"What's wrong?" I asked, after a few seconds.
He glanced at me, dark eyes flat. "Thought I saw someone I knew."
"Male someone, or female someone?"
"Male. The son of a business rival."
"Anyone I'd know?"
"Unlikely, though you've undoubtedly heard of the company—Sirius Airlines."
"They just won the contract for daily flights to the European Collective's Space Station, didn't they?"
"Yes."
The dark way he said that had me glancing at him. "Beating you out of the contract, I'm gathering?"
"Yes."
"Publicly thumping him is not going to get that contract back, you know."
He gave me his vampire face. "Beating him up wouldn't do any good, because it is not the son that runs the company. I merely wish to give him a warning."
The waiter stopped at an empty table near the corner of the room. I glanced at the window, not sure I liked being so close to it. I might be disguised, but Quinn wasn't, and we still hadn't figured out who or what was behind the recent attempts on his life.
"So, what is his name and what are you warning him about?" I took the seat opposite the window. We might be only eight floors up, but if I got too close and saw the drop, my stomach would react. And I doubt that would endear me to my tablemates.
"That's not your concern," Quinn said.
His reply was almost absent, and annoyance rose. Dammit, I was getting more than a little tired of our relationship—whatever the hell that actually was—being a one-way information street. And being old and set in his ways wasn't excuse enough.
I thrust to my feet, needing to get out of there before I said something daft or we got back to the same old argument, but he grabbed me, his fingers like iron around my wrist.
"I'm sorry, Riley."
"No, you're not." I glanced down at his fingers. "Take your hand off my arm."
"Only if you sit down so we can talk."
"Right now, I have work to do. And I'm over talking to you."
"Please."
"No."
"What if I said the man I was looking for was Kellen Sinclair?"
"Telling me his name now means little." And I had to hope his Kellen wasn't my Kellen—though given the curveballs fate was throwing, I wasn't about to bet on it. "I want to be able to ask a question and have it answered civilly."
"I said I'll try, Riley, but you can't expect—"
He stopped abruptly.
"Yeah," I said softly. "But apparently it's okay for you to expect me to change overnight."
I peeled his fingers off my arm and stepped back, out of his reach. "I'm going to scout the room. I'll let you know if I scent or see anyone familiar."
He almost looked relieved at the prospect. "You shouldn't be doing that alone."
"Liander has masked my spoor and my looks. I'm safe enough here tonight."
"Even so, we're here to get a line on General Hunt, nothing more."
"We're here to uncover the trail to whoever is behind the gene manipulation business. I happen to think Hunt is just another rung in the ladder, which is why I want to scout the room first. There may be other players here."
Besides, I needed the time away from him. Needed to regroup my thoughts before I was tempted to tell him where to shove it. Hell, given fate's twisted line of thinking, it'd be my luck that the one man I walked away from would be the man who was my destiny.
"You find Hunt," I continued. "I'll join you once I look around."
I didn't give him the chance to argue, and quickly faded into the crowd milling on the dance floor. I was three-quarters of the way around the room—and feeling more than a little nauseous from the overwhelming wall of scent coming off every woman in the room, all of whom seemed to have bathed in the stuff—when I smelled it. Pine and springtime. Two of the scents I'd smelled in that breeding center.
I stopped abruptly and studied the people standing immediately in front of me. Just a bunch of gray-haired old ladies done up to the nines. No men. I frowned, and carefully sniffed the air, wondering if the press of aromas was confusing my senses.
The scent was there, as strong as before, and it was definitely coming from the group of women just ahead. Maybe there was a man in there somewhere, and I just couldn't see him.
I edged around a woman whose scent was so thick and orangy it made my already troublesome stomach threaten to rise, then moved closer to the group of elderly women. Still no men. Yet the scent was closer than before.
"So where is the delicious Martin?" one woman asked. "He owes me a champagne over that little wager we had."
Martin? Did she mean Martin Hunt? Did that mean his wife was in this group somewhere? I sidestepped around another couple, and finally saw her. In real life, she was just as broad set and nondescript as she'd been in the picture, and looked totally ill at ease in the blood red, calf-length evening gown.
She looked my way at that moment, and our gazes locked. Shock hit, freezing me in place. Her eyes were a muddy brown, but the irises were ringed by two separate colors—blue, and a pale amber. I knew those eyes. They were the eyes of the man from my past. The eyes of the man who'd visited me in the breeding center.
Only this wasn't a man, it was a woman.
The memories were faulty. Had to be. This wasn't possible.
Then the familiar scent swam around me, confirming the impossible was indeed possible.
It was Martin Hunt's wife, not Martin Hunt himself, who had used me in that breeding center.
Chapter Nine
"Do we know each other?" Mrs. Hunt's question cut stridently across the babble of noise around us, causing several women in the group to turn and look at me.
"What?" Realizing immediately what I'd done, I blinked and forced surprise into my voice as I added, "Oh, I'm sorry. I was looking at the view. I didn't mean to appear like I was staring." Which, like a greenhorn damn fool, I had been.
"And you are?" Her voice was no less frosty than before, and grated my nerves as sharply as nails down a chalkboard. But it wasn't the voice of the person I'd heard in that place, and it only made my confusion that much stronger.
I gave her my best "no-one-is-home" smile, and held out a hand. "Barbie Jenkins."
She ignored the hand. "I can't recall a Barbie Jenkins on the list. Meryl?"
The woman identified as Meryl looked down her nose at me. Not a bad effort considering I was taller by a good three inches.
"No, there was no Barbie Jenkins on the guest list."
"Oh, that's because I came with a friend."
She raised a too-bushy eyebrow. "And the name of that friend?"
"Quinn O'Conor." I saw no harm in naming him, regardless of what my memories and senses were telling me about this woman. If she'd done the guest list, she'd know he was supposed to be here.
Her expression changed fractionally. She sniffed. Haughty didn't even begin to describe the sound. "He's a very generous supporter of the organization."
He was? That was news. But then, nearly everything about Quinn was news to me.
"Very generous," Meryl agreed gravely.
Meaning, obviously, that his choice of dinner partners would be overlooked because of it. If I wasn't so confused, I probably would have laughed at the old cows and their uptight attitudes—something that would surely have endeared me further.
"I'm sure he's going to continue his support," I gushed. "He's always saying what a wonderful—"
"Of course, dear. Thank you." She gave me an oh-so-insincere smile, and returned her attention to her friends.
Summarily dismissed, I quickly turned around and headed back into the crowd. I had no idea what was going on, but the one thing I needed to do was avoid Mrs. Hunt getting suspicious about me.