Page 29 of Too Old for Love

Piper entered at her shoulder, smiling for the room while her eyes measured every exit. In front of them, Lucia and Addie slipped through the crush of bodies, each woman keeping just enough distance to look accidental.

The music pounded hard enough to blur thought. Glasses trembled along the bar, ice clicked in silver buckets, and every few seconds a roar rose from the audience and broke against the low ceiling.

The air smelled of citrus cleaner, spilled liquor, overheated wiring, and too many perfumes fighting for space. Beneath it all lurked the metallic scent of the fog machines, sharp as a warning.

Mila found Magnus near a curtained alcove, costumed as one of the club’s private dancers. He never looked directly at her, but two taps against his wrist told her the backstage corridor was watched and the men were in place.

Across the room, Rory carried a tray he had no intention of serving. He was dressed in a toga, the drape coming across his broad, muscled shoulders, tapering to his narrow waist. Women were literally salivating as he walked past them, paying no attention to them at all.

O’Hara leaned beside a mirrored pillar beneath a wash of red light. He too was dressed in a toga, the contrast of his light complexion and features to Rory’s dark ones was startling. Lucia leaned toward Piper smiling.

“I’d still choose him every damn day,” she grinned.

“Same, girl,” smiled Piper.

Bron disappeared behind a knot of celebrating patrons without breaking his cover. He and Magnus would be dancing soon, hopefully their man would dance before them and the women would be able to get him into the private room.

Their disguises placed them close to the restricted rooms, but closeness had its own danger. One suspicious glance from security could collapse the entire operation before Jordan ever appeared.

Women crowded around the stage, shouting over one another and flinging bills beneath the spinning lights. Their laughter came in sudden bursts, bright and frantic, masking every whispered question the four investigators tried to exchange.

Piper tilted her glass toward the balcony. A broad-shouldered guard stood there with one hand pressed to an earpiece, scanning the room in slow, deliberate sweeps.

Lucia followed his gaze and saw cameras tucked into smoked-glass domes above the bar. One pointed toward the stage, another toward the entrance, and a third tracked the narrow hallway marked STAFF ONLY.

Addie moved first, letting the crowd carry her toward that hallway. A server blocked the route with a practiced smile, so she laughed, apologized, and drifted away before the man could study her face.

Mila checked the stage again. The featured performers had changed twice since they arrived, but none matched Jordan’s photograph.

Minutes dragged beneath the relentless beat. Each flash of white light froze the room into a harsh still image: raised hands, falling money, watchful guards, and faces twisted by noise.

Then darkness returned between the flashes, deep enough to hide a weapon or a lie. Mila felt the weight of the small transmitter beneath her sleeve and resisted the urge to touch it. The music was so loud they had to turn to old school tech, at least it was old school for G.R.I.P., transmitters that could relay through the noise.

Magnus stepped on stage and the women went crazy. Two-hundred women of all ages stood, gasping with excitement, pointing at his very handsome package, and already tossing money onto the stage.

Addie smirked at her husband, whispering into the transmitter.

“Just remember babe, you go home with me tonight.” Magnus turned to her giving a smirk and then jerked his hips forward toward her smiling face. She stood and tucked a twenty-dollar bill into his thong and he blew her kiss.

“He’s going to pay for that,” laughed Addie.

No Jordan backstage, no confirmed sighting, no sign that their plan was going to produce anything tonight other than embarrassment.

Rory appeared near Piper and set down the untouched tray. He traced a circle in the condensation with one finger, their signal that the dressing rooms had already been searched.

O’Hara shook his head from the pillar. Bron emerged from the crowd a moment later, jaw tight, and adjusted his fake cuffs to signal the same result.

The search was over, Mila thought. Jordan had either called in sick or had slipped away, or he had never intended to come.

Onstage, the music cut off mid-beat. The sudden silence struck the room harder than the sound had, leaving a high electric ringing in Mila’s ears.

A spotlight snapped on, stark and colorless. The announcer’s voice rolled from hidden speakers, stretched by echo until it sounded less like an introduction than a summons.

“Jordan.”

The crowd erupted. Sound crashed through the club, chairs scraped, and a fresh storm of bills fluttered toward the empty stage.

Mila’s pulse jumped. Piper had already turned, Lucia’s hand had gone still beside her glass, and Addie was watching the curtain with the fixed concentration of a marksman.