Chapter 1 - The Kiss Everyone Saw
His hand closed around my jaw as I whispered, “Let go of me.”
Mateo Reyes pulled the black gala clipboard from my arms.
A tiny red circle had been drawn beside my name.
Mateo stopped smiling.
This was not about a kiss.
For three full seconds, I forgot there were nearly two hundred people staring at us.
The ballroom of the Halston Grand had been loud only moments earlier—glasses clinking, donors laughing, a string quartet playing something expensive and forgettable near the marble staircase. Now the silence felt physical.
Mateo’s face remained inches from mine.
His thumb rested beneath my cheek.
My heart was hammering, but anger reached my mouth before fear did.
“Take your hand off me.”
He did.
Slowly.
That somehow made it worse.
“Claire,” he said quietly, “don’t turn around.”
Naturally, I immediately wanted to turn around.
“I don’t take orders from you.”
“I noticed.”
His eyes moved past my shoulder again.
The expression on his face was completely different from the arrogant half-smile he had worn before kissing me.
Cold.
Focused.
Alert.
I lowered my voice.
“You kissed me in front of my board.”
“Yes.”
“My donors.”
“Yes.”
“My boss.”
“You are the executive director.”
“You know what I mean.”
“You’re welcome.”
I stared at him.
“Welcome?”
Mateo leaned closer.
Half the room probably assumed he was whispering something indecent.
Instead, he said, “The man behind you reached inside his jacket three seconds before I kissed you.”
My stomach tightened.
“What man?”
“Do not look.”
“Then stop telling me things that make me want to look.”
That almost earned a smile.
Almost.
He turned the clipboard toward me.
My name appeared halfway down the event management sheet.
CLAIRE DONOVAN — EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR.
Beside it was the tiny red circle.
I had printed that sheet myself at four-thirty that afternoon.
There had been no circle.
“What is that?”
“A selection mark.”
“For what?”
“I’m trying to determine that.”
“You expect me to believe somebody marked my name on a clipboard in the middle of a charity gala?”
“No.”
Mateo’s gaze hardened.
“I expect you to believe the second mark.”
He flipped the clipboard over.
Near the bottom corner of the backing board was another red circle.
Inside it were three numbers.
My mouth went dry.
“That means nothing to me.”
“It means something to whoever put it there.”
A camera flashed from our left.
I flinched.
Mateo didn’t.
Of course he didn’t.
Men like Mateo Reyes probably had cameras pointed at them every time they stepped out of a car.
He was thirty-five, wealthy enough that business magazines pretended not to know where half his money came from, and dangerous enough that respectable people spoke his name more quietly than necessary.
Rumors followed him everywhere.
Illegal gambling.
Shipping.
Protection.
Private clubs where powerful men entered through kitchens.
Nothing had ever been proven.
That was almost more frightening.
I had spent six months making sure Mateo would not be invited to tonight’s fundraiser.
Then one of our largest donors had personally added him to the guest list.
At seven-fifteen, he had arrived in a light-gray suit with no visible security.
At eight-oh-three, he had donated two million dollars.
At eight-forty-seven, he had walked directly across the ballroom, taken my face in his hand, kissed me in front of everybody, and destroyed what remained of my professional reputation.
Then he had whispered the sentence I suspected would appear on every gossip page in Manhattan before midnight.
“You’re sleeping beside me tonight.”
I had been too shocked to respond.
Now I understood why he had said it loudly enough for people nearby to hear.
“You were performing,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because everyone in this room now believes you’re leaving with me.”
My eyes narrowed.
“And that helps me how?”
“People planning to take you somewhere else may reconsider.”
The word take landed differently.
I glanced at the red circle again.
“Are you saying someone was going to kidnap me?”
“I’m saying I didn’t intend to wait around and find out.”
A man laughed somewhere behind us.
The orchestra started playing again.
Conversation cautiously returned.
To everyone else, the scandal was over.
Mateo Reyes had publicly claimed a woman.
Another ridiculous story for tomorrow’s society columns.
