Distant strains of classical music float through the air as I enter the grand foyer of Jamison Hart’s mansion. It looks like the billionaire never redecorated the Woodland Castle after inheriting it from his deceased mother. The outdated décor in the open space is brilliantly lit by a chandelier: a clawed-foot table holding champagne flutes, a velvet armchair and a matching bench, an oversized floral vase containing wilting sunflowers, a baby grand piano with an empty tip jar, and a small tree bearing pale yellow lemons so perfectly shaped that I’m not sure if they’re real or fake.
A butler moves forward to greet me, a small envelope clutched in his hands. His eyes are a startling shade of pale green. “Ms. Lily Bass?”
I self-consciously tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Yes?”
“You’re the last to arrive,” he says, handing the envelope to me. “There’s been a change in this evening’s activities—we sent out the wrong invitations. You’ll have to hurry if you don’t want to lose the game.”
As a bodyguard glances into my purse and waves a metal detector around my dress, I open the envelope to find an invitation inside: “Lily Eileen Bass, you are cordially invited to celebrate the 28th birthday of Jamison Hart. Please join us for a game of Sardines at the Woodland Castle. Cake & booze to follow.”
“Sardines?” I repeat, confused. This is the same invitation passed along to me by the Executive, except the other one said “for a cocktail party” and “espresso to follow.” It didn’t say anything at all about a game, and I don’t understand how there could have been a mistake. Childhood games aren’t exactly the favorite pastime of billionaires.
The butler inclines his head. “The guests are currently searching, individually and in small groups, for Mr. Hart. Once successful, each guest must join Mr. Hart’s hiding place until only one remains. At that time, a birthday cake and specially crafted cocktails will be served in the ballroom. The losing guest will be required to drink a cocktail entitled—” His expression darkens. “Sardines colada.”
I bite my tongue, fighting a sudden urge to laugh. Is he serious? This is way too easy. Alpha must have noticed with his X-ray vision that the guests were scattered all over the mansion. He would have assumed it meant danger. But after all the preparation I’ve gone through in the past month, memorizing the Executive’s files on every guest attending this party, I’m going to play a game instead. I might not even run into anyone else, depending on how quickly and stealthily I can get to Jamison Hart. And once I join my target in his hiding place, we’ll be in an enclosed space, maybe even one that’s dark enough for me to brush my lips against his before excusing myself to use the ladies’ room.
By the time he’s convulsing on the floor, Alpha and I will be gone.
“At your leisure.” The butler makes a sweeping gesture with his hand, indicating that I’m free to search the rest of the mansion.
I smile politely and return the invitation, then walk as casually as I can out of the grand foyer. As much as I want to run, there are bodyguards with handguns and earpieces stationed in every hallway, so I have to keep acting like a typical guest. At least my sneakers are way better for playing this game than heels would have been, and I’ve memorized the entire layout of the mansion well enough to draw it in my sleep. There are three floors with multiple wings, servants’ quarters, secret corridors, and even a seven-car garage.
I don’t have time to search the entire mansion before the game of Sardines ends. But it’s hard to imagine the billionaire hiding in a darkened closet somewhere, waiting for his wealthy relatives and business associates to find him. So what do I know about Jamison Hart and his hobbies? He plays the violin, he reads classic literature, he owns way too many antique cars, he drinks pretty much all the time, he makes a mean shrimp scampi, and he loves sailing. If anything, he’s probably relaxing in the library on the third floor by himself, reading a leather-bound book while sipping a glass of aged whiskey.
But first I have to eliminate the possibility that he’s already in the ballroom, eating a piece of cake and drinking one of those specially crafted cocktails.
Following the strains of classical music, I make my way into the empty but expansive ballroom, which has been decorated with a nautical theme. A string quartet is playing on a small stage underneath navy blue banners, and a sailboat is sitting in a corner with a massive gift bow tied around its hull. At the center of the dance floor, there’s an elaborate birthday cake surrounded by a variety of cocktail glasses. One, set off to the side by itself, is garnished with a sardine speared by a toothpick.
I scan the faces of the musicians in the string quartet, but none of them are Jamison Hart. Feeling slightly ridiculous, I walk over to the sailboat and peer into the cockpit. It’s empty, obviously. Even though my hopes weren’t high anyway, I can’t help but feel disappointed. If I don’t locate my target soon, I’ll have to go off-script and ask Alpha to use his X-ray vision to find Jamison Hart.
The next place I should check is the kitchen, which is just down the hallway. I push through a swiveling door to find a round breakfast table, an oversized island, a wooden fruit bowl containing fake pears, and a ceiling rack with dangling copper pots. No sign of Jamison Hart.
