Wicked Intentions

34

I pay for the room in cash. When the front desk associate requests a credit card for room incidentals, I use a prepaid Visa gift card I bought at a grocery store. I’ve already changed from the dress, heels, and overcoat I wore to the Palace—all stuffed into the train station bathroom garbage bin—into a nondescript outfit any tourist might wear: comfy shoes, ill-fitting beige slacks, and an oversized knitted sweater the color of baby s**t. My hair is hidden under a short, curly black wig. I stole the reading glasses from a rack at a dime store.

Glimpsed in a lobby mirror, I look like someone who owns too many house cats.

I mouth meow to myself and head to my second-floor room. I never stay higher in any hotel, in case I need to make a speedy exit out a window or there’s a fire. Reynard taught me that fire trucks in most countries have ladders that only reach the third floor. Apparently, he found that out the hard way.

Once I’m inside the room, some of the tension leaves my body. I draw a bath, take a long, hot soak, and try not to think. Tomorrow is for thinking. Tomorrow is for planning. Tonight is for washing the stink of Capo’s cologne out of my nose and trying to pretend I live a different sort of life.

Of course the only thing my brain wants to do is serve up some nice, juicy memories of the American.

Cursing to myself in four different languages, I rise from the tub, stalk naked into the bedroom, and call room service. I need food, and if I’m ever going to get to sleep, I need something strong to drink. Then I get dressed, lie down on the bed, stare at the ceiling, and count cracks to distract myself.

When the knock comes, I go to the door and glance through the peephole.

A guy in a black-and-white uniform stands behind a cart draped in white linen. He’s looking down, fussing over a place setting, so I can’t see his face.

My fingers curl around the folding blade in my pocket. “Yes?” I call through the door.

He looks up, smiling. “Room service, madam.”

He’s no one. Just a hotel employee.

Or is he?

“One moment, please. Just getting dressed.” I go to the phone and dial room service. They pick up on the first ring.

“Good evening, in-room dining, this is Gwendolyn,” says a friendly female voice. “How may I be of service?”

“Hi, I’m calling from room two-oh-five. The gentleman who delivered my food…” I pretend to think, then mutter, “Shoot. What did he say his name was?”

“Christopher was sent up with your order, Ms. Lane.”

Penny Lane is the name I used to check in. And Christopher is the name inscribed on the gold tag on the chest of the man standing outside my door.

“Oh, yes, that’s it. I just wanted to tell you he was wonderful.”

I hang up before the woman on the other end of the line can respond.

I go to the door, unlock the dead bolt, remove the security chain, and stand aside to let Christopher in. “Sorry about the wait.”

“It’s no problem at all. Shall I set the food out on the table for you, madam?”

“No, don’t bother. You can just leave it the cart by the desk. I’ll call down when I’m finished.”

“Very good.” He rolls the cart to where I’m pointing, then produces a receipt for me to sign. On his way out the door, he wishes me a good night.

An hour later, I’ve got a full stomach and a nice buzz. I recheck the bolt on the door, then turn off the lights and crawl into bed. I’m asleep within minutes.

I awaken sometime near dawn, my skin prickling with a sixth sense that something is terribly wrong.

Reaching for the knife I’d stashed under my pillow as soon as I checked in, I quickly glance around the shadowed room.

Everything looks normal. There are no strange sounds, no odd scents in the air. The security chain is still latched on the door.

My nervous system isn’t convinced.

I ease the knife out. It catches a moonbeam spilling through a gap in the curtains and throws a silver flash along the wall.

“Careful with that. You could cut yourself.”

The voice, deep and male, comes from the bed beside me.

I leap from the mattress like it’s on fire. I’m caught midair by a pair of big arms that cinch around me and drag me backward on my heels. I fight, trying to stab my attacker in the thigh, but I can’t get enough leverage because my arms are pinned. I jerk my head back in an attempt to break his nose, but he’s too fast. He dodges my move with an expert countermove and a chuckle.

“Aw, you don’t seem happy to see me, Angel. My feelin’s are hurt.”

I freeze. “You!”

“The one and only, darlin’.” He puts his nose into my hair, inhales, and says in a husky voice, “Don’t stab me. I look better without holes.”

The relief that washes over me is almost as powerful and unexpected as the surge of joy. I drop the knife, spin around, throw my arms around Ryan’s shoulders, and bury my face into his neck.

“Oh. Uh…okay. I see we’re changin’ gears.” He sounds surprised, then suspicious. “Or are you about to offer me some orange juice?”

I shake my head and burrow closer. His arms wind around me again, this time with infinite gentleness.

Trembling with adrenaline, I blurt, “I’m sorry.”

The chuckle again. “For what? Lyin’ to me? Usin’ me? Seducin’ me?”

I answer truthfully. “Everything but the last part.”

Ryan laughs. He takes my face in his hands. In the shadows, his smiling face is so handsome, my breath catches. He says softly, “Hi.”

“Hi yourself. How did you find me?”