She squeezed his hand and manipulated the steady flow of schmoozing until Alec Oliver was locked in their direct line of sight. He looked their way; the couple with whom he’d been speaking had lost his attention.
Spiker seized the moment with a confident lift his chin, from one alpha to another alpha, now was the time they would meet. Oliver took the bait and moved to greet them.
Body language fascinated Spiker, and—to make a more melodramatic point—his ability to read microscopic human behavior had kept him alive. In a hundredth of a second, he and Oliver had an unspoken agreement to converse. It was a mandatory go-ahead that allowed them to make an unremarkable approach.
The men’s hands extended.
“Alec,” Spiker offered, “Brian Fagan. Fagan Asset Management.”
Their handshake connected. The slight muscles under Oliver’s lower eyelids contracted. Even though he likely couldn’t recollect their pseudo-fictitious company name, the two men shared the mutual understanding found between a company CEO and a hedge fund owner.
Alec Oliver retained a majority of the stock in the company that transformed his social networking app into a record-breaking IPO, but that hadn’t come without precarious concessions. Investors demanded the app’s community of users exist as part of a larger online platform and seated a board of directors elected by shareholders.
Spiker wondered how much thought Oliver had put into what that might mean. Could a twenty-year-old on the cusp of billions understand that his future would include shareholder demands, government compliance, and hedge funds specializing in hostile takeovers?
“And this is my wife,” Spiker continued, “Em Fagan.”
Vanka angled toward Oliver and extended her hand, giving him a glimpse of the bare skin that sliced down her back. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Fagan.” Oliver fondled her hand more than he shook it. Spiker pretended not to notice. Their connection lingered, and Spiker’s disgust multiplied. Oliver lacked self-control. He was too young, too green, maybe even too-fawned-over, to disguise his lurid curiosity.
“We hold a 0.02% stake in Monarch,” Spiker added.
That got Oliver’s attention and finally broke his hold on Vanka’s hand. However, an irreverent cockiness still dilated his eyes. “That’s not a small piece of the pie.”
“It’s an excellent position to hold,” Vanka agreed.
Oliver grinned. “Your accent is amazing.”
“Everything about her is amazing,” Spiker countered.
Vanka played her part, dishing out a quick laugh and smile, but cut him an uncertain glance.
“Our investors,” Spiker continued, “for the most part, agree.” He waited for the “most part” to subtly knock Oliver down a peg or two.
Oliver’s jaw ticked. “There’s always a small contingency that likes to complain.”
“They’re no less chatty than those heavy-handed fund managers.” Vanka scoffed as though she were a British Marie Antoinette and touched Oliver’s elbow. “Activists, I call them.”
Spiker tensed. Maybe he shouldn’t have needled the guy, but she acted as though he needed the wound bandaged. The conversation continued as if they were old friends—or old flames. Spiker didn’t have anything to say other than back off my wife, but Vanka was clearly on a mission to extract information that GSI might want. Once again, Spiker wanted to tell Buck to screw off.
Spiker refocused his attention on the guests. Alec Oliver was the center of everyone’s attention. Faces continually glanced their way and put Spiker in the best spot for taking photographs.
Oliver made a joke. Vanka laughed, slightly repositioning, and shifting their group to give Spiker a new angle. They had a limited amount of time in Oliver’s spotlight, but they could capitalize on ordinary occurrences. Waitstaff offered fresh drinks; they readjusted. Oliver told another stupid joke, their arrangement altered again. The two-step continued until they’d spun Oliver 360 degrees.
Spiker signaled they had what they’d come for.
“It’s been a pleasure,” Vanka offered. “We should—”
“Tell me something.” Oliver inclined his head toward her. “Do you actually find capital investments as interesting as you let on?”
“That’s not a question I can answer.”
“Why?” Alec asked.
“I’m not in your head.” She inched toward Spiker’s side. “I haven’t a clue how interested you think I am.”
Oliver gestured to an open space in front of the string quartet. “Mrs. Fagan, would you like to dance?”
Spiker’s mouth slackened.
Genuine surprise widened Vanka’s eyes. “Sorry?”
“No one has danced,” Oliver explained.
They wouldn’t be the ones to buck the trend. Possessively, Spiker placed a hand at the small of Vanka’s back and, in an instant, saw that the gesture had been the wrong move. Veiled delight danced in Oliver’s eyes. Spiker struggled to find the right words—hell, any words—to facilitate their exit.
“No one will,” Vanka carefully replied, “until the host dances first.”
Spiker gritted his teeth.
Oliver grinned. “The birthday cake rule.”
Her gaze flitted. She didn’t understand the comparison. If present circumstances had been different, Spiker would’ve chuckled at the fact that Vanka, of all people, was unaware of a specific manner, rule, or protocol.
Oliver explained, “No one takes a bite before the birthday kid.”
“Oh.” She rebounded. “I’d call that simple manners.”
Oliver offered Spiker an insincere grin. “Would you mind if I dance with your wife?”
Fuck yes, I do, my friend. “Be my guest.”
Alec Oliver led Vanka toward the dance floor. The string quartet transitioned from background music to a perky three-beat waltz. With a quick, pompous bow, he took Vanka’s hand. Spiker’s jaw ached. His molars clenched. He should see this as an honor, as an opportunity to gather better angles, but he didn’t.
Vanka and Oliver danced. His right hand rested high on her bare, strong back. The position of their arms was formal, elevated and angled, cultivating minimal body contact. To everyone but Spiker, Alec and Vanka looked professional and well-practiced. Just as Vanka could make anyone talk, she could make them dance, even as Oliver led.
A dull, serrated dagger lodged into Spiker’s chest. He focused on his job and turned to covertly photograph the onlooking wallflowers.
The waltz’s triple beat bomm-bomm-bahed in three-quarter time. The seconds crawled impossibly slowly, as though the quartet played to a perverse metronome that moved with the speed of cold molasses.
Spiker couldn’t look away. Vanka danced like an angel while she siphoned wisps of intel from Oliver. Oliver did nothing to ruin the propriety of the amicable dance. But Spiker saw through the fancy footwork and proper holds. Alec Oliver wanted Spiker’s wife—and he took that moment to circle Vanka in a sweeping move, which elicited a polite golf clap from onlookers.
Grandstanding jackass.
Oliver preened and added a triumphant swagger to his moves. His high, angled arms softened, bringing their bodies closer, and the fingers on Vanka’s back splayed possessively.