Number Six (The Villains #3)

Chapter 4

A Pain in the Neck

O ttilie had poked her head in at the four main bars at Duxton Vegas, hoping to find her quarry. Snakepit hadn’t yet gotten back to her as to the man’s whereabouts, nor had the man used his credit card in days, which was odd. But she knew he loved to drink and play poker. Perhaps he was doing one or both somewhere around here.

She played nine hands of blackjack at the casino, trying to conceal her impatience, before deciding her quarry was either lying low this evening, or at a different casino.

The thrumming at the base of her neck was getting worse. She cashed in her remaining chips while trying not to be overwhelmed by the sensory overload.

It wasn’t just the flashing lights or the discordant jangling of slot machines behind her. Electronic blinking posters advertised Carrie Jordan’s new show at Duxton Vegas—a technicolor onslaught that seemed constantly in her peripheral vision. She was tempted to smash her elbow into the nearest Jordan digital billboard and ruin that obnoxious megawatt smile, but she didn’t want the orthopedic bills.

Stopping by the concierge desk, Ottilie planned to ask for recommendations for someone to look at her neck. Or, at the very least, the nearest supplier of painkillers. Instead, she found herself in front of a drawn-looking Mrs. Menzies, who appeared to be dealing with a drunk.

“Why won’t you come home?” the belligerent little rodent was demanding of the appalled woman.

Oh, lovely. Ottilie scowled. Domestic drama. Embarrassing and likely to take far too long. Ottilie and her throbbing neck did not need this.

“Not here , Frank,” Mrs. Menzies spat, eyes darting about. Her cheeks were flushing the darkest red. “As I told you yesterday and last week and two weeks ago, I’m done. We’re done. You’re a cheat, and I’m sick of pretending you’re as good as it gets.”

“Like you’ve got anything better waiting. Look at you!”

Mrs. Menzies’s voice shook slightly as she pleaded in mortification, “Stop. Shouting.” Her darting gaze fell to Ottilie. She turned back to her husband and lowered her voice. “Frank, I have guests to attend to.”

“You’re worthless. Just an ugly, dried-up old crone,” he retorted, the nasty glint in his eye proving he wanted an audience to her humiliation.

Mrs. Menzies’s lips pressed into a hard, cold line.

Dried up ? Implying a woman’s fertility was her only thing of value? That older women were nothing? Even a fierce-looking woman like Mrs. Menzies, who Ottilie had observed ran the entire hotel reception area with military precision? She had more competence in her pinkie than this reprobate had with his decade-old tan suit with soup splotches on his tie.

Ottilie reached for her phone, took a step to the side to discreetly capture him in profile, and hit record. As her video app captured ten bilious seconds of the man’s escalating insults, she studied him more closely.

Footwear: brown brogues, in reasonable condition. But the thickness of the sole seemed far too worn for the age of the rest of the shoe. His trouser hems had dust on them and were ever so slightly scuffed at the back. So he walked a lot—in this outfit. For his job, then, as no one goes for long walks in a suit. Salesman?

His cuff link was unusual. A small camera lens? Although it looked more like a logo?

She finished recording, then clicked Google, searching, Frank Menzies , salesman , Vegas , cameras .

And there. The lens logo matched a website called Alcatraz Security Las Vegas.

Frank was pictured among the “committed sales team” who were authorized dealers in home security products, from intercoms to locks to surveillance systems and cameras. It listed each salesman’s contact details, along with those of the company’s manager.

Ottilie generated a disposable email address, one that would last only ten minutes, then attached her video file and sent it to Frank.

Done, she looked up to find him now belligerently leaning on the desk in front of Mrs. Menzies as though about to settle in for the duration.

It was more than enough to test Ottilie’s thin patience. She cleared her throat. “Excuse me,” Ottilie told his back, “some of us have business to attend to here.”

He turned, brows knitting at the intrusion.

Continuing, Ottilie said, “Your wife has made her position clear: go away . If you’re too deaf or stupid to understand her, that’s not something to announce to the whole room, is it?”

Frank glared at her. “Did you just call me stupid?”

“I did not.”

His uncertain eyes blinked as he regarded her.

“I was initially unsure whether you were deaf or stupid. They’re obviously not the same. But the fact you heard me suggests the answer. Now I’m calling you stupid.”

