I, not we, I thought, keeping my eyes down and trying to stay in the background while Candice, the vamp that had been all over Lee on his boat, cocked her jeans-clad hip and looked at his business card. There were two more vamps behind her in black suits that screamed security. I didn’t mind playing the meek subordinate; if Candice recognized me, it would get really bad, really quick.

“That was me you talked to,” the shapely vampire said around a bothered sigh. “But after the recent ugliness, Mr. Saladan has retired to … a less public environment. He’s not here, much less taking appointments.” Smiling to show her teeth in a politically polite threat, she handed his card back. “I’ll be glad to talk to you, though.”

My heart pounded and I stared at the Italian tile. He was here—I could almost hear the rattle of chips—but if I didn’t get in to see him, this was going to be a lot more difficult.

David looked at her, the skin about his eyes tightening, then picked up his briefcase. “Very well,” he said shortly. “If I can’t speak with Mr. Saladan, my company has no recourse but to assume our understanding of terrorist activity is correct and we will deny payment on the claim. Good day, ma’am.” He barely glanced at me. “Come on, Grace. Let’s go.”

Breath catching, I felt my face pale. If we walked out of here, Kisten and Ivy would be headed into a trap. David’s steps were loud as he went for the door, and I reached out after him.

“Candice,” came Lee’s irate, buttery voice from the second-story railing above the grand staircase. “What are you doing?”

I spun, David taking my elbow in warning. Lee stood by the upper landing, a drink in one hand, a folder and pair of wire-rimmed glasses in the other. He was wearing what looked like a suit without the coat, his tie loose about his neck but still tidy.

“Stanley, honey,” Candice purred, falling into a provocative slump against the small table by the door. “You said no one. Besides, it’s just a little boat. How much could it be worth?”

Lee’s dark eyes pinched as he frowned. “Almost a quarter million—dear. They’re insurance agents, not I.S. operatives. Do a spell check on them and show them up. They’re required by law to keep everything confidential, including that they were even here.” He looked at David and tossed his surfer-boy bangs out of his way. “Am I right?”

David smiled up at him with that shared, good-old-boys’ look that I hated. “Yes, sir,” he said, his voice echoing against the flat white of the open vestibule. “We couldn’t do our work without that little constitutional amendment.”