Nobody knew I was standing there trying to decide whether the criminal in front of me was protecting me or manipulating me.
Possibly both.
“Who marked my clipboard?”
“I don’t know.”
“How did you recognize it?”
His silence was answer enough.
“You’ve seen it before.”
Mateo looked toward the doors.
“Claire.”
“Where?”
“This isn’t the place.”
“Then tell me where.”
His jaw tightened.
“On people who didn’t make it home.”
The room suddenly seemed colder.
Before I could respond, someone touched my elbow.
I spun.
My younger brother Evan stood beside me.
At thirty-two, Evan could still somehow look like the college kid who used to borrow my car and return it without gas.
Tonight he wore a black tuxedo and the expression of a man who had just witnessed his sister being kissed by somebody he hated.
“What the hell was that?”
“Not now.”
His eyes went to Mateo.
“I’m talking to him.”
Mateo barely acknowledged him.
“Go back to the donor table.”
Evan laughed once.
“You don’t get to order me around.”
“I wasn’t ordering you.”
“It sounded like it.”
“It was advice.”
“From a mobster?”
“Evan,” I warned.
He looked at me.
“What?”
“Please.”
Something in my expression stopped him.
He looked from me to Mateo.
“What happened?”
I hesitated.
Mateo didn’t.
“Nothing.”
I glared at him.
Evan noticed.
“That doesn’t look like nothing.”
Mateo stepped closer to me and lowered his voice.
“Do not tell anyone about the mark.”
“My brother isn’t anyone.”
“Tonight, everyone is anyone.”
That sentence stayed with me.
Evan frowned.
“What mark?”
“Nothing,” I said.
He looked hurt.
I hated that.
But beneath the hurt was something else.
Nervousness.
I had known Evan my entire life.
I knew every version of his face.
The little-boy guilty face.
The teenage lying face.
The adult pretending-everything-was-fine face.
This was different.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
Too fast.
“Evan.”
“I’m fine.”
His gaze briefly touched the clipboard.
Then moved away.
Mateo saw it too.
I could tell.
Before either of us could say anything, the ballroom lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then steadied.
Several guests laughed awkwardly.
A hotel manager hurried toward the electrical panel.
Mateo’s posture changed.
“We’re leaving.”
I shook my head.
“I have two speeches left.”
“You’re leaving.”
“There are four hundred thousand dollars’ worth of pledges still being processed.”
“You can process them tomorrow.”
“This event funds three pediatric clinics.”
“And you can’t run any of them if you’re dead.”
The bluntness stunned me.
Evan swore.
Mateo reached for my arm.
I stepped away.
“Don’t.”
He stopped immediately.
Interesting.
He could have grabbed me.
He didn’t.
“Then walk,” he said.
“I’m not going anywhere until I know what’s happening.”
Mateo looked at me for a long moment.
Then he nodded toward the service corridor.
“Security room.”
I followed him.
Evan started after us.
Mateo turned.
“Stay here.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Evan,” I said. “Give me five minutes.”
His face tightened.
“Claire—”
“Five.”
He reluctantly stopped.
Mateo and I crossed the ballroom.
People tried not to stare.
They failed.
A woman from the foundation board looked at my mouth, then Mateo, then deliberately took a very large sip of champagne.
Great.
If I survived the evening, I would have a spectacular Monday.
We entered the service hallway.
The music became muffled behind us.
Mateo’s bodyguard appeared from nowhere.
I hadn’t even known he had one.
Tall.
Dark suit.
Earpiece.
“Rafael,” Mateo said.
“West stairwell is clear.”
“Cameras?”
“Working on it.”
Mateo looked at me.
“Still think I’m being dramatic?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Fear makes people stupid.”
“And arrogance doesn’t?”
“It makes us predictable.”
For the first time that night, I almost smiled.
Almost.
We reached the hotel security office.
Rafael knocked twice.
A guard opened the door.
Inside, a wall of monitors showed every hallway, elevator, entrance, kitchen, and ballroom angle.
Mateo went directly to the operator.
