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“She could have been a thief… or an assassin.” He laughs. “This is precious.”
I listen to him laugh some more. “Why do you want to find her anyway?” he asks.
Because I can’t stop thinking about her. I pause, catching myself before I say the words.“I have no idea,” I say instead. Why don’t you go back to your Broadway princess and show her who’s the director?”
He’s still laughing when I cut the connection, but I’m frowning. If Aidan didn’t send her, then who was she, and why was she at my apartment?
It’s late in the evening when I get back to New York, after spending most the five-hour flight trying to work, while being constantly distracted by thoughts of Rachel. Who is she? Why was she in the elevator on my floor? Why didn’t she take the money, and why didn’t she leave her number?
My mind is churning with possibilities. Was she a thief? Unlikely, apart from a few paintings, there aren’t any items of immense value in the apartment, and since I didn’t notice any paintings missing, I could rule that out. A corporate spy sent by a competitor to steal information about my business, maybe, but then her effort would have been in vain, I don’t keep sensitive information lying around, and the level of protection on my computer ensures that nobody else can log in. Now that I think about it, I realize how careless I’d been. If Aidan had sent her, someone would have called from the front desk to confirm from me that I was expecting a guest, but I’d been too intent on fucking her to think of things like that.
Could she have been lost? If she was, why she didn’t just tell me instead of…
Instead letting me think she was a whore and… the images of that night fill my head. Her breasts spilling out of her bra when she took it off, the thick cloud of gold and red hair, how wet and tight she’s been around my cock, her response to my touch, her soft moans… as annoyed as I am by all the unexplained questions, my body reacts to the memories. My fingertips clench, aching to touch her again, to relive the images in my head. I want to know who she is, I want to know why she was at my apartment, and yes, I want to fuck her again.
As Joe navigates through the crowded streets, I wrestle with my impatience to get back to the hotel and find out what really happened on Friday night. I’ve already called the Jed Fray, head of security, to review the security footage from the elevators. I resist the urge to call him again. I know he’ll let me know as soon as he has something.
Almost as if I’ve communicated my thoughts to Jed, my phone begins to vibrate. I glance and the screen, then answer it.
“Yes,”
“We reviewed the footage,” he says without preamble. “The subject came into the lobby at a few minutes past eight and attended a birthday party for a photographer called Chadwick Black at the Oyster Restaurant.”
“and?”
“There seems to have been a heated discussion between the subject and another man outside the restaurant. After that she took the elevator to the ground floor.” He pauses. “Instead of exiting when the elevator opened, she seems to have entered the button for the penthouse. We have the footage of her leaving your apartment early in the morning, but she went straight outside and took a taxi.”
“The man outside the restaurant, do you know who he is?”
“We’re working on it.”
“Find out everything you can, I want to know who she is. Check the guest list for the party, then do a social media check.”
“Already on it.”
“Let me know when you have something.”
Later, when I’m in my study reviewing the videos the security department sent to me, I watch her argue outside the restaurant with a dark haired man.When she walks away from him, she enters the elevator, where the footage shows her wiping tears from her eyes. She didn't even look at the panel when she pressed the button for the penthouse, and At my floor, she seems genuinely confused, as she vainly taps the buttons on the elevator panel, perhaps trying to make it go back to the ground floor.
My desk phone rings. It’s Jed.
“I’m coming up.” He informs me.
“Fine.”
He lets himself into the apartment and comes to meet me in the study, knocking discreetly before opening the door.
“So?” I ask him.
“We’ve been checking the names on the guest list and hoping to find her from there. Then we identified the man she argued with outside the restaurant. He’s Jack Weyland, a senior editor at Gilt Traveler magazine.”
He looks at me, then continues.
“He’s listed on the site as a contributor, along with a headshot.” He hands me a printout, “further along the page we have another headshot, which seems to be the subject.”
I find it almost immediately. The gleaming hair stands out, as well as the sweet half smile on her face. I read the name beside the headshot. Rachel Foster. Features Associate.
I tear my eyes away from her face. “Anything else?”
