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Chapter Nine
Raina
Alekand I spend an absolutely delirious morning in his apartment, and I’m not even surprised when clothes arrive at the door for me, exactly my size, along with a gourmet take-out lunch from a local restaurant. I dress and we eat together in his beautiful living room, and I feel exactly like the princess in a fairy tale he’s half-convinced me I am.
When he tells me he must take care of some business while I nap, I instead spend the time searching the first floor of his apartment. I find my neatly tidied business clothes and shoes—which explains how Alek knew my sizes—but no briefcase.
I stand in the middle of his living room, wringing my hands and feeling like an idiot. I must have left my briefcase at the reception. It’s the only explanation. With as particular as he is, Alek would have left it tucked in with my clothes if he’d found it, I know he would have. But now he’s on his cell phone and no matter how hard I look, there’s no phone I can find in the main areas of the apartment.
I’m sure the front desk has a phone—or I can simply wait and ask Alek to call the hotel as soon as he finishes his call—but I reject the latter idea almost as soon as I think it. It’s nearly 1 p.m., and I know in my heart of hearts that the hotel staff probably locked my case away in their safe, waiting for me to claim it. Though my driver’s license and credit cards are in that bag, I don’t think there’s anything in there with my phone number…and even if there was, it would lead to my cell phone, which is also in the bag!
And what if the hotel staff doesn’t have the briefcase? Then I’ll need to cancel the credit cards at a minimum—and get a new phone, and—
“This is stupid,” I mutter. It’ll take me three minutes to go downstairs and have the concierge call the hotel, and then all my worry will either go away, or I can start fixing the problem I’ve caused myself. I don’t even need to leave a note for Alek. With any luck, I’ll be down and back up before he even knows I’m gone. Heck, it’s possible that my bag is even down at the front desk, waiting for me to claim it, if someone noticed that I left with Alek.
Yes!That’s probably exactly where it is. I grab Alek’s keycard and slip out of the front door, punching up the elevator. A few moments later, I’m at the decidedly briefcase-free front desk and on the phone to the hotel—where I get more bad news.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely, ma’am. The bag was claimed late last night by a Mr. Donatelli, who assured us he’d get it to you. Have you tried reaching him? He left us a number to call.”
“Well, that would involve me using my phone, which is in the briefcase.” I sigh, dread curling in my stomach. I don’t know why Mr. Donatelli fetched my bag personally from the hotel, but most likely, it was because someone found a Donatelli Jeweler’s card in it and reached him that way. That makes sense.
I know Mr. Donatelli’s number, of course, but I ask the security staffer for it anyway—then blink in surprise. “Are you sure? That number doesn’t sound familiar.”
“It’s possible he has a second phone?” the woman offers helpfully, and of course, she’s probably right. I jot down the digits, disconnect the call and immediately call Donatelli’s personal cell instead, figuring he’d have that with him regardless of what number he gave the hotel.
He answers on the first ring, and I blurt out a hello. “Mr. Donatelli! Please tell me you still have my bag.”
Silence greets me on the phone for a long second, then Mr. Donatelli’s voice snaps. “Raina! I thought this was the car service. Where are you?”
“I—”
“Never mind. Don’t tell me. Get out of there. Now. There’s been a, ah, a terrible misunderstanding, and we’re in trouble with the Ivanov family—well, you’re in trouble. A lot of trouble. And I am too, but only by extension. Either way, don’t call me again. Ever. I’m destroying this phone.”
I shake my head, trying to make sense of his words. “Mr. Donatelli, you’re talking too fast. Why would I be in trouble?” My eyes snap wide. “Was there something wrong with the rings? Did a setting fall out?”
Panic rockets through me, worries over my lost bag and phone totally forgotten in the horror of a broken ring. Especially when I’d been so careful, so thorough!
“It’s not a broken setting. They think you stole the jewels and replaced them with fakes. I, ah—I don’t know why. But I don’t want you killed. I didn’t think anyone would be killed. Anyway, get out. Okay, the car’s here. Thank god. Goodbye, Raina.”
The phone line cuts off abruptly, and I’m left staring at the receiver in my hand, the cheerful concierge doing his best to ignore me as I stand rooted to the spot. How is this even possible? They think I…they think I stole the jewels? The bridal set? But how—I gave Mr. Kavenev the boxes myself! I saw the rings on Natasha’s fingers!
Had they somehow been fakes?
I numbly hand the phone back to the concierge, who smiles cheerfully at me. “Is there anyone else you need to call, miss?” he asks, but I shake my head. I pick up Alek’s keycard again, and turn back to the elevators, walking as if I’m trudging through jello. I need to get to Donatelli’s, I decide. All the documentation for the bridal set is there, including the appraisal from three days ago, everything—
But none of that matters, does it? If someone thinks I created fake rings, boxed them up and handed them over to Mr. Kavenev…there’s no way to prove otherwise. And no one could create such elaborate fakes except for the jeweler herself. Except for…
Mr. Donatelli’s quavering voice assaults me again. The older man was afraid, deathly afraid—and he ordered me never to contact him again. He didn’t even accuse me of creating the fakes, which he would have if he suspected me. Because he doesn’t suspect me. He knows I would never destroy my career this way—
Still, would he? He’s a master jeweler. Not as good as his father, maybe, but good. How in the world would he—
I realize I’ve stopped about five feet from the elevators. I force myself to start moving again, knowing I need to get back to Alek, knowing he’s my only hope, in fact. I have no money, no phone, and no proof of my innocence, but surely, he will help me. He has to!
“Raina Darcy?”
I look up with a jolt at the unexpectedly familiar voice—familiar, but not exact. Just as the man who’s appeared out of nowhere is familiar, but not exact. He resembles Alek, but he’s built more compactly, his face thinner, his green eyes sharp, not with brilliance but something else. Something darker. Cruelty, I think, the word hitting me out of the blue.
