Page 33 of Backlash

The elevator comes to a stop and I glide out, screwdriver still in hand. “All you have to do is ask.”

“I don’t need your help,” she repeats.

I lean closer and whisper, “Bullshit. If you need help with a screw—”

“Well, you are a big tool.” She manages to keep a smile off her face, but her lips twitch at the corners.

I’m about to remind her about the size of my tool and its many uses, when we pass a man in a suit at the front desk. His head turns just enough for me to see his profile. A jagged scar runs from his temple to his cheekbone. I stop.

He doesn’t belong here. Noah Porter.

I know it’s him without bothering to get a good look. Some faces you don’t forget, especially the ones with scars you gave them. Instantly, my training kicks in. I know where all the exits are, exactly where to duck for cover, and how many bystanders are likely to die if weapons are drawn. But there is one new variable I never considered—never needed to consider—before today.

Adair.

I can’t calculate her reaction. I don’t have a plan that includes her. Partly because, until this moment, I thought I was a step ahead of my problematic acquaintances. But also because I hadn’t planned on needing to protect her.

There’s only one option. I need to get her out of here without drawing attention to us.

“Let’s go out,” I say, taking her elbow and steering her back in the direction we came from moments ago. “Or, better yet, let’s order room service.”

“I think we should stick to neutral territory.” She tugs free of my grip, shaking her head. Of course, she thinks this is about getting her back into bed.

Actually, that might be exactly what I need to distract her and get her moving. Grabbing a handful of her dress, I pull her gently toward me and angle my mouth to hover over hers. Adair sinks her teeth into her lower lip, staring up into my eyes uncertainly. For a single moment, I’m lost to her. I kiss her and everything fades into the background. There’s only her taste on my lips and a fleeting feeling of calm.

Then I remember and my head snaps up, the spell broken, and I see Noah is gone. One lapse—one critical moment of distraction—and I lost him. Now we really need to get out of here.

“Sterling?” Adair says my name before her head swivels to see what I’m staring at. She turns back, confusion furrowing her eyebrows. “What is it?”

“We need to go.” I can’t wait around to see if he spotted me. It’s not a coincidence that he’s here. Nashville is a big city, but Noah Porter is here because we’re here. The question is: who tripped his snares?

“What are you—”

“For once, don’t fight me on this,” I say gruffly as I guide her across the lobby.

“Let go of me.” She yanks her arm free and stops in her tracks. “What is going on?”

“We need to go somewhere private before I can tell you that.” There’s not a chance in hell that I’ll actually tell her who I saw or what’s going on. Not until I know whether he spotted me with her. The less she knows, the less trouble she’s in. I doubt she’ll see it that way, but apparently I’m becoming an optimist.

“I’m not going anywhere with you until you tell me—”

I don’t wait for her to finish the sentence. Instead, I pick her up and carry her the last few yards to the elevator. She’s too stunned to put up a fight. It must look like I’m carrying her off to bed because a few drunk college students coming from the hotel bar catcall us as I haul her inside the compartment. I grin, playing the part of the dashing groom, and punch the button to her floor with my knuckle.

Adair glares up at me, her plump lips smashed into a thin line. That line of effort is all that stands between me and an explosion. If I were smarter, I’d put her down and run in the opposite direction. I know to get as far from a blast radius as possible. The trouble is that her trigger is linked to me. One wrong move and she’ll blow.

“Put me down,” she orders.

I release her slowly and brace for impact.

As soon as she’s on her feet, she reaches to press the lobby button. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but I’m hungry.”

I move between her and the control panel. Her nostrils flair, and I swear I can hear an actual countdown to detonation.

“Order room service,” I say tersely, slipping my cell phone out of my pocket and pretending not to care that her glare radiates fury.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“In a minute.” I dial Luca’s number as we arrive on the sixth floor. He answers on the second ring.