I let my eyes slide over the room. To the casual observer, I’m simply another guest taking in the glamour and glitz of the upscale museum benefit: the gowns, the fancy drinks, the hor d'oeuvre-covered tables. In reality, though, I’m counting exits, taking note of the view of cameras, and finding the weak spots in the security’s rotation. Just as I’m beginning to contemplate the air ducts, a vaguely slimy-looking man sidles up next to me.

“Can I get you a drink, sweetheart?” he asks.

I reply with a demure “No, thank you,” but obviously that’s not part of his vocabulary. His gaze travels up and down my figure, as if what I’m wearing is an invitation to do whatever he pleases. He leans in close, reeking of gin and tonic, and places a hand on my waist. Immediately, I grab his wrist and twist it in a way that has worked on numerous occasions. He hisses and tries to pull away, but I just twist harder. I hold his eye and bite out, “I’m not one of the pieces on display.” I release his wrist and he leaps to his feet, throwing a dirty look over his shoulder as he rubs his hand and walks away. I square my shoulders and continue my observations; nothing can distract me tonight. I meander, seemingly without purpose, and position myself in front of the star of the evening: a gorgeous Van Gogh. I’m discretely counting pressure sensors when someone comes to my side.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it,” they say with a hint of an Irish accent. Turning to look, I see a handsome man in an even more handsome suit.

“It is,” I reply, and he smiles.

“I’m Max Russell,” he supplies with an extended hand.
I shake his hand. “Adrienne Sarabi.” After a pause I ask, “Are you sure this one isn’t for sale?”

He chuckles. “Pretty sure.”

I heave a dramatic sigh.

He hesitates for a moment before saying, “I hope you don’t mind my saying this, Ms Sarabi, but I saw what happened with that man a moment ago.”

I wince a bit, expecting anything from a talking-to about hurting people in a public place to a lecture about how I should appreciate the attention. What he actually says is, “I was about to step in, but it seemed you had the situation well in hand. However, if you’d feel more comfortable, I can ask security to escort him out.”

Oh. A pleasant surprise. “I appreciate the offer,” I answer, “but that’s not necessary. I don’t think he’ll try anything again.”

“If you’re sure,” he responds mildly.

There’s a lull during which we both admire the piece in front of us. Then I ask, “So, Mr Russell, what is it you do? Aside from being a gentleman, that is.” There’s no harm in a bit of flattery.

“I’m head of the Art Crime Team at the FBI.”

I nearly burst out laughing. Of course he is. I almost apologize, since I’ll be making his job much harder tonight. Out loud I say, “That sounds fascinating.”

“I certainly appeals to my need for adventure. What about you? What do you do?”

“Oh, I’m in art acquisition.” Not a lie. “I find art for my clients and then negotiate a price with the seller, that sort of thing.”

“Nothing quite like the art world, is there?”

I smile politely.

Suddenly, he asks, “Would you like to go out to dinner with me next week, Ms Sarabi?”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Mr Russell.”

“Why not?”

Because everything I’m letting you think is me is just an act. Because when I get home, I’ll trade my ruby gown for a black cat suit and my Swarovski earrings for a comms unit. Because when the party is over, I’m coming back to steal the Van Gogh.

I simply give him a sly smile and saunter away.