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Matthew gave him his best smile. “Tengo una reserva,” he said, meaning that he already had one. At least, he sa
id, putting Mia’s picture on the counter, his girlfriend had one. Trouble was, he couldn’t recall the room number. Oh, and he didn’t have a key, and he wanted to surprise her.
His performance was met with an unblinking stare.
He pulled some bills from his pocket and put them on the counter. The clerk palmed the bills and tossed him a key marked 204.
Matthew climbed the stairs. Went down a long, dim corridor to the corresponding door. Put his ear to the thin panel of wood and heard nothing.
Slowly he slid the key into the lock. Turned it. Eased open the door.
Mia wasn’t there, but a woman’s things were. A purse. A small suitcase, sitting opened on a chair. Clothes, laid out on the bed.
He could smell her scent, too. He’d noticed it in her bedroom at the villa. A softly feminine fragrance that made him think of a field of white flowers stretching to a pale blue horizon.
Matthew closed the door.
There wasn’t much in the suitcase. No package of coke. Just a couple of T-shirts with the tags still on. The same for a pair of white cotton trousers. Some underwear. Lingerie, she’d probably call it. Plain white cotton panties. An equally plain white bra.
Was that how Hamilton liked to see her? Or was it how she wanted him to see her?
A muscle danced in Matthew’s jaw.
If she were his woman, he’d keep her in silk. Pale rose. Ivory. Shades to complement her dark hair and eyes. Silk thongs, to show off the curve of her hips. Silk bras, the kind that cupped a woman’s breasts and made them an offering to her lover. Or ones that were sheer, so he could see the shadows of her nipples.
Matthew felt himself turn hard.
Hell, this was just what he needed. A men’s magazine fantasy, doing its thing in his head over a woman who’d run away and left her lover to wonder if she were dead or alive. He didn’t like Hamilton, his arrogance, his forced sincerity, but no man deserved to be treated like that.
Quickly he stripped the bed, checked it, checked under the mattress, checked the floor. He opened the dresser drawers. Empty. The same for the single drawer in the rickety nightstand. There was no closet, only a shelf, and all it held was a supersized spider.
If Mia Palmieri had dope, it was either on her or in her car. Okay. He’d check the car, then sit in his truck and wait for—
Footsteps were coming down the hall.
He went to the door and locked it. Then he flattened himself against the wall.
The footsteps came closer. Stopped, just outside. A key turned in the lock. The door swung open.
Matthew, lithe as a panther, had the door closed and locked, and his quarry trapped in his arms before she had time to react.
God oh God oh God…
Mia’s breath rushed from her lungs.
A man’s powerful arms closed around her from behind and lifted her into the air. She tried to scream but his hand clamped down over her lips. He put mouth to her ear and said something, but she was too terrified to understand it.
She was in a fight for her life.
They lurched around the room together, her feet dangling twelve inches above the floor. Writhing, twisting, she jabbed her elbow into his belly. Nothing. She tried again. Two jabs this time and though he grunted, his hold on her didn’t loosen.
She kicked out, caught the table a glancing blow. A lamp clattered to the floor but it wouldn’t be enough to bring anybody running, not in a place like this.
Another kick. Her heel connected with his shin. With his knee. That wrung another grunt and a hiss of pain from him.
All it got her was the swift tightening of his hard arms around her.
She jerked against that unholy embrace and they banged into the iron frame of the bed.