“What the hell?” His doughy hands turned into fists.

“Frank!” Mrs. Menzies cried out. “Stop!”

“Ah, of course, macho dramatics ,” Ottilie drawled sarcastically. “ Terrifying . Now, then, before you embarrass yourself further, check your email.”

He screwed up his bulbous face. “Why?”

“Because the next person I send that video to will be your boss, and I will ask him how it will look having an abusive stalker—who threatens his wife—as the salesman of a home security business dedicated to making its customers feel safe.”

Frank fumbled for his phone, his face losing all color. Those tinny insults of half a minute ago now played on the phone’s speaker for all to hear.

Mrs. Menzies stared at Ottilie in what seemed like utter astonishment.

Disquiet now rippled over Frank’s face. Even so, he growled, “You can’t tell that’s me. It could be someone else!”

“Someone else with Alcatraz Security Las Vegas cuff links?”

He glared at her, then folded his arms, saying mutinously, “It’s still the side of my head. Not like you can even see my face.”

“Fine,” she snapped. “Wait here.” Ottilie stepped away from the desk, made a short phone call, waited five minutes, then checked her email. She forwarded a file she’d received to Frank’s phone and marched back to him.

“Check your mail again,” she said tersely.

He opened his phone, and his eyes grew wide. “That’s…” He glanced up at the small camera above the Concierge desk and looked back at his phone. “How did you get that footage?”

“Do not annoy me further,” Ottilie said. “As you can see, I have powerful resources.”

“Goddammit. What do you want?”

“For you to go away. Now. And if you bother this woman again”—she pointed at Mrs. Menzies—“I will send that video to your manager, a Mr. Drew Hamilton, I believe? I’ll be sharing a copy with your wife too, to ensure you behave. Understood?”

“Who are you?” Frank’s voice rose far too high.

“The woman you are preventing from getting hotel assistance. Now, leave .” Steel underpinned her demand.

Mrs. Menzies’s eyes grew wide and disbelieving, as if no one had ever dared speak to her husband like that in his entire life.

Frank left, stumbling over his feet in his haste, swearing up a storm before he took one sweeping punch at her on the way out.

Ottilie swayed out of its path easily, having anticipated he might try to regain his tattered dignity through more macho idiocy. She observed him closely until he was through the exit and gone.

Mrs. Menzies’s sounded embarrassed when she said, voice quiet, “You didn’t have to engage with my husband. Security was on the way. They would have dealt with him.”

“Eventually.” Ottilie was unimpressed at their lack of punctuality. “If you wish a copy of that video, supply me with an email address.”

Mrs. Menzies nodded and scribbled on a slip of paper. “I…appreciate this.” She pushed the paper across the counter.

“I didn’t like his attitude.” Ottilie took note of the email address, then sent the video to her. “He implied older women are worthless.” Her head snapped up, meeting her gaze. “We’re not.”

Mrs. Menzies didn’t appear to know what to say to that. Finally, she offered, “Well, thank you regardless.”

“It was self-serving,” Ottilie said dismissively. “I required assistance, and he was in my way.” Her neck pain made her especially curt.

“Do I want to know how you knew where Frank works?”

“Deductive reasoning.”

“And how you got hotel camera footage?” Mrs. Menzies hesitated. “I should probably report that we appear to have a security weakness.”

“Probably,” Ottilie said neutrally. “But my associates are superior to any you’d have working in IT, so it wouldn’t do much good.”

“I see.” Mrs. Menzies gave her a look of unmistakable respect. Her back straightened, stiff and professional. “Now, please tell me how I may help. I’d be more than happy to assist you.”

“I need someone who can give a decent massage.” Ottilie suppressed a sigh and greatly regretted her time at the gambling table, where she had been hunched in an unsympathetic position. “Something special for my cervical area.”

Mrs. Menzies inhaled, darted a look all around, and murmured, “ Special? ”

Why had she phrased it like that?

Ottilie studied her in confusion. “Yes. I’m sure you’d be familiar with such a service?” Weren’t all concierge desks supposed to have contacts for any given request? “Well?”

Mrs. Menzies’s lips compressed and her cheeks reddened.

