IN THE SPOTLIGHT

The first camera flash went off before Desmond Vale reached the carpet.

Meena Velez caught his sleeve.

“Down.”

He looked at her, not the cameras. That was his first mistake. His second was smiling as if she’d asked him to dance.

A black umbrella opened in the crowd. Rain had stopped twenty minutes ago. Meena saw the metal glint beneath its wet canopy and drove Desmond behind the stone planter. The shot cracked against the hotel doors. A woman screamed. The crowd broke apart in a rush of silk and rented tuxedos.

Meena put her body over his and tasted grit from the planter’s rim.

“Stay there,” she said.

“Was that a gun?”

“Not a question I can answer while you’re standing up.”

A security man dragged the shooter down near the curb. The umbrella rolled into the gutter. Meena saw a pistol, a long lens, and a red ribbon knotted around the grip.

She kept Desmond low until the police took the weapon. Then she got him through the service entrance with one hand at his back. He didn’t complain about the blood on his white shirt. He didn’t ask if she was hurt.

In the elevator, he examined the fresh scrape across her knuckles.

“Your hand.”

“Not yours.”

“Still.”

The doors opened onto the penthouse. Meena checked the corners before letting him cross the threshold.

He watched her work. “I’m Desmond, by the way.”

“I know.”

“Right. You’re the new guard.”

“Bodyguard.”

“Does the distinction matter?”

“It does when the person paying you keeps trying to wander into traffic.”

He laughed once, without much humor. Beyond the glass, the city glittered like it had nothing to hide.