The back of my neck tingled. It always happened when my subconscious was aware of something before the rest of me.
Holy fucking shit.
Victor Bennett stood a few feet away, his gaze studying me.
Bennett was mid-forties and kept himself in shape, a product of his divorce, it seemed, or possibly gearing up for re-election. Or maybe the stress of all his shady deals was getting to him, although he didn’t look stressed. He wore a tailored navy suit, which made the American flag pin on his lapel pop. God, he always seemed to have that pin, like it was a uniform. Did he have it on his pajamas too?
His dark hair was parted down the side and styled expertly. He wasn’t unattractive, but I found his eyes a little too close together, and his smile gave me the creeps. Other women might call him handsome, but not me.
My intense dislike of him wasn’t grounded in anything concrete, but I’d heard enough murmurs and there’d been too many coincidences. He’d gotten far too close with the CEO of a major healthcare provider, and his voting always seemed to favor his friends. And I’d witnessed enough of the same behavior from others who’d been corrupted by power to see those traits in him. The lavish parties, the excessive vacations, the way his supporters always seemed to land coveted positions. Crooked politicians were a way of life in Chicago, and I knew with certainty Victor Bennett was one of them.
His black eyes sharpened as if he were assessing me for flaws. My stomach turned. I didn’t care how smooth he thought he appeared. This guy had the same aloof, elitist look of a prison guard, telling me I should feel lucky to breathe the same air as him.
FBI training dictated I should go and strike up a conversation, but my feet wore shoes made of cement.
“Regan.” It was Roland, who had materialized at my side. “Would you like to meet the congressman?”
I gave a tight smile, swallowed back the nausea, and nodded.
“Victor Bennett.” The congressman threw the words like he was lobbing a grenade. “Nice to meet you.” He made a production of checking his expensive-looking wristwatch. “Kirk, we need to go.”
“Got it.” Roland’s gaze returned to me. “Maybe I’ll see you again some time?” His hand patted his chest, right where my card sat inside his pocket.
“Hopefully,” I answered, forcing a playful tone.
Bennett cast a final look my direction, and his expression was unnerving. I watched the men go and . . . what the hell was that? I couldn’t tell if he wanted to fuck me or murder me.
Silas was on the other side of the room, chatting with Andre, but the conversation came to an end and the sexy-as-fuck artist began his approach.
“I’m going to be another ten minutes,” he said. “If you want, you can hang out upstairs.”
“In your place?” My voice was dubious.
He shrugged. “Yeah.”
He didn’t have a clue he was offering an FBI agent unsupervised time in his personal space. Dangerous. If I wanted to, I could probably discover all his secrets with a quick, ten-minute investigative search. Although I wouldn’t mind learning more about him, I shook my head.
“I’m fine. Do whatever you need to.”
His eyes flashed with a devious look. “I plan to.”
Chapter
TEN
I sat on Silas’s workbench, the one covered with multicolored paint splatters, and watched him work. After the showing had ended and the guests left, I helped Andre and Silas with cleanup, which wasn’t a big deal, but they were appreciative. Really I’d done it to stay busy. I was operating right on the cusp of coming to my senses and fleeing the gallery, so it was a welcome
d distraction to put used wine glasses back into racks.
The wire had been shut off and tucked inside my purse, shoved all the way to the bottom, just in case. The action had been a bit of a relief. Even though the recording was worthless, having the audio off was like being off the clock.
I could almost be the real me tonight.
Silas moved to the tempo of the music he’d put on, but he seemed to do it unconsciously. The rock song was guitars and drums, with a rough, bluesy feel. It fit my mood perfectly because it sounded like a good song to fuck to.
He’d done some of the photography setup before the party. There was a large white backdrop in a corner of the space. The thick paper lay flat on the floor and curved upward to the ceiling so it was seamless. I admired the view as he finished placing the final lighting stand. He’d shed his dress shirt and revealed the white undershirt beneath that clung to his perfect form. My eyes followed his movement, and I wished he’d lose the pants next.
“Let’s talk about this favor,” I said.