Theo Pappas is hard to miss. He’s on the tall side of average and moves with a muscular and balletic grace. His thick black hair is slicked back, his skin olive toned, and his dark eyes are magnetic. Roshaan’s lover is not conventionally handsome, but his aura is all-consuming. He crackles with an intensely powerful kinetic energy.
She frowns as her boyfriend comes up behind her boss. Riveted, she watches Theo place his hand on Maxine’s hip. Maxine startles, spins around. Then laughs. Theo’s hand slides along her waist, the gesture proprietary, jarringly intimate. It stuns Roshaan.
He leans in and says something in Maxine’s ear. Their body language is conspiratorial, and his lips so close they might be brushing her dewy Italian skin. Roshaan is unable to breathe.
Isthiswhy he’s been so distant?
Emotion stings her eyes.
Theo laughs again, taps his watch, murmurs something. Maxine nods. Then he vanishes back into the crowd.
The elevator pings. Roshaan jerks to the present. She realizes Poppy is watching her. Intently. She saw. Everything. The assistant’s gaze drops to Roshaan’s bare hand, as though checking for a ring.
There’s no ring, of course.
Theo has not proposed despite all his hints. Roshaan suddenly feels raw and exposed under the flat gaze of this strangely discomfiting woman.
The elevator halts and the doors open.
Roshaan inhales, trying to gather herself. “Head straight toward the Zeus mural, then turn left,” she says, holding the doors for her guests to exit. “The Elysium Sky Villa is at the end of the corridor.”
Poppy hauls the cases out of the elevator and pauses. She faces Roshaan.
“Your accent,” she says. “I’m guessing South African? Afrikaans background, possibly from the Cape. But you’ve been away from the area for a while?”
A chill slips down Roshaan’s spine. Poppy is dead-on. But Roshaan says nothing, unwilling to give this woman the satisfaction of being exactly right. She’s a little ashamed of her humble fishing village origins, and she senses Poppy detects this, too. The woman has profiled Roshaan within the space of minutes. She possesses the same uncanny gift as Theo—an ability to read people in an instant. And to use the information to their advantage.
Roshaan clears her throat and says, “Good guess.”
“It’s not a guess.” Poppy hitches her bag of books higher up onto her shoulder. “I take some pride in my ability to pinpoint specifics about people.” She begins lumbering after Lillith and says over her shoulder, “It was part of my training for when I was posted abroad with the British Foreign Office.”
Who the fuck is this woman? An old spy?
Roshaan’s mind shoots to the tiny espionage cam she just hid under the top bar shelf in Poppy’s room, and she feels sick. She can’t do this. Shehasto remove the cams.Now.Before someone like Poppy detects them.
They reach the Elysium. Roshaan swipes her master key card, opens the door.
“The PA suite is adjacent, with a connecting door. I can—”
“I’ll find it,” Poppy interrupts. “First I’ll help Lillith settle. Thank you, Roshaan. We know where to find you.”
It sounds like a threat. But Roshaan nearly sags with relief—it gives her a few extra minutes to hurry back and remove the cams from the suites of her latecomers. She’s made up her mind, Theo be damned. She’s not going to lose her job and everything else because of him.
“Great—I’ll check in with you both later,” she says quickly, turning to leave.
She almost runs down the corridor toward the Calliope Sky Villa first. She knows it’s still empty. The Fairfax party has not yet checked in.
Carter
Carter bounces on the bed as he watches his grandfather unpack with slow, measured movements. Gramps is old, for sure, but still a big guy with a thick shock of gray hair flecked with black. His face is tanned and rugged, lined like worn leather. It reminds Carter of Harrison Ford. Except Gramps’s eyes are a light, steely gray.
“What’s that?” Carter asks as Gramps extracts a stack of papers from an old satchel. He sets the stack on the desk near the window—their suite is huge, like a whole condo with a private deck and pool and everything.
“My manuscript in progress.” Gramps drops a fistful of pens and pencils into a cup, then pulls out a laptop, spiral notebooks, and a plastic folder stuffed with newspaper clippings, magazine cuttings, and printed photographs.
“Is that all for your new book?” Carter is riveted by the sight of all the notes and papers. It reminds him of Gramps’s study in Los Angeles, and the crime board he spied in there.
“Yup.”
