One Sizzling Night. Jo Leigh

gossamer fabric and what it revealed that would help her pass the next test.

      A tall beefy man in a black suit stood at the entrance to the banquet room where Holstrom was hosting his reception. Thirtysomething, with hard features, she could tell he wasn’t an ordinary rent-a-cop. A member of Holstrom’s private security team, she imagined. This might not be as easy as she’d hoped.

      “Good evening. May I see your invitation, please?”

      Standing tall but looking at him through her eyelashes, she pretended to check inside her small clutch. She sighed with a hint of impatience, then snapped the catch shut and dipped her finger and thumb into her bodice, between her breasts.

      The man tried not to stare. But he couldn’t seem to help himself.

      Her smile turned pensive, not that he’d noticed. Interesting, because he seemed a little old and seasoned to be quite so mesmerized, but she’d take it. Of course she didn’t have the invitation, but she did have a tube of lipstick, which she pulled out. “I know I didn’t leave it at the hotel,” she said. “It may have come loose but I’m sure it’s here. I’d folded it so it would fit.”

      She went in for a second time.

      Kensey could have sworn his body had tensed, but his expression remained unchanged.

      “It’s fine, ma’am. I’m sure you’re on the list.” He gestured to the open door. “Please, go ahead.”

      She smiled and walked confidently into the elegant Mandarin Oriental ballroom, grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and sipped from it as she took stock of the party she’d just crashed.

      She’d wondered why Holstrom wasn’t entertaining in one of the more intimate suites. Now she understood. There had to be over a hundred people in attendance, plenty of strutting men with beautiful women close at hand. Premium champagne and chilled bottles of imported vodka were on display, as were six young women in tiny outfits who were extolling the virtues of Holstrom’s battle tanks, RPGs, submachine guns, sniper rifles and Lord knows what else.

      To make it seem even more like something out of a movie, upbeat elevator music played softly in the background, and there was a ridiculous ratio of waiters to guests. The people who had been invited to this reception wouldn’t be walking the exhibit hall during the conference. And they’d definitely not be attending any sessions. She doubted that there was one guest in that room who wasn’t worth at least a billion dollars. In Holstrom’s case, it was many billions.

      More than half the men were Middle Eastern and she recognized a few bigwigs from Eastern Europe. Their plus-ones were mostly American women in classy but slightly immodest clothes, although there were two women in gorgeous abayas sitting in one of the tidy group lounges.

      And there he was.

      Ian Holstrom, five-foot-eleven with a suspiciously rich head of dark hair, was as trim as an athlete and dressed like a king. To say he was tailored missed the mark. His suit fit him so perfectly it outshined every other Western man in the room.

      At least she’d been forewarned about him. Virtually every photo of him played up his massive ego. In the flesh, he wore his superiority like a cape.

      She had to nail her entrance. But playing the part of a woman who bore no resemblance to herself would be even more challenging.

      Knowing that somewhere in Boston, probably in his home, there could be a treasure trove of stolen masterpieces from around the world, gave her the courage to do whatever it took to get to him. And, of course, thinking about her father being wrongly accused...

      No, that didn’t help.

      Pushing aside all thoughts to focus exclusively on her prey, Kensey lingered near the door, waiting for the perfect moment to make her entrance. It took a while, but she understood patience. Finally, Holstrom was at the far end of the room, and she was directly in his sight line. She pushed her shoulders back and began her walk.

      The liquid silk of her dress caressed her body with fluid grace out behind her and in between her legs. Using a model’s runway strut, she thrust out her pelvis as she took extra long steps, which wasn’t easy in five-inch heels. But it worked.

      A slight hush fell, and she sensed that lots of people were watching her, but all she cared about was one pair of eyes.

      There. She’d done it. He hadn’t just looked, he’d stared. Looked her up and down, from head to toe with revisits to her crotch and her breasts. They were her tools tonight, and she was glad she’d kept up with her martial arts and gymnastics.

      Just as she’d hoped, Holstrom walked to her those last five footsteps, abandoning the brunette at his side. “And who might you be?” he asked. His voice was half an octave too high to be truly sexy. She’d bet that killed him.

      She put out her hand. “Kensington Roberts,” she said. “My friends call me Kensey.”

      Being a gentleman, or a reasonable facsimile, he took her hand in his. “Tell me, Kensey, are you here with someone?”

      “No. I came here tonight to meet you. To introduce myself.”

      “Oh?” he said. “And why is that?”

      “Because I’ve heard a lot about you. I was here at the conference, anyway, and I thought, why not?”

      He smiled. Maybe because he finally realized he was still holding her hand. He let her go, but he took his time.

      Jesus, what was she doing? Her father had probably done business with this son of a bitch. Sold him stolen paintings so that Holstrom could get off knowing he was the only one who could ever look at them.

      “I truly am here for the conference,” she said. “Security is part of my job.”

      “Are you a bodyguard?”

      She laughed softly. “Not quite. I’m a curator.” Looking around as if she’d seen nothing but him before now, she gasped, subtly. “This room is amazing. I’ve heard about your parties, and I swore I would find out if the rumors were true.”

      He raised his eyebrows. “Rumors?”

      “That you want only the best of the best. That you never settle, or skimp. That you are incredibly discerning, especially when it comes to art and wine.”

      He smiled, but his gaze had become less enchanted and more curious. “A curator? For a museum? A private collector?”

      “I just left a job, so I’m currently freelancing.” She smiled shyly as she let her gaze move down his body. His suit was even more impressive up close. “I must be holding you up,” she said, slowly lifting her gaze until she met his light eyes. “I hope to see you at the conference.”

      “You aren’t leaving so soon.” With a slight frown he glanced toward the entrance. “You put a lot of effort into getting into a very private party. And you’ve cost a fool his job.”

      “Oh, no. Please don’t do that,” she said. “I’m quite sure he’ll never make that mistake again.”

      “No, he won’t. Not in my organization. But surely you want to stay and have some vodka and caviar.” He signaled for a waiter. “The blinis and caviar are excellent.”

      “Thank you.” She took a step toward the door, pleased to see men were still eyeing her. Their envious looks would play well to Holstrom’s ego. “Everything looks wonderful, but I’m meeting someone for dinner.”

      He didn’t try to persuade her further but started walking with her. “In case we don’t meet at the conference, where can I reach you? Perhaps you’ll allow me to take you for drinks or to dinner. I’m assuming you’re not from Boston?”

      “No, I’m not.” She took out a card with only her name and cell number, printed yesterday for this very purpose, and gave it to him.

      They’d reached the door where the guard remained at his post. Kensey touched