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She wrestled with his hands, as pain shot through her tingling scalp.
He shoved her to a kneeling position, and her robe became soggy and heavy from the weight of the overflowing water.
“I gave you everything.” He leaned over her with wild, bugged eyes. “But you always thought you were too good for me.”
He forced her head inches from the water. The turbulent water from the jets smacked her cheek. A second later, he plunged her head under the water. She struggled to get her bearings, but he drove her head deeper and deeper.
The whirlpool of water beat into her face. The salty minerals from the bath salts seeped past her lips. Her lungs filled like overblown balloons, ready to pop. The water engulfed her. She fought with every ounce of strength. Panic overwhelmed her. His muffled threats were distorted by the water above as he pressed her head deeper. Air, she needed air, if only for a second.
24
Horns blared as Nick zipped the Maserati in and out of taxis and tour buses. The traffic on the Strip made it impossible to move as he inched closer to the Bellagio entrance. He ran the last red light, and narrowly missed a stretch limo as he made the turn into the hotel’s winding driveway. He cut off cars in front of him, then pulled the sports car alongside the curb. Nick searched the crowded carport for a valet, and flipped him the keys and a fifty dollar bill. Then he wove his way past vans of tour groups and doorman unloading mountains of luggage. He finally made it into the lobby where Samson stood waiting for him. Together they barreled to the head of the VIP check-in desk.
“Sir, excuse me, but there are people ahead of you.” The desk clerk nudged his thick eyeglasses up the bridge of his nose. “You’ll have to go to the back of the line and wait your turn.”
“I need the passkey for Cheryl . . . I mean Marie Russo’s room, number 3607.” Nick drummed his fingers against the countertop.
The scrawny clerk attempted to square his shoulders, but the blazer he wore with the hotel logo on the pocket swallowed him whole. “As I said, sir, there are others in front?—”
“I need the fuckin’ key, now,” Nick barked.
“We are not in the habit of giving out random keys. I’ll need to see some identification and then I’ll have to ring the room to make sure?—”
“This is a fuckin’ emergency.”
“This is highly irregular, sir. If you don’t show me some ID I’m going to have to call security.”
Nick reached over the counter and snagged the front of the clerk’s blazer. “And if you don’t get me into her suite in the next second there’s gonna be a murder.”
“A murder?” the clerk squeaked.
“Yeah, yours.” Nick shook him by the lapels. “Now hand it over.”
Samson leaned over the counter with an evil sneer. “You really don’t wanna piss him off.”
The clerk jerked his gaze between Nick’s deranged expression and Samson’s overall bulk, then furiously tapped on his keyboard. A second later, he inserted a plastic card into the encoder, then handed it over with shaky hands.
Nick and Samson stormed to the elevator bank, boarded the car, and waved the card over the reader on the panel. The doors whooshed closed, and they ascended to the top floor.
“Do we have a plan?” Samson asked.
“If he’s touched her or hurt her.” Nick punched the elevator wall. “I will fuck him up.”
“So, no plan then,” Samson deadpanned.
Portia’s sweet face flashed before Cheryl and a ferocious anger replaced her terror. She refused to give up as she thrashed and struggled like a savage, desperate animal, her lungs screaming for air. Flailing her hands, she grappled at his forearms, but his incredible strength made it impossible to wrench free. Her eyes burned from the bath salts and she remembered the jar on the edge of the tub. She blindly flung her hands around until she connected with the heavy container. She swung out wildly, connected with something, and Johnny’s hold relaxed. The split second allowed her enough time to thrust her head above the water.
She sucked air in with greedy, gasping spurts. Coughing, she choked out water and savored the sweet sensation of oxygen filling her lungs. She braced herself against the edge of the tub, and pushed the wet veil of hair off her face. Johnny grabbed for her but she gripped the sphere-shaped jar tighter and landed another blow to his face.
“You bitch!” he yelled as blood exploded from his nose.
She pushed away from him, but the sodden robe weighed her down making her clumsy and uncoordinated. She gathered up the heavy terrycloth and stumbled backwards blindly searching for the door.
Johnny sprang to his feet pulling a gun from the waist of his pants. “Even your father doesn’t care about you. He said what happens between us isn’t about business, so this is what you get. When you ruin everything, you have to pay.”
He jerked the huge weapon, leveled it at her chest, and lost his footing on the slippery tile. His knees buckled and when he flung his hand against the wall to steady himself he dropped thegun. It skittered across the wet tile and Cheryl crouched down to retrieve it. She swiped it up, gripped the butt with both hands, then pointed it at Johnny.
“You don’t have the balls to shoot me.”
