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I nudge Rhett and nod at the pair.
Selina follows my eye. “Ah, you’re working tonight?” she guesses instantly.
“Unfortunately,” I say. “And actually on that note, we do have to leave you. But it was great talking. Hope to catch you again later.”
“Of course! Hope it’s quick and painless,” she says.
I laugh and wave as we head away. The smile drops off my face the instant they’re out of sight.
It’s game time.
When we’re within earshot of the pair, Rhett doesn’t disappoint. “Paul!” he says jovially and so loudly that he attracts several glances, even in the bustling crowd.
Paul’s face pinches when he sees the two of us. “Rhett,” he says derisively.
He was in the middle of speaking to a gaunt-looking man, unique in that he’s wearing a dark gray suit and not a tux like most of the men in the room.
Paul turns back to the man and gives him a nod. The stranger takes it as a signal to fade into the background, and he’s gone before I can get a good look at his face.
“Still not giving up, are you?” Paul asks me, drawing my attention back to him.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.
“I noticed you weren’t at any of the talks,” he says.
“Weren’t we?” Rhett asks mildly.
Paul frowns. “You weren’t.”
“Are you sure about that?”
A smarter man would walk away. For all his money and prestige, Paul is not a smart man.
As he begins to argue the point with a cucumber-cool Rhett, I notice the back of a very familiar head at the far end of the ballroom, looking up at a Degas.
Without another word, I slip away. Paul starts to say something after me, but I hear Rhett ask, “So I’ve heard you’re hiring. I’m thinking of leaving the Westing Bank for a bit. Wait. Before you say anything, know that I have years of experience.”
I grin as I imagine what Paul’s reaction will be to that whopper and speed toward Marie before anyone can intercept me.
As the de facto first lady of the conference, catching Marie in a moment alone is a lucky break, and I’m not the only one who wants to capitalize on it.
I’m mere feet away when I notice that a woman in a midnight blue gown is heading her way. I pick up the pace, hurtling through the crowd like a running back in stilettos.
The woman catches sight of me out of the corner of her eye and hesitates in the face of my ferocity. Amateur. A moment is just what I need to gain the advantage. I all but snarl in her face as I dive past her and thankfully she takes the hint.
I allow myself half a second to compose myself after my flight across the ballroom, smoothing my hair, and pasting on a Mona-Lisa smile, demure but infinitely knowing.
“Marie,” I say in greeting.
Marie turns slightly, nods, and returns to contemplating the painting.
“I adore the French Impressionists,” she says. “And this is perhaps Degas’ best work.”
The painting depicts a cafe. The woman in the foreground stares mournfully into a half-filled glass, the man at the table beside her looks sick and depressed.
“L'Absinthe,” I say. “I thought it was at the Musée d'Orsay.”
Marie’s eyes flash to mine, but only for a moment before resting back on the work. “I see we’re full of surprises, Ms. Slate,” she says.
