It didn’t surprise me. Rogan had said before that when he wanted someone found, his people brought that person to him within hours. That wouldn’t be possible without an extensive network of contacts among the shadier side of Houston, and one didn’t get those contacts by being an altar boy.

“Does he know you know?”

Augustine shook his head. “I wasn’t present as myself. With me, your work would be legitimate and legal. I can’t promise that once in a while you won’t run across a situation that will compromise your principles, but such situations would be an anomaly, not the norm. What kind of work would you be doing for Rogan? Who would you question for him?”

All valid points. Except Rogan didn’t want to hire me. He wanted me, in every sense of the word. He wanted me to be with him. It was more than lust. I wasn’t quite sure what it was yet.

Augustine smiled. “It might pay to consider your options carefully.”

The limos slid up the curving driveway past lush gardens and beautiful granite terraces.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“Piney Point Village,” Augustine said.

Piney Point Village was officially the wealthiest place in Texas. Like many of the neighboring communities, it started as a small city that had been gobbled up by Houston’s sprawl. I had cause to briefly visit it last year in connection with a runaway case. Part of the Memorial Villages’ wealthy bedroom community, Piney Point restricted businesses of any kind within its borders, employed an urban forester, and regulated everything, including the format of the For Sale signs. According to the census, the tiny municipality had only three thousand residents. The taxable value of real estate they owned totaled two billion dollars.

The limo slid into a roundabout, circling a breathtaking fountain. At the other end of the parking lot a huge white mansion rose from the trees. From here the massive building resembled an eye. A large round tower sat in the center, like an iris, guarded by towering white columns supporting a circular balcony above. Two curved wings stretched from the tower, gracefully couched by the greenery. Arched glass doors and windows glowed with inviting amber light. I could almost hear some luxury-home Realtor’s voice: “Built in an elegant fusion of Italianate, French, and early Disney styles, this magnificent estate offers a thousand bathrooms for all of your executive Cinderella needs . . .”

“How big is this house?”

“Thirty thousand square feet,” Augustine said. “Baranovsky built it specifically for the gala a few years ago. The tower houses the central ballroom, the right wing has a restaurant space and a presentation auditorium, the left contains the living quarters. He rents it out as a corporate retreat when he isn’t here.”

The limo slid to a stop. Here we go.

“No worries,” Augustine said. “You will do well. Be yourself, Nevada.”

The driver opened my door. Augustine walked around the limo and held out his hand. I leaned on him and stepped out of the car. He offered me his arm. I shook my head. The point was to make a statement and stand out. Being attached to Augustine as his date would cause most people to overlook me. We walked up the wide staircase to the arched entrance between towering Corinthian columns. A man and a woman, both in severe dark suits, waited by the entrance. Augustine made eye contact with the woman and held up a small card.

She inclined her head. “Mr. Montgomery. Welcome.”

“Good evening, Elsa.”

The man raised a scanner. Red laser dashed across the card.

The male guard touched his headset. His voice sounded in two places at once, from his mouth and from the speaker somewhere within the house. “Augustine Montgomery of House Montgomery and guest.”

They probably knew my name, weight, and shoe size. But next to Augustine, my name meant nothing. I became “and guest,” and that was precisely how I liked it.

We stepped through the arched entrance onto the granite floor polished to a mirror shine. White walls rose high, decorated with long banners showcasing the various exhibits of the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston: a woman in an impossibly wide mother-of-pearl dress with an equally wide hairdo and the caption “Habsburg Splendor: Pieces from Vienna’s Imperial Collections”; a ceramic statue of a man in a round helmet sitting cross-legged with his hands resting on his knees, labeled “Ballplayer: Arts of Ancient Mexico”; and an insane-looking plastic bracelet in orange and red, with a pattern of black dots encircled with white and multicolored spikes, marked “Ronald Warden’s Enigmatic Jewelry.”

A wide door offered access to the ballroom directly in front of us, giving us a glimpse of the main floor and the crowd inside—women in bright dresses and men in black. Two suspended staircases with elaborate iron railings swept up on both sides of it, leading to the upstairs floor and two additional doors.

Augustine headed straight for the ballroom. I lifted my chin and walked next to him like I belonged here.

“Why not just hold the gala at MFAH?”

“Baranovsky is a Prime. We like to control our environment. Follow my lead. We’ll walk in and then we’ll simply drift.”

We walked through the door and I had to concentrate on walking instead of stopping in midstride and gaping. The vast circular room gleamed. The floor was white granite with elaborate flourishes of malachite-green inlay. The walls were polished white marble with flecks of green and gold. A wide marble staircase at the other end of the circle offered access to an inside balcony that ran the entire circumference of the ballroom, punctuated by doors, which probably led to the outside balcony. Seamless floor-to-ceiling windows soared on both sides of the balcony, caged by columns. Here and there small groups of plush chairs and tables were tucked in near the walls. Houston’s magical elite stood, sat, and strolled, conversing. Laughter floated. Diamonds shone. Waiters glided through the gathering like ghosts, carrying trays of delicacies and wine.

True to his word, we drifted. People looked at us. I glanced at Augustine. Somewhere between the front door and ballroom, he’d become stunning. He was usually handsome—his illusion affording him an icy perfection—but now he’d transformed into a Greek demigod. A living, breathing work of art, superhuman in its beauty. Women looked at him, then invariably at me, their gazes snagging on the bruise on my neck.

Augustine led me to the left. A waiter ghosted over to us, offering champagne. Augustine took a flute, but I waved mine off. The last thing I needed was to get drunk. We kept strolling, bits of conversation floating to us.

“You look divine . . .”

“Lie,” I murmured under my breath.

“. . . so lovely to see you . . .”

“Lie.”

“. . . would have never thought her capable of such a direct action . . .”

“Lie.”

“I hate these gatherings.”

“Lie, lie, lie.”

Augustine laughed quietly.

A woman thrust herself into our way. In her forties, with a carefully structured blond hairdo, she wore a turquoise dress. A man who had to be either her son or a lover half her age accompanied her. Dark-haired and handsome, he was overgroomed and slightly effeminate. Too much eyebrow tweezing. I didn’t recognize either face, so they probably wouldn’t murder me.

“Augustine, my dear, what a delight.”