"My curvy accountant forced me into a ballroom waltz and called me 'husband'—unaware she did it to block a sniper's laser."

Clara didn't hesitate. She threw her weight backward, her lush emerald dress sweeping across the polished parquet floor as I caught her waist with my right arm, sweeping her down into a dramatic, sweeping dip that looked to every billionaire in the room like a passionate display of public affection.

POP!

The faint, suppressed snap of a high-powered rifle round hitting glass was completely drowned out by the soaring violins.

The sniper's round zipped directly through the exact space my head had occupied half a second prior, shattering a massive crystal wall sconce behind us into a million sparkling diamonds. The falling glass rained down into the champagne fountain, causing a nearby socialite to giggle, assuming a waiter had dropped a tray.

From the floor, looking up into my face with her bright hazel eyes, Clara smiled brilliantly.

"Good dip, Adrian," she whispered, her breathing fast against my chest. "Now pull me up before Mason realizes he missed."

I pulled her upright in a smooth, fluid motion, bringing her body flush against mine. My broad hand rested firmly on the small of her back, holding her curve close as my storm-gray eyes scanned the perimeter of the ballroom.

Mason Rusk—the man who had stood at my right hand for eight years, the man who knew every safehouse, every offshore account, and every security protocol I owned—was standing near the grand marble archway. His hand was pressed against his earpiece, his face turning an ugly, mottled gray as he realized I was still standing.

"He's panicking," I murmured near Clara's ear, guiding her through a elegant two-step that moved us behind a massive marble pillar, completely blocking the terrace sniper's line of sight.

"He should panic," Clara replied softly, her hands resting against my lapels, her fingers feeling the outline of the suppressed pistol hidden inside my tuxedo. "Patrick Sloan promised him thirty percent of the West River distribution once you were buried. Mason has three millions dollars in a shell company in Jersey City ready to clear at midnight."

"You did all of this from your desk?" I asked, looking down at my quiet, brilliant forensic accountant with a sudden, fierce intensity that made her breath hitch.

"I like spreadsheets, Adrian," Clara offered a sharp, breathtaking smile. "And I don't like men who steal from my boss."

Across the room, Mason made his move. Realizing the sniper had failed, he reached inside his dark suit jacket, signaling to the four armed operators stationed at the doors.