But when I glance through the open door of the pantry, I realize I’m not alone in here. A man is locked in an intimate embrace with a blue-haired woman in between the shelves of canned goods. They’re laughing and murmuring, unaware of my presence, clearly ignoring the party in favor of each other.
“Don’t you just adore Sardines?” the man asks teasingly. He has a British accent and a shaved head, and I have no idea who he is. His picture wasn’t in the stack of files given to me by the Executive.
“Please, Lawrence. No one likes Sardines, not even children.” At least I can identify the woman based on her identical accent and blue hair: Zoe Evano, an heiress from London with business ties to the Hart family. “This is simply a way for Jamison to corner Ophidian’s board of directors and win our votes.”
“I thought he wasn’t interested in Ophidian,” the man says, pulling out a flask from his jacket pocket. His eyes meet mine over Zoe’s shoulder as he takes a drink. I tense immediately, preparing an excuse for why I’m watching them in the pantry, but he only smirks slightly before returning his gaze to her.
“Oh, he’s quite interested,” she says, her disdainful tone making it clear that she finds Jamison Hart to be nothing more than an annoyance. “He wants to take over Ophidian, but I’ll be voting for his father at the annual meeting instead. Speaking of which, I really must find Gallagher...”
I back out of the kitchen quietly, not needing to hear anything else. I’ve read plenty about Ophidian, a billion-dollar company owned by the Hart family that develops future technology like artificial intelligence, renewable energy, automated drones, and genetically modified crops. Most of the Executive’s technology is supplied by Ophidian. But as far as I know, Jamison has never publicly expressed an interest in seizing control of the company from his father, Gallagher Hart. Either way, this is bad. If my target is moving around the Woodland Castle and speaking to the other guests, I’ll never find him before the game ends.
On the way to the library, I try to maintain a casual stroll throughout the mansion. But I gradually start to walk faster and faster, even though I can feel the bodyguards watching me. Like the royal soldiers at Buckingham Palace, they won’t move or acknowledge my presence, but I know I’ll be surrounded in an instant if I try anything out of the ordinary. I don’t even want to think about what’ll happen if I break into a sprint. And yet I find myself trying it anyway, darting onto an empty staircase outside the library, racing all the way to the top...
Where I collide with a firm, muscular body.
Shit. I haven’t been careful enough. Best case scenario, it’s another guest. Worst case scenario, it’s a bodyguard. I instinctively press my lips together and tuck in my head, letting myself start to tumble through the air. I don’t want to harm anyone innocent at the Woodland Castle tonight.
But I’ve barely even fallen when a strong arm catches me around the waist, keeping me from crashing to the ground. We spin around in a wild circle, as if dancing, our bodies melding together perfectly. I tilt my head upward to find myself gazing into blue eyes filled with laughter. The man holding me has golden hair and lips curved into a friendly smile, and his cologne is sweet and alluring, almost intoxicating. My pupils dilate as I feel the warmth of his body against mine. It’s as if I can see everything he’s thinking as he stares down at me.
I didn’t expect to run into anyone up here.
What’s her name? I have to know her name.
God, she’s beautiful.
I’m breathless, feeling as if I’ve tipped over the railing and into midair, even though I’m still standing on solid ground. Something about him makes me feel giddy inside, my senses hyperaware of everything around me, as if we’re both moving in slow motion. I’m the only female operative in the Executive who gets close to her targets through the prospect of love. But it’s only ever been a commodity I sell to get to a kiss as soon as possible. I’ve sold it over and over again, watched men conclude they’re starting their lives with the girl next door, when in fact they’re making themselves complicit in ending it.
But for some inexplicable reason, I suddenly find myself believing in love. No, even worse. Love at first sight. I can’t believe in anything else for a moment, can’t even think of anything other than what this man’s name might be and what future we might have together. And given the sharpened gaze of his eyes, the tightened muscles in his arm still around my waist, I can tell that he’s thinking it too.
He takes a deep breath, then lets it out.
“Now, what’s a girl like you doing here?” he says.
And all at once, everything comes rushing back like a douse of cold water, as if I’ve fallen into the bloodied pool with Javier Angelo’s corpse. My heart seizes, warning me not to lose myself in the emotions crashing over me. What would Alpha say if he was here? No choice, Echo. I know what future this man and I have, and it can’t be love, at least not for me. Because I recognize his voice from recordings I’ve heard over and over again, his appearance from pictures I’ve memorized in an Executive file, and I already know his name.
Jamison Hart.