Vanessa’s fingers pause over the keyboard as she processes the payment.
“I should mention I have a friend joining me in a bit.” I lean in slightly, dropping my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “He’s tall, maybe six-two, and wearing a suit. Has dark hair that’s adorable when it falls into his arctic blue eyes. When he asks for my room, please send him up immediately.”
Her professional mask slips just a fraction. The kind of interest that comes from working nights at a hotel sparks in her eyes. “Of course. I’ll make a note.”
“Thank you.” I take the keys and my card. “He should be here soon.”
The old-fashioned elevator features brass fixtures, wood paneling, and a mirror that’s probably seen a thousand reflections of people heading up to rooms they shouldn’t be in with people they shouldn’t be with.
People like me.
Entering, I tap my room key against the button to the penthouse floor.
As the doors close, my own reflection stares back at me from the mirror.
I look…flushed. No, excited. My cheeks warm again as I recall the events in that ballroom. Max’s hands on me…his voice in my ear…the solid line of his body pressed against mine.
I blow out a small breath, fogging my face in the glass.
This is a trap. Nothing more. I’m luring Max somewhere private, somewhere I control, to finish what we started in that parking garage.
This has nothing to do with what happened at the gala.
After I retrieve the locket, I’ll kill him. I won’t let physical distractions veer me off course.
The elevator rumbles to a stop, and I peek into the short penthouse hallway before exiting. One dark wooden door waits at the opposite end, brass fixtures gleaming beneath the soft light. I unlock it and venture inside.
Floor-to-ceiling windows dominate the far wall, offering a view of Seattle’s skyline from ten stories up. Heavy leather furniture clusters around the living area, a full bar occupies one corner, and a dining table for four sits near that expansive view. Plush gray carpet muffles my heels.
Nothing like built-in soundproofing.
A shadowy kitchen looms beyond an archway to the left. To the right, doors cut into muted crimson walls that probably lead to the two bedrooms.
I venture further inside. If I plan to fight Max here, I need control of the landscape.
Not much time, and so much to do.
First, the lights.
I cover the windows with the heavy black curtains, switch off the lamps, and unplug whatever I can reach. The TV, the radio, the digital clocks, and the microwave all go dark.
Next, hurdles.
I relocate furniture from sensible positions and transform the main room into an obstacle course.
An ottoman’s placed in an optimal location for tripping the unsuspecting, and a side table’s angled to catch someone’s shin. I shift the coffee table three feet to the left, disrupting the natural path through the room. A towel falls to the floor, creating the perfect tripping hazard.
Dimitri dedicated years to drilling this kind of tactical preparation into me.
My phone buzzes. I pull it from my pocket to find “D” flashing across the screen.
Speak of the devil. “Yes?”
“Where the fuck are you?” Barely-leashed anger strains Dimitri’s voice.
He only curses when he’s truly pissed.
Whoops.