If Ottilie’s neck wasn’t killing her, she’d have made an effort to pick apart the subtext. But pain was dulling her whimpering brain. She was about to suggest that if her first request was too difficult, might Mrs. Menzies instead tell her where she could get some heavy-duty painkillers? Ottilie had run out this morning.

Before she could ask, Mrs. Menzies lifted a finger, then picked up her phone and made a call. She pursed her lips and hung up. “A guest at this hotel is an expert in…special massages,” Mrs. Menzies said quietly. “She’s even in the room next to yours, which is convenient. Unfortunately, Ms. Carson isn’t picking up her phone. I could keep trying and contact you when she is available?”

“No, thank you.” Ottilie sighed. “I don’t know how long that will be, and I think I’ll just go to bed. Thanks, anyway.”

Mrs. Menzies nodded.

* * *

The pain worsened. Ottilie finally gave up trying to rest and admitted she needed immediate relief. Which room was this Carson woman in, who Mrs. Menzies said was her neighbor? Across the hall, or on one side of her?

She swapped her pajamas for a tweed skirt and ivory blouse, holding her head very straight to stop the waves of pain. Slipping on her heels, she tried to work out which door to start knocking on first. Maybe she’d get lucky and find Carson first up. Maybe the woman would take pity on her, despite Ottilie having no appointment. If she just explained…

Another wave of pain hit her, and Ottilie realized she was well past social niceties. She didn’t care if it was rude, she needed treatment now.

The woman who greeted Ottilie at room 612, the one who answered to Carson, was not what she expected. Not that massage or physical therapists conformed to any particular look, but this woman was distinctly different from average.

She was commanding and provocatively dressed, with a plunging cleavage that revealed a hint of black bra.

Ottilie almost took a step back and apologized for clearly being in the wrong place when she remembered the woman had already said yes to the name Carson.

“I’m in need of your services,” she said, voice tight as she swallowed back the pain.

She looked pleased. “Well. Do come in.”

Ottilie did as instructed but sneaked another glance at the woman as she closed the door behind them.

Ms. Carson spun around and regarded her. “Problem, darling?” she purred. Her entire face had lit up at the sight of Ottilie. As though she recognized her. But that wasn’t possible. Ottilie would remember having met this woman.

“Am I not what you expected?” Ms. Carson continued. “I assume Mrs. Menzies sent you to me?”

“No to the first question,” Ottilie answered. The last time a professional attended to her cervical spine stenosis, he’d looked decidedly more clinical. “And yes. She did.”

“Come, sit down. Let’s discuss your needs and when I will be able to attend to them. I don’t usually take a new client without them filling out my online form and agreeing to my terms, but if Mrs. Menzies sent you, that’s acceptable. I trust her.”

Ottilie wondered what terms there were just to get one’s neck looked at. Ms. Carson gestured to a chair opposite a large wooden desk. The latter was much sturdier than any Ottilie had ever seen in a hotel room. The room was decorated in reds, definitely not hotel decor. The smell was of air freshener. Recent. What was truly unsettling was the large bed, its sheets a tangled mess.

Well, Ottilie couldn’t be too indignant—she hadn’t made an appointment. The woman hadn’t been expecting a client. And it also sounded as if she was planning to schedule Ottilie for another time. Perhaps if she pleaded her case, the woman might make an exception and attend to her immediately?

Brief introductions were made, emphasis on brief, given that Ottilie did not share her surname, seeing no need, and Ms. Carson did not share her first name.

“What qualifications do you have?” Ottilie asked. “Mrs. Menzies seemed to think you were a specialist in my area of concern?”

“Indeed I am.” Ms. Carson eyed her with clear interest.

“I have an issue that needs some delicate, special attention.” She rubbed her neck. “It’s been troubling me for some time.”

“Is that so?” Ms. Carson’s eyes gleamed. “I can pay close attention to any part of your body you wish. Or perhaps you’d like to select from the menu? Then we can arrange a time and—”

“Menu?” Ottilie cut her off in some confusion. “You have a menu?”

“Certainly.” Ms. Carson plucked a laminated sheet off the desk. “Whichever service you most desire .”

Ottilie’s eyes skidded across the page. Good God! She launched to her feet and, bewildered, said: “You’re a prostitute?”

