This one is a bit sticky. She fiddles with it, and her stool wobbles.
“Can I help you?” Male voice. Deep.
She freezes. Her heart starts to gallop.
Slowly, Roshaan turns her head. She gasps.
Avi Galev stands in the middle of the room, as if materialized from the ether without a sound.
Her brain folds in on itself. Buzzing begins in her ears. Her world narrows. Panic screams at her to flee as her brain scrambles with what to do.
She closes her fingers tightly around the bug in her hand and lowers her fist to her side.
“What are you doing in here?” Roshaan asks him. “These—these are Mrs. McGregor’s accommodations.”
“The question is, Roshaan DaSousa, what areyoudoing in Mrs. McGregor’s accommodations?”
“I—there was a complaint. From downstairs—about a leak.” She realizes it’s not going to make sense. She’s been caught on a stool fiddling around the ceiling. “I mean from upstairs. There’s a pipe leak upstairs, a hot tub. I’m just checking to see if any dampness is coming down into any of the elite suites.” Her voice catches.
He pins her with his cold eyes. No emotion shows on his face. He doesn’t move a muscle.
She climbs down from the stool, the tiny spy cam still clutched in her fist, her palm growing sweaty.
He glances up at the blinds mechanism above the window. “And did you find it?”
“Find what?” she stammers, face heating.
“The dampness. The leak.”
“Oh, I”—she clears her throat—“it seems fine.” She makes for the door, but he steps into her way, blocking her path. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way to check the suites.”
“What’s in your hand?”
“Nothing.”
He doesn’t budge. There’s no way for escape without physically shoving past him. She glances at the connecting door. Maybe she can flee that way.
She makes a sudden dart for the door. He grabs her wrist, stopping her. His fingers are like an iron vise. Her eyes water.
“Let go of me.”
“What’s in your hand?”
“None of your business. I don’t know why you’re in here, but you need to get out before I call security.”
“Security? Go ahead. If that’s what you want. Call them.”
She swallows.
“Or should I call them for you? And tell them you’ve taken something from my employer’s suite.”
Employer?
“Show me. What’s in your hand?”
She won’t. She can’t let it come to this. If he calls security, she’s done. She’ll never work on a cruise again. She’ll have a criminal record. She could go to prison.
He squeezes her wrist, making her eyes burn. He adds more pressure. Pain sparks through her bones, forcing her fingers open. And there in her damp palm is the tiny black surveillance device. A little evil spider of a thing with a smooth cyclops eye.
