The Palm Court Protocol

Elena traced the line on her palm, the one the fortune teller at the resort had said meant she'd find what she was looking for. She laughed into her mai tai. The only thing she'd found at this wellness retreat was an overpriced vitamin regimen and a tan she didn't need.

The pool glittered below her balcony, bodies moving through water like distant thoughts. Somewhere in this cabana-filled paradise was Dr. Aris Thorne, the man who'd supposedly synthesized a compound that could reverse cellular aging. Her employer wanted that formula. They'd sent their best fox to retrieve it.

"You're going to burn out there."

Elena didn't turn. She knew Julian's voice by now—smooth, careful, the kind that belonged to men who collected secrets the way other men collected stamps. He'd appeared at the resort two days after she arrived, claiming to be a freelance journalist writing about wellness culture. He asked too many questions. His smile didn't reach his eyes.

"The sun feels good after Moscow in February," she said, finally facing him. He stood in the doorway, glass of vitamin water in hand, shirt unbuttoned just enough to suggest he'd been swimming. Or maybe he just wanted her to notice the scar on his chest—knife wound, or so he'd claimed over breakfast yesterday.

"Moscow," Julian repeated, testing the word. "I thought you were from Chicago."

"Chicago before that. Moscow before that. A girl gets around."

"Or around things she shouldn't."

He stepped onto the balcony, close enough that she could smell chlorine and expensive cologne. "I noticed you asking about Dr. Thorne's research. Pretty specific questions for a vacationing marketing executive."

"And I noticed you asking about the security protocols at his lab. Pretty specific for a journalist."

They stared at each other—two spies who'd somehow managed to find the same mark in the same palm-tree-studded paradise. Julian's grin widened, genuine this time.

"So," he said. "Which intelligence agency do you actually work for?"

"Private sector," Elena admitted. "And you?"

"Same. We're competitors, darling."

"Then why tell me?"

"Because," he said, setting down his glass and taking her hand, "I'd rather collaborate than compete. Dr. Thorne's compound isn't what they say it is. I've seen the real research. It's not a vitamin supplement. It's something else entirely."

"What kind of something else?"

"The kind that gets people killed if the wrong people find it first."

She looked at their hands together on the railing, palm to palm. The fortune teller had been right after all. She'd found what she was looking for—just not what she'd come for.

"Show me the real research," she said. "And then let's decide whose hands it should actually be in."