Chapter 1 - Thirty Seconds
Mara Bennett had spent six years learning how to disappear inside crowded rooms, which was why she immediately knew something was wrong when the most feared man in Chicago crossed a ballroom full of millionaires just to reach her.
Roman Mercer stopped in front of her silver serving tray.
The orchestra was still playing. Champagne still glittered beneath the chandeliers. Politicians, developers, surgeons, athletes, and women wearing earrings worth more than Mara's apartment were still pretending not to stare.
Roman held out one hand.
“Dance with me.”
Mara’s pulse jumped.
She glanced at the tray balanced against her hip, then at Peter Larkin, the banquet manager standing near the service doors. His expression had gone white.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m still working.”
Nobody within twenty feet seemed to breathe.
Roman Mercer was not a man people refused.
He was thirty-nine, broad-shouldered, immaculately dressed, and infamous enough that strangers lowered their voices when they said his name. Newspapers called him a businessman. Men who worked the night docks called him something else. Rumors connected the Mercer organization to illegal gambling, union pressure, protection schemes, and half a dozen crimes that had never reached a courtroom.
Mara knew only that he was dangerous.
She expected anger.
Instead, Roman stepped closer.
“Keep smiling,” he murmured.
Her fingers tightened beneath the tray.
“What?”
“There’s a man in the hotel across the street watching the service exit through a rifle scope.”
The blood drained from her face.
Roman's expression did not change.
“He has been waiting for you to finish your shift.”
Mara stared at him.
“That isn’t funny.”
“I have never been accused of being funny.”
His hand remained extended between them.
“Dance with me, Mara.”
Her heart stopped for an entirely different reason.
She had never told him her name.
Before she could ask how he knew it, Roman leaned closer, his voice low enough that only she could hear.
“You have about thirty seconds before whoever sent him realizes I’ve noticed.”
Mara looked toward the dark windows.
Roman caught her chin gently before she could turn her head.
“Don’t.”
His touch was firm without hurting her.
“If you look, he’ll know.”
“Why would someone want to shoot me?”
“That is what I intend to find out.”
The music changed into a slow, elegant waltz.
Roman removed the tray from Mara’s hands and passed it to a stunned waiter.
Peter Larkin finally hurried toward them.
“Mr. Mercer, she’s on shift. I’m sure another guest would be honored—”
Roman looked at him.
Peter stopped talking.
“Her shift ended ten seconds ago.”
“But—”
“I’ll cover whatever thirty minutes of labor costs you.”
Mara found her voice.
“You don’t get to buy my time.”
For the first time, something almost like surprise moved across Roman’s face.
Then his mouth curved very slightly.
“That,” he murmured, “is exactly what I hoped you’d say.”
He placed his palm lightly against her back and guided her toward the dance floor.
Mara should have pulled away.
Instead, she followed because Peter’s terror was real, because Roman’s men had quietly begun moving toward the windows, and because somewhere beneath her panic, she had noticed something everyone else had missed.
Roman Mercer was afraid too.
Not for himself.
For her.
He led her into the first turn.
“Put your left hand on my shoulder.”
“I don’t know how to waltz.”
“Neither does the man trying to kill you.”
“That’s comforting.”
“It wasn’t intended to be.”
His hand tightened slightly at her waist as he changed direction.
“One, two, three.”
Mara stumbled.
Roman caught her.
“Again.”
“What are we doing?”
“Moving you out of his line of sight without telling him we know he’s there.”
Her breath shook.
“You could have just taken me into the kitchen.”
“And he would have disappeared before my people reached him.”
“So I’m bait.”
His eyes met hers.
“No.”
The answer came too fast and too hard.
“You’re the person I’m trying to keep alive.”
They turned again.
For three surreal minutes Mara danced beneath a chandelier with a man half the city feared while a rifleman waited across the street.
Nobody else in the ballroom knew.
That might have been the strangest part.
People smiled. Couples whispered. Someone raised a champagne glass. The orchestra played as if nothing in the world had changed.
Mara’s entire life was changing.
Roman counted quietly.
“One, two, three.”
She followed.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
“You know who I am.”
“No. I know what people say you are.”
Something unreadable entered his eyes.
“That distinction could save your life tonight.”
His earpiece crackled.
A man in a navy suit approached the edge of the ballroom and gave Roman a nearly invisible nod.
Roman exhaled.
“Window is clear.”
“The shooter?”
“Gone.”
Mara stopped moving.
Roman kept a hand around hers.
“Why?”
“Because my men entered his floor.”
“You caught him?”
“No.”
The calm in Roman’s voice had disappeared.
“He left the rifle.”
Mara stared up at him.
“Why would someone leave a rifle behind?”
“To send a message.”
Roman guided her away from the center of the ballroom.
Peter Larkin blocked their path.
His smile was strained.
“Mara, I need you in the service hall.”
Roman stopped.
Peter swallowed.
“We’re short two servers.”
Mara almost laughed from the absurdity of it.
A stranger had apparently been waiting to kill her, and Peter was worried about dessert service.
Roman’s gaze shifted from Peter to Mara.
“Did he know which exit you normally use?”
Mara frowned.
“What?”
“The shooter was watching one door. Your service door. Did anyone outside this hotel know your schedule?”
“My roommate.”
“Anyone else?”
“My brother knew before he disappeared.”
Roman’s expression sharpened.
“Your brother.”
Peter interrupted.
“Mara, now.”
She looked at him.
For the first time that evening, she noticed sweat gathering above his collar.
The ballroom was cool.
Peter was sweating.
May you like
Roman noticed too.
“Mr. Larkin,” he said quietly, “why are you so interested in getting her into that hallway?”
