The Wild Charge (Dartmoor Book 9)

Forty-Five

Dina Van Diem was invited, too. Shocker. A handful of other celebrities traveled down the elevators in groups, each with their own security detail. Ian's was the largest: Bruce, John, Vince, plus Albie and Pongo. They loitered, the chosen ones and their black-suited guards, in a dim, musty basement space, waiting until the whole party had arrived.

Which included, he noted with interest, Sal and Matt Moretti, and Nikola Howard. Nikola's gaze locked briefly with Ian's, but she glanced away again; she didn't recognize him from her office that day, with his hair down and his eyes uncovered. Thank God.

A small, nervous-looking man in a waistcoat stood in their midst, and as an investment banker and his poorly-aging wife stepped off the elevator, he clapped his hands to get their attention and said, "If you'll all follow me, please."

They crossed the basement, stepping around crates and boxes; at one point, Ian glanced back over his shoulder and realized he could no longer see the elevator they'd originally taken. Movement flickered behind a stack of boxes: a guard, waiting in the shadows. If anyone had second thoughts, and tried to go back, he had no doubts they'd be tackled into submission amidst the labyrinth of detritus down here.

Finally, they reached a freight elevator, and traveled down as a group – deep down, until the air became chilled, and Ian could see his breath mist in front of his face. Bruce ghosted a steadying hand at the small of his back, a silent bolster.

No one spoke, which Ian found odd. Yes, they were all flanked by security, but the moneyed crowd treated security like furniture; they never worried about what they might let slip in front of them. A few subtle glances side to side proved that his fellow high-rollers were watching the floors tick by up above; their eyes gleamed with anticipation, and that knowledge left him feeling sick.

When it glided to a halt, the elevator deposited them in a spacious, round room carpeted in burgundy. Tufted couches and chairs offered seating, and a waitress in a tiny dress stood at the ready with a tray of champagne. The little majordomo in the waistcoat encouraged them all to take a glass, and then led them down a long hallway flanked by oil paintings and wood-paneled doors. It was as if they'd stepped into a Georgian manor house, down to the chair rail and the faint hint of sandalwood in the air.

Their guide paused at a door halfway down, opened it, and stepped back, motioning them in with a flourish. "Here is where you'll be viewing tonight's proceedings. Your details may wait in the antechamber while you proceed to the viewing room. Let Natalie know if you have any questions or concerns, or would like a tour of the stalls before we begin. It should only be another twenty minutes or so."

The antechamber proved to be a small breakroom of sorts: coffee maker, fridge, sink, uncomfortable plastic chairs, and a window in the front wall that looked into the viewing room proper. Ian traded looks with Bruce and Albie before he nodded and slipped in – and then he ground to a halt.

In his new life of wealth and privilege, he'd been invited to a sporting event or two; invited into private boxes with glass front walls and cushy seats and bottle service. That was what the viewing room brought to mind. Plush theater seats in tiers, a minibar to one side, low lighting, speakers set in the walls, and an entire wall of glass...which looked down on a wide, round room, a stage at its center, lit with an array of spotlights. Empty, for the time being. He could see other boxes like his own, ranged around the upper levels of the room. There was no mistaking this for anything save an auction ring.

But it wouldn't be cattle or expensive racehorses trotted out tonight.

~*~

Moving was thoughtless. Tenny's body knew just what to do, without any input from his brain. Quick, silent steps, heel-toe, leading with the inner arch of his foot, knees slightly bent. It was dark, in the maze of cubicles, but not pitch-black. Enough ambient glow through the windows to tell shadows from man-shapes – one of which tried to hedge its way around a wall off to his left.