Lucy was not one of those people.
She was working.
It was late afternoon, hot in Buenos Aires. Thankfully, the AC blasted away inside, and Lucy positioned herself beneath one of the vents, grateful for the cool draft.
Two sets of garden doors opened onto an incredible old-stone patio with a magnificent fountain as the main focus of attention. Brilliant jacaranda trees with their unique mauve blossoms provided a stunning backdrop.
Everyone who was anyone in this town was in attendance today, including the Argentine president. Christmas Eve was a massive party in this country, and fireworks had been going off all day.
Rather than pretty sparkles, Lucy was wearing a boring pant suit, the jacket two sizes too large. No one paid any attention to the mouse Lucy had transformed herself into over the past ten months. It wasn’t simply the drabness of her dyed, mid-brown hair which hung frizzily around her face from an unflattering center part. Nor the insipid paleness of her skin, nor the thick-framed glasses that hid her eyes. No, it was her lackluster demeanor. Her obedient compliance. The body language that clearly stated she was part of the furniture, not part of the festivities.
It had been a huge adjustment for Lucy to not only be ignored, but to be completely unseen. She didn’t mind the shadows anymore. In fact, she preferred them.
The ambassador’s husband raised his face to the ceiling and gave a belly-laugh at something the French ambassador’s wife said. The latter was wearing a sheer black and white polka dot number that was a lot more revealing than it appeared at first glance. The woman was witty and spoke with constantly moving hands. She was so animated, it was a wonder she didn’t spill her champagne.
The ambassador looked over at her husband, and Lucy noticed a crinkle of the woman’s brow. Catherine Dickerson didn’t like loud but there was no way she’d chastise her husband. She didn’t pull rank on the domestic front. Lucy liked that about the woman.
Lucy’s direct superior and the ambassador’s long time Personal Assistant, Miranda Foster, stood close to the ambassador, attentive to her boss’s immediate needs. The senior agent from the US Diplomatic Security Service (DSS) flanked the other side of the doorway from Lucy, along with a few other security guys who were all hyper-focused on the officials they were tasked with protecting.
The ambassador was always adamant that she couldn’t do her job with a bodyguard hovering over her shoulder. DSS didn’t like it, but they’d learned if they wanted to keep the peace, they had to give Catherine Dickerson some space.
Chandeliers glittered in the bright afternoon sunshine. Guests sipped expensive bubbly and snacked on caviar. The noise level was growing exponentially with the level of alcohol consumption.
Lucy would rather eat a burger than fish eggs, but her stomach growled regardless. She’d covered for Miranda during the ambassador’s luncheon with her British, French, German, and Spanish counterparts, and it had been a long time since breakfast.
Lucy pushed hunger out of her mind and instead admired the frescos on the far walls. This former palace now belonged to a Russian billionaire who’d made his fortune after the collapse of the former Soviet Union. Being here made her skin crawl.
A flurry of movement in the corner of her eye caused her to glance left. Sure enough, the seemingly friendly and effusive Boris Yahontov had finally arrived with his family at his own party and was keen to make an entrance. He greeted a couple of friends near the doorway and began making his way around her side of the room, probably toward the Argentine president who held court near a dessert table that was complete with a melted chocolate waterfall.
Lucy tried to sink into the wall as Yahontov drew closer, but his gaze fell on her as he neared her position. So much for blending. She bowed her head and stared at the gleaming hardwood floor, praying he walked on by.
Yahontov straightened a chair at a nearby table, and she flicked a glance in his direction. A mistake. It gave him an opening.
“You look familiar…” His accent had only a thin edge of Russian to it. He’d lived in the west for many years, assimilating. A smile was fixed on his lips as he stared at her. “Now where have I seen you before?”
She stared down at the carpet. “You must have mistaken me for someone else, sir.”
The man stepped closer and leaned toward to her ear. Alcohol-saturated breath brushed her cheek, although he didn’t appear drunk.
“You were prettier in the photographs.”
Ice-cold dread washed through her, but she knew better than to show weakness to a predator. She looked at him blankly. “I’m sorry, sir. I really think you have me confused with someone else.”
“Of course. My mistake.” He laughed and threw up his hands in a jovial manner, but his eyes were appraising as they locked onto her for another long moment.
Her knees wanted to sag, but she didn’t let them.
Yahontov finally passed on by, leaving only the smell of vodka behind him. His hulking bodyguard followed like a giant shadow in his wake.
Acid coated her throat, and Lucy swallowed repeatedly to get rid of the need to gag. Then she noticed her boss, Miranda, giving her a discreet wave of her hand indicating she needed her. Lucy thrust herself away from the wall.
Yahontov’s glamorous wife, a former beauty queen and model, was greeting the ambassador. Lucy wondered what the woman knew, but her gaze didn’t even flicker away from her guests as Lucy approached.
“How are the children?” Mrs. Yahontov gave the ambassador and Phillip, who’d joined his wife, air kisses on both cheeks. “You should have brought them with you. They could have played with ours.”
Lucy subdued a frown. The Yahontovs’ kids were several years younger than Catherine and Phillip Dickersons’ two and had nothing in common with them.
“Our son is at the age where all he wants to do is play video games, and our daughter is in the city with her girlfriends doing some last-minute Christmas shopping,” Phillip answered amiably.
The group carried on chatting, and Miranda pulled Lucy aside and whispered in her ear, “What did Yahontov say to you?”
Lucy looked at her vacantly. Of course, her boss had noticed their interaction. “Nothing,” she whispered back. “He’s been drinking and wished me a Merry Christmas.”
“I hope he wasn’t inappropriate.” Miranda gave Lucy a worried look then let it drop. “The ambassador has a headache. Do you have any of her pills?”
“In the car, but not on me.” Lucy kept a whole host of emergency supplies in the vehicle, but Miranda usually handled more pressing needs.
“Go and ask DSS if they have any. If they don’t, please go and fetch something from the car.” Miranda gave her arm a squeeze in silent thanks.
Lucy hurried away, ignoring the fact she was sure that bastard Yahontov was watching her. What did it mean?
Humiliation wanted to rip her to shreds, but she’d known this would happen one day. She still had a job to do.
Didn’t make it any easier.
Lucy reached the Diplomatic Security Special Agent just as his phone buzzed, and he held up his hand in that authoritarian way he had about him and moved to the side where he could have direct access to the ambassador and still answer the call.
Lucy sighed and stood to one side, hugging the wall while she waited for her opportunity to speak to him.