. For a weapon.
"Tango," Harding said to the musician.
The music started. Sharp. Aggressive.
Harding led. He moved with a predatory grace. He spun her.
Vesper followed. Her body knew the steps. She tried to be stiff, to stumble, but Harding was forcing her into the rhythm.
"Stop fighting it," he whispered. "Your muscles know what to do. Muscle memory doesn't lie, Cassandra."
He dipped her. Her hair swept the floor. His face was inches from hers.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"I'm the girl you're harassing," Vesper hissed.
"You're a liar," Harding said. He pulled her up, his chest colliding with hers. "And I'm going to catch you."
"You tried that," Vesper said. "The prints were clean."
"The sample was corrupted," Harding corrected. "And the file your prints did match was a juvenile record conveniently unlocked just minutes after my system rebooted. Which means you're not just a thief. You're a pro."
The music ended. They stood there, breathing hard. The sexual tension was a physical thing, sharp and dangerous.
Vesper pulled away. "I have to get ready."
She ran upstairs.
She checked the guest list on her tablet.
Baron Von Hellsing.
A known black-market buyer. He was coming to the Gala.
This was it. The Crimson Agate was burning a hole in her shoulder. She needed to sell it and vanish.
But she needed a mule.
She found Liam in the garden, smoking.
"Liam," she said. "I have something. From my... travels. A stone. I need to sell it tonight."
Liam's eyes lit up. "Is it real?"
"It's worth more than this house," Vesper said. "I'll give you ten percent if you make the exchange."
Liam grinned. "Deal."
Up in the security room, Harding watched the silent feed. He saw the exchange. He saw Liam's greed.
"Gotcha," Harding whispered.
