How the hell was she going to survive once their engagement was announced and the press became really interested in her? Her relief when they made it through the gauntlet and into the theater was palpable.
Nate sneaked a glance over his shoulder as he held out Agnes’s chair in the front row of the Chairman’s private box. Dorothy was hanging on his father’s arm like a determined barnacle, smiling and batting her eyelashes. She had no trouble making herself beautiful, in a stunning dress of skintight red silk with a slit that would have men taking a second or third look.
The press had gotten wind of her by now, of course, and the gossip columns were all abuzz with her scandalous story. The Chairman was naturally taking some heat about it, but most of the press were too scared of him to be overly critical.
Nate noticed that although Dorothy clung to him, the Chairman didn’t speak to her. In fact, he hardly looked at her, and there was a hint of stiffness in his bearing. Nate would have felt a glow of satisfaction at the evidence that there was tension between them, except Dorothy looked much too cheerful for it to be anything serious.
Chairman Belinski had brought his wife this time, but the poor woman was pale and wan, and Nate suspected she wasn’t over her battle with migraines yet. He doubted she would hold out for the entire opera. Belinski was openly solicitous of his wife’s health, but he kept darting speculative, worried looks at Nate’s father and Dorothy. Rethinking the marriage arrangements, maybe?
Agnes had relaxed some now that she wasn’t the center of attention, but her posture was still unnaturally stiff and her hands were still clamped tightly together in her lap. Was it the aftermath of their time in the spotlight, or was she trying to brace herself for him to be cruel to her again? The more he thought about how he’d acted, the more ashamed of himself he was.
“Do you like opera?” he asked her, and she blinked at him in surprise.
Was this the first time he’d actually tried to draw her into a conversation? He wasn’t sure, but it might well be.
“Sometimes,” she replied.
He waited for more, but though Agnes looked like she was searching for something to say, she didn’t find it. She hadn’t been at such a loss for words when they’d been talking with Nadia at the funeral. Either Nadia had drawn Agnes out of her shell, or Agnes suffered from some kind of performance anxiety when faced with small talk. He was betting on the latter.
“If I asked you to tell me about the advantages and disadvantages to our states of an alliance by marriage, would you be able to find your tongue?”
She frowned at him in puzzlement. “But surely you already know all that.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Her eyes widened when she understood. “You mean am I more comfortable talking about something that matters instead of talking about what a lovely day it is or whether I like opera?”
He nodded.
“Yes,” she confirmed. “Ask me about business or political strategy and I’ll have no trouble finding something to say.”
Nate grinned at her. “And I’m the exact opposite.” The grin faded, but he tried to keep the warmth in his voice. “Maybe we’ll make a good team after all.”
It was time to face reality: ending up married to Agnes was probably the best the future had to offer him. He was just going to have to suck it up.
Agnes didn’t answer, but though he’d meant the words as a peace offering, he could tell by the look on her face that she didn’t appreciate it. Perhaps she’d sensed his less-than-flattering resignation to his fate.
Nate breathed a sigh of relief when the lights dimmed and the overture began, saved from having to find a way to sound more enthusiastic about the future.
The feeling of relief didn’t last long. He could tolerate, and sometimes even mildly enjoy, the old classic operas—though he would never be able to shake his prejudice against Don Giovanni—but modern crap put his teeth on edge, and this opera was about as modern as you could get. The composer was pretentious enough to go by the single name of Victor, and he had a love of dissonance to an extreme degree. Not only that, but the soprano had a shrieking nasal voice that made Nate want to stop up his ears.
A glance around the box showed him that Chairman Belinski and his father were paying no attention to the opera, deep in conversation with each other. A conversation on which Dorothy was obviously trying to eavesdrop, her head tilted slightly to the side to hear them better.
Beside him, Agnes looked like she was in physical pain listening to the atrocity the great Victor thought of as his triumphant work of art, and her eyes narrowed in a slight wince every time the soprano hit a high note. She caught him looking, and they shared a grimace of distaste that made them both smile.
His moment of sympathy with Agnes ended almost immediately when the phone in his inner jacket pocket vibrated against his chest.
It was his secure phone, the one Dante had given him. The one that would not be ringing unless there was some sort of emergency.
As casually as possible, Nate reached into his pocket and pulled out the phone, glancing at the text message it displayed from Dante. Call me ASAP was all it said, but it was enough to make Nate go cold. He leaned over toward Agnes.
“I’ll be right back,” he told her, though he suspected that was a lie.
She gave him a beseeching “take me with you” look that he pretended not to notice.
“Is everything all right?”
“Sure,” he said. “Just have to make a quick call.”
The way she was looking at him made him suspect she didn’t believe him—he probably looked as worried as he felt—but she let it go. His father gave him a disapproving look as he excused himself, but Nate couldn’t have cared less whether his father approved or not.
There were four bodyguards standing at attention at the back of the box, including Nate’s personal bodyguard for the evening, Fischer. Fischer opened the door for him, and Nate slipped out into the Chairman’s private lounge. Of course, Fischer couldn’t let him out of his sight for even a moment, so he left his post to follow Nate into the lounge. The chances of mad assassins making it into the lounge were approximately zero, so Fischer’s vigilance was a little over the top, but Nate knew better than to try to make the guy back off.
At least Fischer was respectful enough of his privacy to remain just outside the door to the box while Nate pulled out his phone and moved to the farthest corner of the lounge to call Dante back.
Dante answered on the first ring, like he’d been sitting there with the phone in his hand waiting for the call.
“I think we have a problem,” Dante said in a tight voice. There was traffic noise in the background, which meant he was not in the servants’ quarters in Nate’s building, where he was supposed to be.
“What’s happened?”