Personal Demon by Kelley Armstrong Page B

beamed as she was squired about the dance floor. She was Daddy’s princess and nothing was too good for her. How would any other night—or any other man—ever compare?
    We were about to make this night memorable for a very different reason.
    I watched it all from a storage room above the hall. The crew had prepared for this days ago, after finding the party mentioned in the local society pages. There were four of these hidey-holes, each with a newly drilled spy hole, each manned by a crew member. Mine was a tiny room that stunk of stale cigarette smoke.
    The party was in full swing when Jaz slipped in and crept over to sit beside me.
    “So, did you get a sweet sixteen like this?” he whispered.
    I laughed. “If I’d even suggested it, my parents would have sat me down for a long talk about the responsibilities of privilege. No one I knew got a party like this one. It’s a different kind of ‘society.’”
    “Old money versus new?”
    “Something like that. Debutante balls? Yes. Egyptian extravaganzas with papier-mâché pyramids and a bowl full of money? God, no.”
    “Debutante? You?” He grinned. “Say it wasn’t so.”
    “What?” I waved at my T-shirt and jeans, grimy with storeroom dust. “I don’t look like one? I’ll have you know I can quickstep with the best of them, sir.”
    He laughed, earning a mock glare. “Sorry. I just can’t picture you…”
    The sentence trailed off as he watched the party below, then turned to me.
    “No, actually, I can. You have that…I don’t know. Aura, I guess.” A small smile. “Even with dirt on your cheeks.” His head tilted. “I bet you were something. Nothing like the rest of them.”
    “If you mean because I wasn’t fair-haired and blue-eyed—yes, I did stand out a wee bit.”
    “Nah, not that.” He shifted, sliding closer. “You’d still have stood out among all those—” he waved at the party below, “—empty girls. They might have been dripping in jewels, but I bet you shone the most.”
    My cheeks heated. I’m accustomed to flattery—the smooth, meaningless compliments that pass for greeting in the circles I’d grown up in and, later, the too-practiced, too-polished sweet talk of rich boys. But Jaz’s words—so sincere in their inelegance—made me feel like I was sixteen again.
    “I’d love to have been there,” he said. “Of course, I’d have been serving champagne instead of drinking it.”
    “That’s okay. There were a couple of times during my season when I ended up in the garden with one of the servers.”
    He grinned. “I can see that. Society guys really wouldn’t be your type.”
    “Some of them are very nice but, in general, no.”
    “Well, if Guy had gone with his first plan, you’d have seen me in a snazzy little white jacket and bow-tie, with a tray in my hand.” He winked. “Maybe bring back some memories.”
    “Guy wanted you on the waitstaff?”
    “That was the original plan, before he decided it was too ballsy even for him.” He slid over to sit beside me, leaning against my side, voice dropping another notch as his arm rubbed against mine. “To tell the truth, I was kind of hoping I would get to play waiter. Not just for the added buzz…though I wouldn’t have minded that.”
    His head dropped forward, eyes a few inches from mine and, in that impulsive shared grin, I knew he’d guessed I enjoyed a “buzz” as much as he did. I didn’t care. It felt good not to care.
    “What I was really hoping for, though,” he continued, leaning against me as he whispered, “was the chance to make a little extra on the side. Lift a pair of gold cuff links here, a diamond tennis bracelet there, maybe a—” He lifted a silver-banded watch and peered at the face. “Cartier. Damn, that’s nice.”
    I glanced down at my bare wrist. “How’d you—?” I remembered him moving closer, rubbing against me, and I let out a laugh. “You’re good.”
    “Thank you.” He turned the watch over in his hands.