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that Stone was complaining about the bored crowd of journalists. He’d been able to carefully assess the body language of every single person in the room and determine that no one was showing the signs of stress associated with someone about to kill another one.
    He was more fascinated by the dynamic between Christian and his boss than with any of the reporters. About twenty minutes prior to the start of the press conference, Christian had delivered a sheaf of papers that contained every question any of the reporters would be asking the senator today, along with a prepared answer, presumably written by Christian.
    While a pretty young woman did his makeup and hair, Lacey read through the papers and familiarized himself with the contents.
    When the press conference got rolling, Christian stationed himself in the front row of reporters, in plain sight of Lacey. Each time someone asked the senator a question, Christian subtly held up his fingers to indicate a number. It took about three questions for Stone to realize that Christian was signaling to his boss which page in his notes held the answer to the question. His opinion of Jack Lacey shifted from “what a douche” to “holy crap put that asshole out of his misery.”
    The press conference took an anemic fifteen minutes. The camera lights went off and the reporters packed up, completely disinterested in Jack Lacey. Stone spied a half-dozen civilians approaching the senator and dutifully moved in beside his client.
    “Great job as usual, Senator,” one of them boomed. “Keep performing like that, and you’ll be front and center in presidential debates in no time!”
    Christ. Could the man stick his head any farther up Lacey’s ass? Lacey didn’t act like he could produce his own name without Christian’s cheat sheets. Stone doubted he could take those on stage with him in a debate, and he got the distinct impression the guy would be shit outta luck without them.
    “Do you need a lift over to the party, Jack?” Booming Voice asked.
    Stone interrupted politely. “We’ll be taking care of the senator’s transportation.”
    Boomer slapped Stone’s shoulder jovially, which made him grit his teeth behind a stiff smile. Don’t touch the armed man who already thinks you’re a waste of oxygen.
    “Gonna be a hell of a bash. Plenty of pussy for everyone.”
    Was the loudmouth actually suggesting that the bodyguards would stop doing their jobs long enough to catch a little snatch on the side? Just what kind of incompetent yahoo did this jerk think he and Wild Cards, Inc. were?
    A familiar voice muttered in his ear, “Ignore him. He has the social skills of a spoon. He’s no threat to the client.”
    Holy cannoli, Christian was good at reading him. It was actually starting to be a little uncanny. He’d no sooner felt the irritation at the loud buffoon than Christian said exactly the right thing to defuse his annoyance and refocus his attention on his work.
    The reporters dispersed to cull through their footage for sound bites to put on the late local news, and he and Tucker herded Lacey out to the armored SUV waiting at the Imperium Hotel’s loading dock.
    The drive into Coral Gables was interminable. Saturday night in Miami apparently involved every single resident going out cruising in vintage convertibles or clogging the sidewalks on foot and tying up crosswalks. But eventually they pulled into the circular drive in front of an obscenely opulent Spanish-style mansion. He’d seen some obnoxious places in his work as a bodyguard to the rich and famous, and this place was right up there.
    Stone held the car door for Lacey and was surprised when Tucker didn’t fall in behind his boss. He started to follow the senator, and Christian touched his sleeve. He turned, frowning.
    “He won’t want you sticking too close to him.”
    “Then how in the hell am I supposed to do my job?” he demanded.
    Christian shrugged. “Watch him from a distance.”
    “And do what?