Chapter One
He noticed her legs first and the wig second.
Playing his part, Adam had wandered into the elegant ballroom, tuxedo-clad and with a champagne flute in hand. Tickets to the Ignatius University annual ball cost a pretty penny, but at least part of the proceeds would go to charity. He’d scanned the room with lazy eyes, identifying his quarry at a table in the northeast corner of the room almost immediately.
Then he spotted the blonde.
She stood facing the arched windows that overlooked the lights of Michigan Avenue, wearing a sleeveless gown made entirely of white sequins. A gown so short that its hem rested only about two inches south of her rear. Her limbs were golden, like she’d just returned from a month in the Caribbean. An active month, if the long, lean muscles on her arms and legs were any indication.
Probably a rich socialite who spent her days playing tennis, he decided, already bored. She might have had the best pins he’d ever seen, but he had only one use for self-involved members of the one percent, and he had a different target tonight.
He’d been about to turn away when she swiveled to face the ballroom and he noticed her hair. It was blown out in smooth butter-colored waves that framed her face and had wispy ends that curled just under her breasts. Long, sleek bangs brushed the tops of her thick black eyelashes. He recognized the manufactured perfection instantly—he’d bought the exact same wig for an accomplice in a New Orleans job last year.
It had been a great wig for his accomplice. The color was so yellow, and the bangs and length were so striking that witnesses had very little to remember about her except that she had “long, blond hair.” Which, of course, was the entire point.
But this particular wig made no sense for the woman in white sequins. Plenty of rich people wore wigs. Even money couldn’t prevent thinning hair or baldness. But a rich socialite wearing a $5,000 Armani dress wouldn’t wear a cheap wig made of synthetic hair. A rich woman would splurge on one made of actual human hair.
In another setting, he might have offered to get her a drink. Adam liked the challenge of figuring out anomalies. But tonight, he needed to work.
Adam refocused on tonight’s goal: surveillance of Maurice Knoll. True, there wasn’t much he didn’t know about the man already. Along with his cache of childhood memories, he’d spent years tracking the man. He’d followed Knoll’s rise to prominence as the owner of transportation companies. Knew he’d sold the last one, a competitor to Uber, a year ago. He’d also paid handsomely for Knoll’s personal and business financial records, in search of more than what could be found on Google. Which confirmed some of his suspicions about the man’s recent activities.
He still had one open question, however, and that’s what he was hoping to answer tonight. The banquet dinner was about to be served, so he ambled over to the round table next to Knoll’s. He wasn’t worried about Knoll recognizing him; the man had always been too self-involved to look at other people very closely. Besides, it had been almost a decade since they’d actually been in the same room together, and Adam had been little more than a teenager then. Snagging a seat within hearing distance, he settled in for a couple hours of listening. Not the most exciting part of his chosen profession, but absolutely critical to its success.
Knoll had been quite handsome as a younger man, Adam recalled. But in his mid-fifties now, his face and physique were starting to reflect decades of red meat and booze. Still, he didn’t lack for admirers. Adam watched in amusement as a parade of Botox’d women stopped by Knoll’s table to congratulate him on his recent appointment to the school’s Board of Trustees.
Clearly, the women were aware of Knoll’s recent divorce. But they were probably not aware of how much that divorce cost him. Or the extreme lengths he was willing to go to recoup his fortune.
As the waiters carried out plates of salmon and pork tenderloin, Adam automatically filed away his observations: the make and model of Knoll’s phone, as well as how many times the man looked at it in the space of an hour; his approximate height and weight; the brand of his tux, shoes, and watch.
As with all his potential targets, he watched Knoll’s interactions with other people. To his fellow Board members, he was attentive and thoughtful, speaking in a deep, authoritative tone. To the women who stopped by to flatter him, he was complimentary. At least until they walked away. At that point, he tended to make crude comments about their looks or bank accounts to a crony sitting next to him. And to the wait staff, he was downright rude. He berated a teenage waitress for the quality of the wine and backed his chair into a busboy without apologizing.
Adam took note of it all while making light conversation with the other men and women seated at his table. The woman to his left, a busty brunette in a purple lace gown, batted her eyelashes harder at him with every sip of her Chardonnay. But he was able to handle her less-than-witty repartee with bland responses and smiles.
By the end of dinner, Adam’s memory of Knoll had been confirmed. Maurice Knoll was still an asshole. Good. Knoll had cemented his fate with Adam years before; he was going to lose and lose big. Because he liked to stick to the few rules he lived by, Adam was glad that Knoll hadn’t reformed in some way, glad that he was still the same bully and prick he remembered from childhood. Adam had few virtues, but he truly preferred to steal from assholes. He couldn’t wait to liberate Knoll of his impending diamond shipment.
