father had definitely splurged on that.
She stared around the ballroom, let the orchestra’s music drift around her and pretended it was just another assignment. That she was still with the CIA, that the op she was on was blessed by its director, and that backup would be waiting if the shit hit the fan.
She knew better. In this world there was no backup. There was just Bailey Serborne, the Serborne heiress. The prodigal daughter without a family to welcome her back into the fold. Only the enemies surrounded her here.
“Bailey, how good to see you again.” She lifted her cheek and allowed yet another vapid smile to cross her lips as a kiss was brushed against her cheek.
Janice Waterstone. She was in her sixties and still looked forty. Plastic surgery and cosmetics could accomplish miracles.
Janice was one in a long line of welcoming elite in attendance at the Serborne mansion, which Bailey had reopened a year ago.
She’d returned home, supposedly with her tail tucked between her legs, her pride smarting from her dismissal from the agency. And the dismissal was nothing more than the truth; she could still hear her director screaming at her in his office. Milburn Rushmore’s face had been neon red, flushed and perspiring, he’d been so pissed at her.
“It’s good to see you again, Janice.” The smile was as patently false as the other woman’s.
Janice was no more happy to see her here than Bailey was to be here. It was the social lie that mattered, though, the persona, the facade presented to the world.
The Serborne fortune was one of the twelve largest in the world. In more than three hundred years it had never dwindled, only grown. And her family had always remained in the top tier of the social elite. The cream of the crop so to speak. American royalty.
She stared around the ballroom, remembering her mother’s balls here. The exquisite parties, the months of planning that had gone into them. Angelina Serborne had been an exacting hostess. Her parties were always enjoyed, and invitations were always envied.
“You have quite a crowd here.” Janice looked around with a smug smile. “I believe I even saw Sheik AbdulRhamadin and his bodyguard. Not to mention several of this year’s hottest actors.”
“Every invitation was accepted.” Bailey shrugged her bare shoulders.
“Of course they were.” Janice blinked back at her. “A Serborne invitation hasn’t been issued in seven years. No one was going to miss this party, even if it was such short notice.”
In other words, it hadn’t been planned a year in advance.
“I’m home. I wanted to remember the good times,” she stated simply. “Mother loved the parties.”
Janice paused at the mention of Angelina, then finally nodded as though her thoughts were pleasant for a change.
“Angelina and I used to plan her parties together.” Janice sighed. “I’ve missed her.”
Bailey finished her champagne. It was instantly snagged by a waiter and replaced with another. Reminiscing about the past wasn’t on her list of priorities tonight.
“Pardon me, Janice, I see someone I need to talk to.” Bailey excused herself before making her way across to the room to her nemesis.
Some men were so power-hungry that they would do anything to achieve the position they sought. One of those men was Raymond Greer, a former CIA overseas operative.
Raymond had managed to slide into the elite by the way of marriage to one Mary Grace Altman, a widow he’d met on a European cruise while undercover. Bailey wondered if Mary was aware that at one time, she was the former agent’s mark.
Raymond stood an easy six four, but he lacked the breadth and muscle that would have made his height attractive. His face was shaped rather like a weasel’s, and she could honestly say she had never seen a real smile cross his lips.
“Hello, Raymond, I’m glad you could make it.” She stepped up to the former agent and continued softly, “You’ve done very well for
She stared around the ballroom, let the orchestra’s music drift around her and pretended it was just another assignment. That she was still with the CIA, that the op she was on was blessed by its director, and that backup would be waiting if the shit hit the fan.
She knew better. In this world there was no backup. There was just Bailey Serborne, the Serborne heiress. The prodigal daughter without a family to welcome her back into the fold. Only the enemies surrounded her here.
“Bailey, how good to see you again.” She lifted her cheek and allowed yet another vapid smile to cross her lips as a kiss was brushed against her cheek.
Janice Waterstone. She was in her sixties and still looked forty. Plastic surgery and cosmetics could accomplish miracles.
Janice was one in a long line of welcoming elite in attendance at the Serborne mansion, which Bailey had reopened a year ago.
She’d returned home, supposedly with her tail tucked between her legs, her pride smarting from her dismissal from the agency. And the dismissal was nothing more than the truth; she could still hear her director screaming at her in his office. Milburn Rushmore’s face had been neon red, flushed and perspiring, he’d been so pissed at her.
“It’s good to see you again, Janice.” The smile was as patently false as the other woman’s.
Janice was no more happy to see her here than Bailey was to be here. It was the social lie that mattered, though, the persona, the facade presented to the world.
The Serborne fortune was one of the twelve largest in the world. In more than three hundred years it had never dwindled, only grown. And her family had always remained in the top tier of the social elite. The cream of the crop so to speak. American royalty.
She stared around the ballroom, remembering her mother’s balls here. The exquisite parties, the months of planning that had gone into them. Angelina Serborne had been an exacting hostess. Her parties were always enjoyed, and invitations were always envied.
“You have quite a crowd here.” Janice looked around with a smug smile. “I believe I even saw Sheik AbdulRhamadin and his bodyguard. Not to mention several of this year’s hottest actors.”
“Every invitation was accepted.” Bailey shrugged her bare shoulders.
“Of course they were.” Janice blinked back at her. “A Serborne invitation hasn’t been issued in seven years. No one was going to miss this party, even if it was such short notice.”
In other words, it hadn’t been planned a year in advance.
“I’m home. I wanted to remember the good times,” she stated simply. “Mother loved the parties.”
Janice paused at the mention of Angelina, then finally nodded as though her thoughts were pleasant for a change.
“Angelina and I used to plan her parties together.” Janice sighed. “I’ve missed her.”
Bailey finished her champagne. It was instantly snagged by a waiter and replaced with another. Reminiscing about the past wasn’t on her list of priorities tonight.
“Pardon me, Janice, I see someone I need to talk to.” Bailey excused herself before making her way across to the room to her nemesis.
Some men were so power-hungry that they would do anything to achieve the position they sought. One of those men was Raymond Greer, a former CIA overseas operative.
Raymond had managed to slide into the elite by the way of marriage to one Mary Grace Altman, a widow he’d met on a European cruise while undercover. Bailey wondered if Mary was aware that at one time, she was the former agent’s mark.
Raymond stood an easy six four, but he lacked the breadth and muscle that would have made his height attractive. His face was shaped rather like a weasel’s, and she could honestly say she had never seen a real smile cross his lips.
“Hello, Raymond, I’m glad you could make it.” She stepped up to the former agent and continued softly, “You’ve done very well for
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