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Plunge.
His lips open. His tongue pushes the back of his lower teeth. I can see the letter C; I can feel it in my bones. He’s about to give me permission to come.
And we’re frozen by a blast of static.
It’s coming from the other side of the ancient monument, transferring through two feet of stone. But Kellen’s voice rings loud and clear. “Alix? Mr. Prince? Sorry about that.”
Trap’s hand leaves me so fast I stagger. His grin is twisted as he mouths a word: “Sorry.”
He fixes his zipper with his clean hand, shoving the other in his pocket. “No problem,” he calls to Kellen. He turns and heads back to the temple’s entrance. “Alix and I could spend all day looking at this.”
I’m flushed and flustered, unsteady on my feet. I force myself to take a deep breath, to hold it for a count of five, to exhale slowly, until my lungs are completely empty.
Trap, meanwhile, is talking on the other side of the wall. “Are those photographs of the original setting?” he asks our unwitting guide.
“Yes. You can see how the temple was oriented to the river…” Kellen’s voice grows more distant, and I know Trap has led her away to give me another moment to recover.
What is it about this man? Why is my body locked into his orbit?
I love you too.
He said it, as easily as I did. The words mean more than his fingers. More than his fortune. More than his glibly occupying Kellen while I remember how to breathe and walk and act like a normal human being.
I run my fingers through my hair. I look down to make sure my clothes won’t betray me. And I step out of the temple to finish my tour of the greatest museum in the world.
14
TRAP
* * *
I’ve slept eight hours, showered, and shaved, but I swear to God I can still smell Alix on my fingers as I pull up a chair to my lawyer’s boardroom table.
I can’t. Not really. The same way I can’t actually hear her chanting my name when I finally let her come last night, pressed against the penthouse window, forty floors above Central Park. The same way I’m not picturing her mouth stretched into a perfect O as she holds her breath and shatters.
“Ms. Key. Mr. Prince.”
Fuck. Time to pay attention, which would be a lot easier to do if Alix wasn’t sitting right beside me.
Campbell J. Throckmorton III is the best criminal lawyer money can buy. He doesn’t bother with one of those massive New York law firms. Instead, he keeps a dozen associates on hand to do his exclusive bidding, along with a supporting staff of twenty-five—private investigators, accountants, the works. His name is almost as well-known as his clients’ and the last time he lost a case was when that Oscar-Award-winning actor lied about driving his Lamborghini into Lake Pontchartrain with the two whores he picked up on Bourbon Street.
“Throck” wears French cuffs, diamond cufflinks, and a multi-color bowtie. His shoes probably cost more than any suit I’ve ever owned, and I bet I could buy a loaded computer for what he spent on his last haircut. The table we’re sitting at seats twenty and easily covers eighty square feet. With Manhattan rent running a hundred bucks a foot, he’s paying eight grand a month for a fucking table.
Throck inclines his head toward Alix. “Ms. Key. It’s always a…pleasure to see you…. If you wouldn’t…mind stepping out to the lobby…one of my associates will be…happy to get you a cup of coffee.”
“She’s here with me,” I say, ignoring the long pauses Throck inserts every few words. I’m paying this shark two thousand bucks an hour, and he’s stretching for every penny.
“Of course,” Throck says. But then, to Alix: “Ms. Key.” He looks toward the door with a pointed nod of his head.
“I don’t have anything to hide from her,” I say.
“I appreciate that,” Throck says. “But if a third party is…present while you and I talk…Mr. Prince, then your attorney-client privilege can be…challenged in a court of law. In the interest of…preserving that valuable right…I’m afraid I must insist that Ms. Key…wait for you outside this room.”
She leaves. The second the door closes behind her, the stitches in my left shoulder start to burn. I make a fist to keep from scratching at the healing wound. I can’t imagine what Throck would say if he found out how I got shot.
I clear my throat. “I appreciate your making time to meet with us. With me. As long as we were already in New York, I figured we should do this face-to-face.”
“Of course,” Throck says and then he pauses for so long I wonder if it’s my turn to talk again. But he finally continues: “I just wish I had a more…complete update about the status of your case.”