“I prefer sexual educator or sex therapist or sexual fantasy facilitator. But technically, that’s true, given women pay me to touch their bodies in sexual ways to induce arousal.” Confusion tinged her tone when she added, “I don’t understand. You weren’t expecting someone like me? Did you not ask Mrs. Menzies for someone with my expertise?”

“Of course not! I told Mrs. Menzies I had a cervical issue that needed urgent attention!” She rubbed her neck frantically. Flames of pain seared her.

“Ah.” Ms. Carson inhaled. “Well, the cervical area refers to both the neck and part of the uterus. I suspect Mrs. Menzies thought you were asking for something entirely different. And, if nothing else, she is extremely good at fulfilling the needs of her guests.”

Oh. Ottilie’s cheeks seared hot at the thought of the front desk woman thinking she’d been asking for sex. That she wanted to pay for it too. “Well, I have no interest in engaging your services!”

“Are you quite sure? I am very good at relaxing women.” Her tone was teasing, but she cocked her head, looking thoughtful.

“ Very sure.”

“You know, I can actually do a very good massage, if that’s all you want.” Ms. Carson studied her. “I wouldn’t normally be available…” Her gaze shifted to the rumpled sheets. “But you say it’s urgent. And it’s something I can do relatively easily.”

Oh dear God. She’s just had a client!

“So, what cervical issue do you have specifically?” Ms. Carson continued, heedless to Ottilie’s mortification. “Cervical stenosis, I’m guessing? My mother had an issue with that. I found a way to relieve her pain for a few years before she passed. It’s an awful condition, I’m well aware.”

Ottilie was conflicted. “How do I know you’re not just saying that?”

“ Cervical stenosis . Rule number one: avoid poor sleeping positions, first and foremost. Number two: do not rotate the neck, no matter how tempting. Yes?”

That was…accurate.

“I understand if you want to seek an actual specialist in this area. But I can also see you’re in a great deal of pain. Will you let me assist you tonight? I can make you feel so much better rather quickly.”

Ottilie inhaled. Any relief would be welcome right now. “It’s not normally this bad,” she murmured.

“What changed?”

“Stress and a bad seating position on a flight.”

“Show me exactly where it hurts most.” Ms. Carson actually sounded concerned, not to mention clinical. Gone was the flirting and innuendo, thank goodness.

“Here.” Ottilie pointed, just as more pain shot up her spine. She flinched.

“All right.” Ms. Carson studied her. “Would you feel better having a shower first?”

“I’d rather not.” Ottilie inhaled. “I’d rather you also didn’t touch my back. Neck, shoulders, head are fine.”

“Do you have a medical concern?” Ms. Carson asked.

“Why do you need to know?” Ottilie snapped, then regretted it. Pain was making her irritable.

“I’m sorry for not explaining. If you have any health conditions that need me to make accommodations, I’m happy to do so.”

“I apologize for my terseness. The pain is…not good. And no health conditions. Just leave my back alone. Where do we do this?”

“I can attend to you on the bed?” Ms. Carson said.

At Ottilie’s dubious look, she added, “I have a change of sheets. Or in the chair, if you’d prefer. It’s all the same to me.”

“Chair.” She inhaled. “Please.”

“Chair it is. Would you like to remove your blouse? Retain your bra.”

“No. My blouse stays on.”

Ms. Carson gave a small nod. “Will you unbutton it a little at least so I may access your shoulders better?”

Ottilie hesitated, wondering if this was all some seedy ruse, but then decided she honestly didn’t have the luxury to say no right now. Her pain was unbearable. She undid three buttons and looked at Ms. Carson questioningly. “Enough?”

“Yes. Let me get some massage oil.”

“No oil.”

“Chemical sensitivity?”

“No, the smell just gives me a headache. Well, more of one.”

“I have one oil that has no scent. Would you be open to trying that?”

“If you must.” Ottilie almost whimpered when another stab of pain hit her.

“Wait right here.”

As if she could go anywhere now. It hadn’t been this bad for months. Perhaps all the jet-setting she’d been doing of late? Rounding up all the potential rogue elements worldwide had finally taken its toll. At least Ottilie was now down to two last irritants, and then she was free. Beach. Mai Tais. Bliss.

