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Great.
I'm in the middle of a crisis and this woman is on her soapbox preaching about the merit of my inner strength.
Griffin Kent took that from me too.
"I don't know what to do," I mutter to myself.
The self-appointed cheerleader next to me adds her two cents even though I didn't ask for it. "You're going to calm down and let me help you. What's your name, dear?"
I feel like I should covet every ounce of personal information after what just happened to me. I was open and trusting when I met the attractive man in the bar last night. I told him my name when he asked. He reciprocated by telling me his. Kent.
An hour later we were in a hotel room and I was proud of myself for checking a one-night stand off my bucket list. I need to wipe that list clean now and focus on one thing and one thing only.
Find some common sense and use it.
"Where are the police? I used the phone at the front desk to call them before I left the hotel. They should be here by now." I stare down at my dress. It's silver shimmer, low cut and much too short to see the light of day. I'd never wear this in broad daylight and yet, here I am.
Thank the heavens above that my parents are in Denver, completely oblivious to what their only child is doing on her third day in New York City. The move here was supposed to change my life, not drive the entire thing into a ditch at high speed.
"I think we can straighten this out without involving the NYPD."
"How?" I face the woman. She reminds me of my first art teacher in high school. That shouldn't offer me any comfort, but it does. "He needs to be arrested and thrown in jail after what he did to me."
"Were you hurt?" Her eyes scan my face, locking on my green eyes.
I know exactly what I look like. I didn't have time to shower when I crawled out of the hotel room bed, but I did catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror. My makeup was beyond repair. My shoulder length brown hair was such a mess that I used a bright pink hair elastic to tie it up into a tight ponytail.
At least, Griffin Kent left behind my clutch with the hair elastic, a tube of lipstick and my apartment keys inside of it.
Either the bastard has a heart, or he overlooked my keys as he was stealing my wallet.
"He didn't hurt me." I fiddle with the business card in my hand. "He took my wallet and my phone when I fell asleep. My watch too. He took it all."
"I find it very hard to believe that Mr. Kent is responsible for this."
Of course she'd say that. She's the first face anyone sees when they come through the doors of this law office. It's on Madison Avenue. I doubt like hell that her monthly paycheck has less than five zeroes at the end of it. I'd say that's well above the going rate for what blind faith costs in this city.
I shove the business card at her. "I have the proof right here."
She reaches to take the now tattered card from me, but I hold tight to the corner of it. It's evidence. He left this behind. I found it on the carpeted floor of the hotel room next to one of my heeled sandals that I'd kicked off before I got into bed with the thieving bastard.
Griffin Kent. Attorney at Law. It's right there in black raised lettering on the card.
If that's not proof, I don't know what is.
"Did he give that to you?"
"He dropped it," I explain. "It must have fallen out of his pocket."
Her tongue skims over her front teeth. "What does Mr. Kent look like?"
I survey the office. There's no movement anywhere. I can hear muffled voices in the distance, but I haven't seen another soul since I walked through the doors to the reception area.
Since the hotel I was at is on Columbus and Eighty-first, I walked here though Central Park. I spent the bulk of that time rehearsing what I was going to say to Kent once I saw him. I never expected to be subjected to a pre-confrontation interview by his receptionist.
"You know what he looks like," I bite back with a sigh. "I know that he spent the night with me and then robbed me blind."
"Humor me, dear." She gives my shoulder a squeeze. "Describe Mr. Kent to me."
