They’d only been on the island for thirty minutes, entering the main hall at the end of dinner. The hundreds of tuxedos and gowns in attendance had been too busy stuffing their faces to pay any attention to the late arrivals.
But she felt their eyes now.
Pinched-faced, scowling men and women filled the ballroom, all of them glaring at the man at her side. Apparently, they didn’t like the King of Caracas in their presence.
“Some of these people are staring so hard,” she said under her breath, leaning back against the bar, “when you leave tonight, your ears are going to be on fire.”
“They want my city.” With his body facing the bar, his assertive hand glided across her stomach and closed around her hip. “And the gorgeous woman on my arm.”
“Pretty sure they just want you dead.” She spotted Arturo at the entrance of the ballroom, his gaze ever-watchful.
“That, too. But we’re safe tonight. No one will try to kill each other with the President’s armed forces on the premises.”
If there were armed guards in the room, their weapons were concealed beneath tuxedos. Arturo was the only face she recognized, and he didn’t have a gun. Every visitor in this house had to go through a metal detector.
She’d asked Tiago a thousand questions during the drive, and he’d only answered a few. While he was hunted by American government agencies and Mexican cartel, he’d assured her the President of Venezuela had more enemies than he did.
That did nothing to calm her nerves.
The bartender handed him the finished drinks. Tiago kept the tumbler of clear fluid and offered her the wine glass.
“What is this?” She took a small sip and widened her eyes.
“Vino Pasita. Wine made from bananas.”
“Wow.” She swallowed another greedy gulp and licked her lips, savoring the burst of sweet, fruity flavors. “This is heaven.”
“You only get one. The hangover is a slow death of agonizing pain.” He clasped her hand and guided her through the crowds of formal wear, his whisper a caress at her ear. “I need to rub some elbows and finalize a few deals. Enjoy your vino and don’t leave my side.”
For the next hour, she remained on his arm like a silent gold ornament, mesmerized by his sensual Spanish parlance as he hobnobbed with politicians, Venezuelan celebrities, and random powerful bad guys.
During each introduction, he announced her as Kate. Some of the faces she recognized. Others she knew by name. If she had a phone, she would’ve been burning up the Internet in an attempt to learn about these people.
After another hour of standing around in six-inch heels, her feet throbbed. Her delicious wine was long gone, and maybe she was just overstimulated by all the conversations, but something niggled. She felt edgy. Almost paranoid.
Her scalp tingled, and the constant itch between her shoulder blades had her searching the crowds at her back every few seconds.
Arturo hadn’t moved from his position near the door. Nothing seemed amiss.
She needed another drink.
With no servers in the vicinity, she lifted Tiago’s tumbler from his hand. He glanced at her while continuing his conversation with the Minister of Foreign Affairs.
She gave them a soft smile and sipped from the glass.
Well, crap. He was drinking water? Useless.
A younger man stood beside the old politician. She couldn’t remember his name, but she didn’t like his eyes. Especially when they fell to her chest. It was quick. A dip down and back up. But it happened, and Tiago didn’t miss it.
His neck rolled, and his biceps hardened, crushing her fingers in the bend of his arm.
Desperate to diffuse his temper, she glanced around the room, and an idea struck.
“Sorry to interrupt your conversation.” She set his glass aside and rubbed a soothing hand over his clenched fist. “Will you dance with me?”
“Yes.” He said his goodbyes through gritted teeth and escorted her across the room to the dance floor. “Trying to distract me?”
“Absolutely.”
“Do you know how to dance to this?”
Dozens of couples spun to the fast, creole-like music. Hands clasped, they faced each other, making small, stomping steps. They all moved in the same speed and style, using waltz turns and sweeping foot movements. She’d never seen anything like it. Maybe it was the fandango. Definitely not the tango.
“I have no clue.” She didn’t know how to dance at all.
“It’s the joropo, the national dance of Venezuela.” He led her to the side of the dance floor where the band congregated.
At least twenty musicians played guitars, maracas, harps, mandolins, and multiple other instruments she couldn’t name.
He whispered something to the maestro, and a moment later, the music segued into a slow Spanish number.
“Better?” He stared at her mouth and brushed a thumb across her lower lip.
She nodded. “I think so?”
He guided her to the center of the dance floor and held her tight against the front of his body. Then he swayed into an easy rhythm, keeping his steps simple and slow, as if he knew she didn’t know how to dance.