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It sounded as though most of the activity was downstairs in what was rumored to be a bar and several rooms providing billiards, television, or a place for gatherings.
She hadn't seen Shayne or Khalid. At each room she'd managed to find a place to duck in to that allowed her to see inside as doors opened. It took awhile, but she managed to eliminate the chance that they were downstairs.
That meant a private meeting, and those rooms were upstairs.
As she slipped up the steps, she watched and listened carefully. Rounding the upper portion of the steps, she ducked to the side and hid by a heavy sideboard at the landing.
This was simply too easy.
Farther ahead she could see a light spilling from beneath only one closed door. There were no guards outside, no one patrolling the floors. Evidently Ian Sinclair had never had anyone slip in undetected before. It was a gross lack of security that had allowed her to get this far.
She let a small grin of satisfaction tilt her lips. She could say she was one of the few women to ever breach the hallowed halls of this elite establishment.
Sliding around the antique cherry bureau, she made her way cautiously to the spill of light reflecting from the glistening wood floors.
She could hear voices from inside, and if she wasn't mistaken, one of those voices was Khalid's. It was a rumble of sound; no actual words could be heard. Even as she stopped at the side of the door and strained to hear, she could catch no more than bits and pieces of words.
She couldn't be certain who was in the room, though it sounded as though there were several engaged, not so much in an argument but in a heated disagreement.
Biting her lip, she gripped the doorknob, meaning to turn it slowly and subtly, and hopefully to crack the panel open just enough so she could be certain of who was speaking.
As she tightened her hand on the brass knob, a familiar click and the press of cold metal against her head stilled her.
Marty felt adrenaline spike in her veins. An icy veil of pure survival instinct raced through her.
Would the person wielding the gun actually pull the trigger? She doubted very seriously that Ian Sinclair would employ anyone who wouldn't use every other means at their disposal before actually killing an intruder.
The press of the cold steel against the back of her head felt pretty damned convincing, though.
"Release the latch. " The thick, heavy Middle Eastern accent kicked those survival instincts into overdrive.
This wasn't one of Ian Sinclair's security guards. This was someone else, someone who shouldn't be here either.
Marty moved. A lightning-fast flick of her wrist against the latch produced no results, but the quick duck of her head as she swung around, gripped the wrist, and swung her knee into his groin brought a definite response from him.
He was huge. A murderous mountain posing as a man. He shifted just enough to keep her knee from slamming into his cock, and at the same time his hand flew out, the back of it connecting with the side of her head and slamming her to the floor.
Simultaneously the door flew open, the mountain came over her, and the gun was pressed beneath her jaw as behind him, enraged, Shayne and Khalid each held a gun to his head.
"Mohammed!" a strong voice with a thick accent rasped from the door.
A spate of Arabic followed from the mountain called Mohammed as the gun was pressed tighter against her jaw. Hell. She was in trouble now.
"Abram, he has two seconds before I kill him. " There was no accent, no inflection in Khalid's voice. There was cold, hard, steely death instead.
Marty met Mohammed's eyes and saw pure black fury as Abram barked another order in Arabic.
"You risk your life needlessly, woman, as well as mine," Mohammed growled, like a bear that had to fight to find the words. Even his voice was scary.
The weapon moved from beneath her jaw slowly as the giant lifted from his knees and came away from her. Marty stared up at the men who had rushed from the room and had to fight not to swallow tightly.
Abram el Hamid-Mustafa stood at the door, dressed surprisingly in jeans and a black T-shirt. He was all but an exact replica of Khalid. The same black eyes, the same thick black hair, except Abram wore a closely cropped beard and mustache that gave him a more rakish, disheveled appearance.
It was enough to have her glancing quickly from Khalid, to Abram, then back again as her imagination began to take flight and she wondered what it would be like . . . Oh no, she was not going there.
Khalid had his third, and she was fine with the decision he had made. No way in hell did she want, or need, another Khalid for a third. Her life was complicated enough as it were.
Khalid and Shayne eased slowly back as Mohammed came to his feet, and to the side of the door, where--watching in equal amounts horror, anger, and perhaps a glimmer of pride--stood her fathers.
