Another tech bro, Berthold Roaning, holds court nearby, and standing in his little crowd is the woman we’re here to see. I point her out discreetly.
“She’s cute,” Olivia says, sounding surprised. “And young. What is she, like, thirty?”
“Forty. Keeps trim.” I laugh softly. Joyce Flowers is Phoenix’s rising star, its hard-nosed DA tough on crime and tougher on corruption. “Except she’s as corrupt any the rest of them,” I whisper and Olivia laughs.
“Tell me she’s in your pocket.”
“Not exactly. But she owes me a favor or two. Come on, let’s see what Joyce has to say for herself.”
Joyce is a tall white woman with dark hair, severe-looking, in a simple pant suit that accents her lack of figure. She’s like a willow tree incarnate. But she’s got a presence, I’ll give her that, and the rich love to shake her hand and pretend like they’re her best friend, even while giving money to her primary challenger. But Joyce, she’s a snake. She’ll win reelection if she has to drag every old asshole in the city by the balls to vote.
I insert myself into her conversation, but as soon as I appear and make my introductions, Joyce slips away. So begins the most frustrating game of cat and mouse imaginable: every time I get near, Joyce makes up an excuse, polite as can be, and hurries off. Nico watches it all from the bar, laughing to himself, the bastard. It’s like I’m chasing her around the room. She’s a master at evading my advances.
“She doesn’t want to talk,” Olivia observes.
“Astute.” I toss back a whiskey, frustrated. “How am I supposed to get this woman on our side if she won’t give me the time of day?”
“Is this a normal problem for you?” Olivia touches my chest, batting her eyes, playing it up. And shit, I like it. She’s the most incredible woman in this room by a healthy margin.
“No, not remotely. There’s a reason she’s trying to ditch me and I’d better figure out why.”
“Poor little mafia Don. I almost feel sorry for you.” Oliva’s lips brush my neck and she smiles at me seductively.
My palms sweat and my heart races. We’re in the middle of a crowd, but I’m alone with her. A waiter passes and I grab a glass of champagne.
“Here’s to my lovely wife,” I say, taking a sip, but Olivia catches the glass and steals it.
“And here’s to my doting husband.” She tosses it back, cheeks flushed. I watch her lips with ravenous fascination.
She’s doing this to piss me off, but it’s having the opposite effect: if she doesn’t stop, I’m going to drag her into a back room and have my way with her, because I can’t stand another second of her flirting like this without having a nice, long taste.
“If you’re not careful, you’re going to regret looking so damn good in that dress,” I murmur in her ear and I feel a tremble run down the length of her body.
“Maybe I’d like that.” But before I can answer, she squeezes my shoulder. “Casso. I’ve got an idea. Still want to talk to that DA?”
“I do, obviously, but—”
“Come on.” She grabs my hand and pulls, and I’m hurrying after her.
She leads me across the room toward the far bar. At first, I think she’s aiming to get another drink, but instead she goes past it, down a short hallway, and pauses outside of the restrooms.
“What’s the plan here?” I ask, looking around the otherwise empty space. At the far end, the kitchen bustles. Plates and silverware clatter. Voices shout in Spanish. Curses and pleas.
“Stay.” She taps a finger on my chest. “Wait.” Then she slips into the women’s room.
I stay and I wait. I lean against the wall, arms crossed, and spot Nico at the hallway’s entrance turn aside a couple of older folks. I don’t know what he says, but he gently makes them head somewhere else, then looks back at me with a wink.
A woman emerges from the bathroom—Mathilde Tempera, heiress to a pantyhose fortune—looking somewhat put out. “Very rude woman in there hurried me away,” she says, shaking her head in a huff. “Very, very rude.” She leaves in a cloud of rank perfume.
Olivia appears in the doorway, beckoning. “Hurry.”
I nod to Nico and step inside.
The bathroom’s nice. Pink mostly. Six stalls, only the far one occupied. Small hand soaps cover the counter with an assortment of other feminine hygiene products. I poke at the offerings and Olivia glowers. “We don’t get half this,” I mutter.
The toilet flushes and out steps Joyce. She walks head down to wash her hands and comes up short when she spots me. Her head raises, her eyes widen, and her skin pales—if that’s possible. Olivia beams at her, hanging on my arm, the brilliant fucking girl. I remind myself to thank her later.