Page 147 of Jack
The crowd took the house down, cheering, the band still playing, and Jack danced over, pulled Harper onto the floor.
“I don’t know how to do that hip thing,” she said, but he laughed and put her arms around his neck.
“Just hold on, Harper. I got this.”
“Oh no, that’s how it’s going to be?”
He laughed again, then bent down and kissed her. In front of the entire world. Or at least it felt like it.
And then he drew her in close, and they danced.
* * *
Research mattered. A girl did enough research and she could fabricate a digital invitation and use it, along with her ID, to get past the hired security at the gate.
Sure, they had a list. Emberly tried to help them find her name, getting out of her car, shivering by the side of the road in her dress pants and white cashmere coat—a find at the local thrift store—as other guests squeezed by the tall snowdrifts. She just kept apologizing and then, bingo—as she pointed to the name, she “accidentally” knocked the man’s tablet into the snow, crashing the program, and he bent to retrieve it, trying to reboot it.
Then she waved at a “friend,” who waved back—a reflex—andbam, the security guard waved her in.
And that was how it was done.
She’d left her coat in the car and walked in with her gift behind superstar Ben King and his wife. She put it down on the dining-room table, already piled high, next to a package from Glo and Tate Marshall. She remembered them from the big trial of Glo’s mother, the former VP, a few years ago.
But terrorists just didn’t give up. And tonight, Stone was going down.
Although, for a moment before she’d walked upstairs to where the music had started, she’d enjoyed the view from the back windows of the gorgeous inn. The setting sun turned the snow on the lake a deep, variegated amber with pink edges, the evergreens near the shoreline and in the yard frosted with white.
Not a terrible place to live.
She’d headed upstairs then, to the reception, on the hunt for Stone.
He sat near the front, at a table with the Fox family—handsome, suave, charming. A real chiseler.
It was then that the wedding party came in, but she ignored them, her gaze on Stone.
He used his cell at least twice, then dropped it into his suit pocket, his guard clearly down.
She waited until everyone sat, then found a table with an empty chair. Someone named Brett.
Quail, a fig and goat-cheese salad, wild-mushroom risotto, cranberry compote, baby carrots, beets roasted with thyme and honey, and a couple offerings of wine that she turned down.
Then toasts, and she kept her gaze on Stone.
The caterers asked them to exit while they cleared the tables, and fate couldn’t have played a better hand. She just happened to scoot in behind Stone as they filed out and didn’t even have to be the one to bump into him. Another woman did the honors and then, just like that, she swiped the phone and dropped it into her pants pocket.
The main-floor bathroom had a line, so that hideout wouldn’t work. She spotted a small library slash office off the great room.
It practically beckoned her inside. She went in, closed the door, and set the phone on a writing desk by the window. Then she took out her own phone, hooked the two up—a cable was faster than Bluetooth—and started the download of the contents of Stone’s phone.
From here, she spotted another house, just as stately, down the road, and yet two more farther on. A carriage house sat between them with its own stacked-stone chimney, clearly as well loved as the other homes.
Some people had no idea how the rest of the world lived.
Ten long minutes. Finally the phone dinged, and she walked out of the room.
And that’s when the plan died. She’d stuck his phone back in her pocket, but . . . well, now she had to return it if she didn’t want him asking big questions.
But as she stood in the foyer, she spotted Declan Stone shaking hands with his hosts, the Kingston elders, and then . . .