As the staff cleared the dessert plates, many diners migrated to the dance floor where a ten-piece orchestra played “As Time Goes By.” Knoll and a couple of other Board members clustered in a corner of the room discussing University business. He hadn’t answered his question, but he wouldn’t be able to learn anything more tonight. Time to go home.
“Would you like to dance?” The well-endowed woman in the purple dress hiccupped and looked up at him with bleary eyes.
“Oh.” He looked at the crowded dance floor, intending to make an excuse to get the hell out of there.
But then he saw the blonde in the white sequins dancing. The flawless legs, the inexplicable wig. He just couldn’t stop the flare of interest. Or the desire to get a closer look at her face.
He grinned down at the brunette. “Why not?”
* * *
Jessica Hughes couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so physically uncomfortable. The wig from hell was so itchy her eyes were watering with the effort not to scratch her head. The sequins from the stupid dress were poking her in the armpit like tiny little daggers. None of the reviews on Rent the Runway had mentioned that fun detail. The sexy pink pumps that RTR recommended as an accompaniment to the dress looked great, but they also pinched her toes and heels. She was going to have feet full of blisters tomorrow.
And maintaining a British accent was a lot more difficult than she expected.
Luckily, the idiot she was dancing with had quite a bit to drink with dinner and didn’t seem to notice how she kept repeating words like “brilliant” and “fancy” and “fortnight” in their conversation.
Now if only she could distract him enough to get his keycard out of his pocket.
She glanced over his shoulder at the clock on the wall. In five minutes the speeches would begin and he would be up on the stage for a half hour. That was her window. Unfortunately, she was running out of ideas on how to pull the keycard out of his front pocket without getting grabby. Uck.
He picked just that moment to run his sweaty hands down her mostly bare back and pat her on the bottom. She was lucky that her face was over his shoulder so he couldn’t see her suppress a gag. Luckily, she recovered quickly and gave an approving squeak. So gross. I just let Jerome Taft touch my ass.
Oh, how the mighty had fallen. Six months ago she’d been a star. The youngest VP in the history of the University. The boss of Jerome’s entire department. Thank goodness they’d never actually met in person. The University had three campuses across Chicagoland and he’d worked at the suburban campus. While she’d been VP, his reputation had been less than stellar. She remembered that in last year’s performance review, his manager had labeled him “eager for advancement but unwilling to put in the hard work required.” In other words, he liked to complain about his lack of authority while he sat around playing on the Internet all day. Exactly the opposite kind of employee she wanted in her department.
And now she was dressed like a pricey call girl and letting him grope her. She felt like crying. Or slapping him in the face.
Pull it together, Jess. Focus on the goal. He’s a necessary evil for tonight.
She glanced around the dance floor to make sure that no other members of her old department had decided to dance. For those who didn’t know her well, she was confident that her disguise was good. Tonight she didn’t look anything like Ignatius University’s disgraced former Vice President of Technology. The one who’d been led out of the building by security officers last October.
No, tonight she was a skinny, tan, tarty, blonde Brit. But there were a few people in the ballroom who had known her for years. If one of them got a good look at her face...well, that could be trouble. She’d been vigilant and hyper-aware for hours, spending most of the night with her back to the room. Waiting patiently for Jerome to be alone before she approached. Don’t let down your guard. Some of the IT crowd is still here.
Luckily, the dance floor was still safe. It was crowded with couples, but no one she recognized. The band finished “As Time Goes By” and transitioned to “At Last.” She sighed. She loved that stupid, sappy song. Trying to distract herself from Jerome’s hands and the ticking clock, she closed her eyes and counted backward from ten.
When she opened her eyes, a tall man with brown hair was staring right at her.
About five feet away, he danced with a brunette in a purple dress. For a moment, his open stare convinced her that she’d been recognized. Her pulse raced, and she started to sweat. But, no. After meeting his eyes for ten seconds, she knew she’d never met him before. Because, good God, she would have remembered this one. Wow. He was about 6’3” with broad shoulders and wavy hair. His eyes were a vivid bright blue.
The brunette said something to him, and he broke eye contact with Jess to look down at her. Jess kept on staring. She’d been looking for a distraction and this potent combo of Tom Hiddleston and Gerard Butler had given her just that. Men dancing in tuxedos didn’t usually look so...masculine.
