Once they were unmiked, Oliver practically pulled Mac off the stage behind a curtain that separated it from the banquet audience.
“Where did you learn to do that?” He was grinning like he’d won the lottery.
Macayla almost couldn’t form words, she was smiling too hard. Now was not the time to tell him she’d once conducted interviews with often reluctant subjects on a daily basis. “I cued off things you said this afternoon. Was it really good?”
He grabbed her and kissed her, hard and swiftly. “You’re a mad genius.”
And that was all he got to say because he was being rushed by members of the audience, who’d followed them backstage, along with a reporter and a couple of cameramen. Nearly everyone else had their cell phones out taking shots.
Macayla stepped back out of their path because there was no doubt that this was Oliver’s moment. And she wanted him to enjoy every minute of it.
There had been a second there at the beginning, as they stepped onstage to begin the interview, when he’d looked like a fish jerked out of water onto the beach. He was on the verge of panic—though she suspected only she knew it. She’d talked him into this, she’d reminded herself. She couldn’t now let him make a fool of himself.
The inspiration to ask him first about his boast that he could belch “Waltzing Matilda” had turned out to be a brilliant strategy. Once the audience laughed at his typically Aussie response, “When I’m proper pissed, yeah,” he settled, and the rest of the interview went off flawlessly.
Though she received several compliments from those pressing around Oliver, thankfully, no one detained her long. Just as well because she didn’t want to answer any personal questions. This was Oliver’s night.
Finally, as the crowd around him thinned, Oliver waved her forward.
She arrived at the edge of the throng to hear a man say, “I have to admit, Kelly, after meeting you at last year’s conference, I’d written you off as a pretty face. But hearing you tonight, talking with such passion and commitment, I’m impressed. You have a rare capacity for capturing the complexities and nuances of SAR work and making them easily understood.”
“I wouldn’t know about that. I just work hard and believe in what I do. Talk is cheap. The field is where the real work gets done.”
“True as that may be, every cause needs a charismatic spokesperson. I’m chairman of a philanthropic agency that’s looking into ways to better serve disaster-stricken communities. I believe you have something to contribute. Call me.” He handed Oliver his card.
Oliver eyed the man. “I have strong opinions. You won’t like many of them.”
The older man shrugged. “We like to think we welcome all views.” He shifted his gaze to Macayla. “And you, young lady. Good job tonight. I’m Jarvis Henley.”
He held out his hand, smiling at her as if he knew her. Macayla noticed that he wore an expensive linen suit with an open-collar pale-blue shirt. Silver hair pomaded to perfection topped a tanned and weathered face. Everything about him said Florida money. “And this is my wife, Sara.”
A tall, elegant woman with a spiky silver pixie haircut stood beside Henley. Nearly as tall as her husband, she wore a tailored blue shirt and linen trousers that reflected her husband’s attire. She, too, exuded money, from her perfect minimal makeup to the simple silver chain around her long neck from which hung a pendant of a greyhound.
She smiled at Mac, a friendly but assessing expression on her face. “I know who she is, Jarvis.”
Macayla held in her breath. Damn. Nearly a year had passed since anyone had said some version of I know you in that slightly amazed tone. Her former professional life was about to be exposed.
“You’re Tampa/St. Pete’s Pet Detective.”
Macayla let out her breath in a rush. “Yes, I am.” Safe.
“Is that so?” Henley gave Macayla a second, longer look. “Sounds like interesting work.” His voice was still friendly, but something in his gaze made the hair lift on her arms. “Had any interesting adventures lately?”
“Ah, no.” She must have stiffened at the question because Oliver’s arm, slung loosely about her shoulders, tightened protectively.
“I need a drink.” He looked down at her. “Ready, Macayla?”
She nodded and tried to shrug off the sense that something was wrong. It had to be the shock of thinking that she was about to be outed in public that had her nerves all jangling. That and the high of having pulled off a success with Oliver. She just needed a little space and quiet. Crowds had always made her slightly uncomfortable.
Henley set a hand on Oliver’s shoulder as he turned away. “I’d like to get a picture with you and your lady.”
“Not me.” Macayla stepped back as two cameramen came forward at the invitation and took several photos of Henley, his wife, and a slightly frowning Oliver. His gaze was homed in on her, and she knew he was wondering why she’d opted out of the photos. She supposed she had a lot of things to tell him about herself, if and when the time seemed right.
When they were done, Henley slapped Oliver on the back. “I expect a call soon, Kelly.”
Oliver shrugged. “Your funeral. Ta.” He took Mac’s hand and pulled her with him toward the closest ballroom exit.
She fell into step beside him. “Um. That was rude.”
Oliver shook his head. “I know his type. Big contributor to the cause who doesn’t give a toss about the realities of what we do. They get their jollies listening to stories of suffering and deprivation, lob money at us, and then go home to their Jacuzzis and steak dinners and martinis.”
“I like martinis. When I can afford them.”
One side of Oliver’s mouth jerked up. “You earned a martini. Let’s hit the beach bar. I feel stifled in here.”
“What about the rest of the awards banquet?” She didn’t want to stay another second but felt obligated to point out, “You’re the guest of honor. Shouldn’t you be present until the end?”
Oliver stared at her in a way that heated her up from the inside. “Is this what you really want?”
What she really wanted? That would be to climb on top of him and go for a long, sweaty, dirty ride. So not the time to think of that! She touched his arm. “It’s your night. Your call.”
His face lit up. “Beer and martini coming up.”
For reasons she could not explain, Macayla looked back as they were about to exit the ballroom. Jarvis Henley and his wife were still standing nearby. Something struck her as familiar, and not because they had just met.
An unease slithered out of her subconscious, teetered on the brink of knowing, as the man met her gaze. Chandelier light glinted off the expensive watch on his wrist as he raised his hand, arm bent at the elbow. Three fingers curled back and his thumb cocked as he pointed his forefinger straight at her and smiled.
I know that gesture.
The thought struck cobra-sharp, injecting her with blade-sharp terror.
Oliver, who paused as she jerked away from him, turned back. “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head. Her insides had gone liquid with fear. “I—nothing. You’re right. Let’s go. Now!”
She turned and hurried past him, stumbling blindly into those who were in her path.
“Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.” The word, repeated over and over, was all that kept her from screaming.
Inside her head, she was still looking down the barrel of a gun meant for her.