Lord at First Sight (The Montevor Royals Saga #8)

Chapter 35

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

LAURA

A s the guests finish their desserts, Antoine, Mr. Wu and the auction crew sort out the payment. And then the auctioneer hands the music box, packed and secured in a sleek black briefcase, to Antoine.

You’d think it was the Holy Grail, the way Antoine grips the briefcase as we leave the main hall with the other guests. My head is still spinning from the absurdity of what just happened. My husband of two weeks just forked out a million dollars on an old trinket that my grandmother had bought at a flea market in Chengdu. A trinket that sat on a shelf in her house for decades. I don’t know whether I want to shake him or laugh hysterically. Maybe both.

Outside, the Shanghai night air wraps around us, humid and pleasantly cool. I notice a black limo waiting near the curb. A man in a crisp black suit steps out and opens the door. I recognize him. It’s the Middle Eastern guy from the walking muscle squad we saw before the auction.

“Who is this guy?” I whisper to Antoine. “What’s he doing here?”

“We should get in,” Antoine says, seemingly unconcerned.

Should we?

I halt, my heart pounding. As my eyes adjust, I notice that the other three guys from the group are seated inside the limo. One is at the wheel, another in the front passenger seat, and a third in the back, facing the seat where Antoine is already sliding in.

He waves me over. “Laura, come on!”

Oh well.

I climb in, propelled by an irrational trust that overrides the instinct screaming at me to run. The door closes, sealing me inside with too many questions—and too many taciturn “SWAT types.”

The limo glides forward, eerily quiet. I survey the two men facing us. If I asked them to stop the car and let me out, would they do it?

On the reassuring side, Antoine doesn’t look worried. Though he isn’t exactly popping open a bottle of champagne, he seems relaxed, as if the musclemen were on his team. This isn’t a kidnapping.

Right?

To calm my nerves, I try to ground myself by focusing on the details of the limo. The polished wood of the built-in console. The faint hum of the engine. The cream leather of the plush seats. The faint scent of cedar in the air. The tiny pinpricks of light in the ceiling, mimicking stars…

Cute. But not enough to take my mind off what’s going on.

“You owe me an explanation,” I whisper to Antoine.

He nods. “At the hotel.”

I search his face.

He takes my hand in his and points his chin to one of the hulks across from us. “This is Elias, and that’s Nate, and in front we have…”

He shoots Elias—the Middle Eastern guy—a quizzical look.

“Jeff and Sam,” Elias says.

All four smile and wave, their postures relaxing.

Elias inclines his head. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Laura.”

Finally?

“Ma’am.” Nate’s head drops to his chest. “It’s a great honor to meet you.”

Huh? Why?

“Hi, everyone,” I mumble.

Antoine strokes my hand. “See? They’re the good guys. The crème de la crème of good guys, in fact. They’re here to protect us in case… something happens.”

I nod a breathless OK.

He turns to Elias and squints. “A limo? Really?”

“Armored and bulletproof,” Elias answers with an unexpectedly boyish smile.

Even though I feel more comfortable around the quartet now, the exchange brings up a new concern. Why do we need protection? From whom? What kind of “something” could happen to a pair of reality show contestants that would require an armored and bulletproof vehicle?

Antoine leans forward. “Do we open it here?”

“No, at the hotel,” Elias says.

“Why wait?”

“Moving vehicle, busy road.” Elias shakes his head. “Too many variables. We can’t rush something so critical.”

“Understood.”

Really?

Nate, sensing my confusion, explains, “The music box could have an alarm. There could be a booby trap inside, or poison or some hidden mechanism to prevent breach. We need a more controlled environment to do this properly.”

“Understood,” I parrot Antoine. “Thank you for clarifying that.”

But why would Grandma Feng’s music box have an alarm? Or poison?

It doesn’t make any sense. This whole night has taken such a surreal turn that I can barely keep up.

As we drive through the humongous city, Antoine’s expression tightens again. His grip on the briefcase hasn’t loosened once. His other hand stays wrapped around mine.

We pull up in front of some expensive hotel. My head’s too foggy to register the name or process anything but the escalating sense of weirdness. Elias steps out first. Antoine follows, with the briefcase that’s become an extension of his arm. He holds his other hand out for me. I take it.

A valet approaches. The driver—was it Jeff?—tosses him the car keys. We file inside, my hand still in Antoine’s. The lobby is a blur of granite floors and ornate chandeliers. My high heels click much too loudly on the pristine tiles. When we reach the carpeted section, it’s a relief. Elias and his friends stay close to us, scanning the surroundings as we beeline to the elevators.

The ride to the fifth floor is suffocating, despite all the space enhanced by mirrors. But the tension is too high. Elias stands rigid, a human wall. Antoine is clutching the briefcase like it’s his Horcrux. Nate, Jeff, and Sam are silent shadows. Me? I’m wedged between Antoine and the elevator wall, my mind racing in hundreds of directions, all at once.

When we reach the room, Elias pulls a key card from his pocket and unlocks the door. The men flow in. One checks the windows, another the bathroom, and the last one unzips a bag of tech gadgets I can’t even name. Antoine, Elias and I hover in the entryway, by the wall.

Jeff and Sam post themselves outside the suite’s entrance and shut the door.

Elias nods to Antoine. “Now we open the box.”