He looked back up at her and their eyes locked again as the female singer of the band crooned the lyrics to “At Last.” Inwardly, Jess snorted. Probably every woman in the room looked at that guy and heard Etta James singing “At Last.”
Jerome gave her butt such a hard squeeze that she swallowed a yelp. She forced herself to look away from Mr. At Last.
Get your head back in the game.
Christ, now she was channeling her father. Regardless of the situation, his encouragement was always provided in the language of sports. But her head did need to get back in this game. She was running out of time to get that damn keycard. Pulling away from Jerome, she gave him a sassy little wink before twirling in front of him. Ending her spin, she looked down at his front right pocket, elated to see the white edge of his keycard poking out.
“I like where you’re looking.” Jerome leered. Great, now he thought she was staring at his crotch. She stifled another gag with a giggle and put her left arm back on his shoulder and her right hand at his hip. If she could just ease it out with her fingernails...
“So, Sasha,” Jerome slurred. “D’you want to get a drink back at my place later?”
“Brilliant,” she twittered, sliding her second and third finger closer to the seam of his pocket. There! She felt the hard plastic edge between the tips of her fingers. She raised her elbow an inch. Yes! She had it. If he would just stay still another minute, she’d be able to tuck it in her hand.
Jerome grabbed her hand and moved it back to his shoulder. No! She blinked her eyelashes at him. “Something wrong?”
He laughed and emitted a small burp. “Sorry, babe. Can’t have your hand down there right now.” He bent over to whisper in her ear. “I have to go up on stage in a sec, and you’re turning me on too much.” He burped again and Jess tried not to flinch at the smell of shrimp cocktail and Bud Light. “Some things these tux pants just can’t hide, if you know what I’m saying.”
For the love of all that was holy. What was she going to do now? The song ended, and the lights rose. She was out of time. Jerome pulled her to the edge of the dance floor, and she followed him, mind racing. She could not fail now. There just had to be another way she could get the keycard.
Then, just like a miracle, there was.
The brunette in the purple dress, the woman dancing with Mr. At Last, suddenly slammed in them. Her busty body jolted hard against Jerome and he fell forward, completely off-balance.
Jess reached out with both hands to steady him—and grabbed the keycard. Before Jerome could even stand up again, she’d tucked it in her bra strap on her left shoulder. Her hands shook from the rush of adrenaline. I got it!
“I’m so sorry!” The purple dress woman exclaimed, giggling. “We were twirling too much!” She patted Jerome’s shoulders. “Are you okay?”
Now the man spoke. “My apologies.” Jess wanted to shiver. Of course Mr. At Last’s voice would be deep and sensual. It also sounded like he was on the verge of laughter. “Everyone all right?”
“I’m fine,” Jerome said, speaking directly to the brunette’s chest. “No harm, no foul.”
The man turned those bright blue eyes on Jess. “And you?” To her surprise, he dipped his gaze to her left shoulder. He didn’t see her take the card and shove it in there, did he? No, of course not. He must have been looking at her cleavage, not her shoulder.
“Quite all right,” she said, proud that she hadn’t forgotten the accent.
The man did laugh now, and Jess had the unsettling and unpleasant feeling that he was laughing at her. “Good,” he managed.
Jerome turned to her and bounced a little, like a kid that had to pee. “I gotta get on the stage for the staff awards presentation.” Jess nodded, trying to look interested and encouraging. Inside, she was glaring and rolling her eyes. The fact that Jerome was nominated for Staff Member of the Year was freakin’ unbelievable. It just proved that something was completely awry with the IT department, maybe the whole University. “Sasha, I’ll meet you after?”
“Brilliant,” she said—and ignored the way Mr. At Last snort-laughed next to her.
The moment Jerome walked away, Jess dropped the smile. “Pardon,” she mumbled to the couple, and walked as quickly as she could to the ballroom doors. Which was not quickly at all, given her unsteadiness in the silly four-inch pink heels. She could have sworn she felt Mr. At Last still staring at her, but she ignored it. Forget him and his sexy laugh.
It was go time. The speeches were scheduled to last thirty minutes and she’d need almost all that time. With Jerome’s keycard she could access the server room in the data center across the street. But she also needed to time her entrance and exit to the room around the security guard’s routes and the angles of the security cameras installed in the hallway.
It was a very good thing she used to be in charge of the technology used for Campus Safety.
Once she had access to the servers, she would upload a very special new program. One she’d written herself over the past couple of months. She’d had plenty of time to do so since no company in its right mind would hire her. Not when her ex-boss told the Chicago Tribune that she was “reckless and amoral.” I’ll show you reckless.
She was going to find out who set her up.