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Seconds tick past, and before long, I’m alone in the night. Seth is gone, and the only sound is cicadas screeching loud in the background. I take a step toward a hotel I’ve never seen. A knot tightens my throat, but I fight it. I will not cry. My jaw clenches. I stopped crying in Tampa years ago.
“Asshole,” I mutter instead, sucking up my fear and walking faster. “A purposeful, determined stride,” I say.
Everything in me wants to run, but I won’t do it. I’m taking back control. Seth is right—I’m a survivor. I’ll survive this, and I’ll be stronger for it. They can’t break me. If I let them scare me, they win.
A sign up ahead glows in the night like a beacon. It’s wood painted white with a golden fleur de lis and the word Frenchman painted in precise black lettering. I feel a small victory over the bad guys. I found my hotel on my own.
I’m just at the path leading to the door when a loud BANG! makes me jump a foot into the air. An involuntary scream flies from my throat, and I run the final steps into the hotel, shoving through the door and hiding around the corner.
Several seconds pass where the only noise is my rapid breathing. Gripping the doorjamb, I lean forward to peek, at the shadows lining my path, searching for the source of that noise. A black and white cat stands beside the trashcans, looking my way.
My stomach is in my throat, and I exhale a swear. “Fucking cat.”
No one is behind the counter. “What now?” I say to myself.
Lifting the sheet of paper Seth shoved into my hand, I see a room number and a combination for the door lock written on it.
“Convenient.” I skip the rickety old elevator and take the stairs to Room 213.
I’m so tired, I don’t even care that the stairwell smells like piss and the hotel is probably the seediest place I’ve stayed since leaving Tampa. A concrete balcony leads to my door, and I pause to tap out the combination on the lock. A buzz and it’s open.
The doorknob flies in my hand, jerking me into the room. “Jesus!” I squeal, my heart galloping in my chest.
Someone has left the balcony door open, and the suction of the wind makes it nearly impossible for m
e to shove the room door closed. Falling against it, I use my entire body weight to force it shut and twist the deadbolt locked.
I drop the plastic bag on the small table without even switching on the lights. Stopping at a small mirror hanging on the wall, I reach up to pull the remaining bobby pins out of my hair. It falls in smooth waves around my face and over my shoulders. I lift the thin tee over my head and toss it to the side when the skin on my arms prickles.
I’m not alone. In my peripheral vision, I can just make out the silhouette of a man sitting in the darkness on the edge of the sofa. He’s watching me, and my stomach is in my throat.
“Who are you?” My voice is calm, level, and totally fake. I’m terrified.
He rises fast, closing the space between us.
“Stay BACK!” I shout, scrambling away until my bare back hits the wall.
He catches both my hands in a tight grip, pinning them beside my face, and my body is trapped beneath his hard frame. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
I recognize the deep voice, but my fears aren’t eased. “Cal?” I’ve never seen him like this, so forceful and furious. The swell of my breasts rises and falls with my gasps. “How did you find me?”
He speaks through clenched teeth. “Were you hiding from me again?”
“No…” My voice trembles. Still, as frightened as I am, I can’t stop the desire unfurling low in my stomach.
Pale light from outside the balcony illuminates his face, and I see his square jaw dusted with light scruff. His hazel eyes blaze. “So the con was on me? You make me fall for you then walk away? Humiliate me?”
“NO!” I shake my head fast. “I would never—”
“Save it.” He pushes off of me turning his back and walking across the room. Tension ripples off him in waves, and I want to touch him. At the same time I’m afraid he won’t let me. “Pretty sick joke calling yourself Regina Lampert. You’d make a better Charles.”
“You’ve seen Charade?” Of course he has. Movies were the one true thing we shared.
“How many passports do you have, Mrs. Lampert?” His eyes flash.
“It’s Miss, and none. I’ve never had a passport. Not even one. In my real name, at least.”
The muscle in his jaw moves, and he’s across the room again, grabbing my face in his hand, causing me to whimper.
