My breath frosts the air. Though the sidewalks have begun transforming into slippery obstacle courses now that the sun’s set, the chill settles me.
I’m halfway down the block when my sixth sense alerts me to someone watching.
Because, despite Max’s taunts, I have what he wants too.
My beating heart.
Roman might want me alive, but I read murderous intent in Max’s gaze.
A small smile tugs at my lips. Only the rain and the shadows bear witness to Max stalking my every step.
The skirt of my dress blows around my legs as I exaggerate the sway of my hips.
Eat your heart out, Max.
The boutique hotel appears half a block away, tucked between a high-end restaurant and some tech start-up’s office.
The Queen’s Quarters.
A place that caters to people who crave luxury without spectacle, privacy without questions. According to the reviews, the thick walls drown out the neighbors. Small, discreet, and perfect.
Pausing at the corner, I casually twist to glance over my shoulder. I can’t see him through the dark sheets of rain, but he’s hiding in the alley’s shadows. Blending in with all the window-shoppers.
I hold the look for three seconds to ensure Max sees which building I’m entering. Long enough to ensure the invitation’s clear and make him wonder why I chose this place.
Business or pleasure?
Or both?
My heart thumping with excitement, I whirl and waltz through the hotel’s entrance.
Warmth and subtle luxury swaddle the lobby. Muted tones, paisley designs, and polished copper dominate the area. A few overstuffed loveseats and armchairs furnish the small space, tall green plants in the corners and heavy drapes over the front windows. The cloying sweetness of artificial vanilla perfumes the air.
Though no one lingers in the lobby, soft conversation drifts in from the attached restaurant.
A young woman in her early twenties with perfect posture and a professional smile stands behind the front desk. Her name tag reads “Vanessa.”
I approach, letting my own practiced smile emerge. “Hi. I’d like a room, please. I’m…meeting someone. I’m sorry I don’t have a reservation.”
“Of course.” Vanessa’s fingers fly across her keyboard in efficient strokes. “We have a king. Not a suite, but it’s very spacious. How many nights will you be staying with us?”
Funny how she assumes I’m here to rendezvous with my affair partner.
She’s not entirely wrong.
I pull my card from my pocket. “Just tonight.”
Vanessa’s attention locks onto the black plastic between my fingers. “Wonderful. Actually, if it’s just for the one night, we do have more options. What kind of room would you prefer?”
I don’t hesitate. “Your biggest suite.”
I need space for what I have planned.
Her smile brightens. “We do have our penthouse available. It’s quite lovely. Two bedrooms, full kitchen, private balcony?—”
“Perfect.” I slide my credit card across the counter. “I’ll take it.”
My card’s under the same shell company I used to send the Petrov Collection to St. Augustine Rare Books and Manuscripts Library a few months ago. Dimitri taught me how to build fronts when I was barely a teenager.