“Eight forty-five to eight fifty.”
“Which camera?”
“Ballroom south.”
The footage rewound.
There I was.
Teal dress.
Clipboard.
Walking between tables.
A server passed behind me.
Mateo leaned closer.
“Stop.”
The image froze.
The server’s face was turned away.
His right hand touched the back of my clipboard.
Two seconds.
That was all.
He moved on.
“Zoom.”
The operator enlarged the image.
The server wore white gloves.
Between two fingers was a red marker.
My breathing changed.
“Who is he?”
The hotel security chief shook his head.
“Temporary staff, maybe.”
“Find him.”
The footage continued.
The server moved toward a service exit.
Another camera caught him removing his jacket.
Underneath was a black dress shirt.
Then he disappeared into a stairwell.
Mateo’s phone vibrated.
He checked it.
His face went still.
“What?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
“Mateo.”
Rafael looked at him.
“What is it?”
Mateo turned the phone toward him instead of me.
Rafael swore.
That was enough.
I stepped between them.
“Show me.”
“No.”
“Show me.”
“Claire.”
“You dragged me out of my own fundraiser after kissing me in front of half of Manhattan. You don’t get privacy now.”
Something flashed in his eyes.
Respect, maybe.
Or irritation.
With Mateo, apparently they looked similar.
He handed me the phone.
A photograph filled the screen.
It had been taken inside the ballroom.
Only minutes earlier.
I was in the center.
A red circle had been drawn around my head.
Underneath were four words.
ROOM 814. BEFORE MIDNIGHT.
I stared at the numbers.
The same numbers on my clipboard.
“What’s in room 814?”
The hotel manager went pale.
“I’ll check.”
He typed quickly.
Then stopped.
“What?”
“That room isn’t occupied.”
Mateo looked at him.
“Key.”
“I can’t—”
Mateo didn’t raise his voice.
“Key.”
Thirty seconds later, we were in the elevator.
Rafael stood beside the doors.
I stood behind Mateo.
Nobody spoke.
The numbers rose.
My phone vibrated.
A message from Evan.
WHERE ARE YOU?
I typed:
SECURITY ISSUE. STAY IN BALLROOM.
The elevator reached eight.
The doors opened.
The hallway was empty.
Too empty.
Room 814 was at the far end.
Mateo moved first.
Rafael drew a gun.
My stomach dropped.
“Seriously?”
Neither man answered.
I followed anyway.
Mateo stopped at the door.
He looked at me.
“Stay behind me.”
“I’m not staying—”
“Claire.”
For once, I obeyed.
Rafael used the master key.
The lock flashed green.
The door opened.
Dark room.
No lights.
Mateo reached inside and switched them on.
Nothing.
A perfectly made bed.
Closed curtains.
Empty desk.
Then I saw the envelope.
It sat in the middle of the bed.
My name was written across it.
CLAIRE DONOVAN.
I stepped forward.
Mateo blocked me.
“Don’t touch it.”
He used a hotel pen to lift the flap.
Inside was a photograph.
He pulled it out.
I recognized the image immediately.
My father.
Ten years younger.
Standing outside the Donovan Foundation offices.
Beside him was Mateo.
My father had been dead for seven years.
I had never seen Mateo before tonight.
“What is this?”
Mateo said nothing.
I grabbed the photograph.
On the back, my father had written six words.
IF THEY COME FOR CLAIRE, RUN.
My hands started trembling.
“You knew my father.”
Mateo’s expression told me everything before he spoke.
“Yes.”
“How?”
His phone rang.
Unknown number.
He answered.
Silence.
Then a distorted voice.
“Wrong room.”
Mateo’s eyes lifted.
“What?”
The voice laughed softly.
“She’s not the one we took.”
I grabbed my phone.
Called Evan.
No answer.
Again.
No answer.
I ran toward the hallway.
Mateo caught up behind me.
The elevator doors opened before either of us pressed the button.
Evan stood inside.
His hands were raised.
May you like
A gun was pressed against his back.
And the man holding it smiled at me.