She closed her eyes and let that thought take her away. Maybe five minutes or five seconds had passed before she felt warm, oiled, assured hands on the base of her neck. She tensed out of habit. Ottilie didn’t like being sneaked up on nor touched unexpectedly. A recent phobia.

Her moment of tension lengthened when Ms. Carson’s fingers trailed over to her bra straps. “May I slide these down? They’re in the way.”

Ottilie hesitated.

“Just over the edge of your shoulders,” she clarified. “I won’t if you say no. It will help your treatment, though.”

“Yes.”

In a flick, they were gone, and then the back of Ms. Carson’s fingertips were trailing from her shoulders to the base of her neck. A flare of warmth followed her hands, and it spread through her.

“The secret to a good massage is care.”

Care?

“Showing those I help that I care.” She pressed her thumbs on either side of Ottilie’s spine, at the base of her neck.

Pain flared instantly, but it felt like the good kind, not that Ottilie could articulate why she’d just thought that.

Ms. Carson removed the thumbs, then soothed away the pain with her fingertips. “Anyone can touch you, but how it feels depends on how it’s done. Touch is my love language, and it expresses my care for my clients. That love of touch and need to care is not sexual. It’s emotional. It’s me”—she ran four fingers up Ottilie’s neck, then pressed her thumbs above them into the base of her skull—“showing you I’m invested in your well-being. It’s…care.”

Now that she said it, Ottilie realized her physical therapist back home always hit the appropriate spots as needed but that his touch was perfunctory. It was neither warm nor particularly gentle. It was remedial and mechanical but never soothing or caring. The thought wouldn’t have occurred to him.

Four fingers tap-danced at the skin behind each ear, in the small mound just beyond her occipital lobe.

“Oh!” she gasped as Ms. Carson found the exact spot that seemed to hold all her tension.

“Breathe if you can. It’ll take a moment for me to work on this.”

Work she did, coaxing the pain down from an obnoxious roar. Her fingers danced all over the neck and shoulders, sometimes punctuated with a light commentary, “This is what I call Swirling Fists.” And, later, as her thumb and index finger squeezed, “The Pincer Grip.”

Ottilie hadn’t even known she had pressure points in a semicircle across her head, where one might wear a headband. She certainly didn’t realize pain could be so pleasurable when mixed with warmth, compassion, and someone who knew exactly how to place her hands on a body. It was a master class of expertise in muscle, nerves, skin, and bone. And, yes, a master class in…care.

Ottilie had never experienced anything quite like it. A touch like this could be addictive.

By the time Ms. Carson’s fingers had slid up into her hair and over to her temples, Ottilie’s muscles were relaxed and liquid with relief.

Ottilie tried to pinpoint what made her massage so different from Stephen’s beyond the perfunctory nature of his work. And it came down to the way Ms. Carson’s fingers never shifted from point to point but rather sensuously trailed .

The result was undeniable. Ottilie found to her surprise by the end that she was thoroughly enjoying it. When it was over, she all but sagged in disappointment.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Is your neck better?” Ms. Carson stepped back and pushed Ottilie’s bra straps back into position. She turned to reach for a towel. “My mother swore my massages were better than opium. I’m not sure whether she’d really tried opium for an actual comparison.” She laughed lightly. “Unlikely for a legal secretary.”

“It’s much better. Thank you.” Ottilie stood and quickly did up her three buttons in case Ms. Carson got the idea to do them for her. The moment she tugged on her blouse, the oil, still warm on her skin, made the material stick to the back of her shoulders.

“Let me get you a tissue for that.” Ms. Carson leaned over her desk, the material of her pants tight against her perfectly round backside, and plucked several tissues from a box. Coming to stand behind Ottilie, she said softly in her ear, “Allow me?”

Ottilie stood ramrod straight as Ms. Carson’s hands swept under her collar and along her upper back, professionally wiping away the oil. “I’m sorry to say I don’t think I got to it in time.”

“Excuse me?” Ottilie said.

“The oil has soaked into your beautiful blouse.” She sounded disappointed. “Next time, let me wipe off the oil before you get dressed again.”

“Next time?” The woman certainly didn’t lack for confidence.

“Well, should you need to return before your stay is done. I’d be happy to assist you once more.” The woman’s words were polite, but there was a honey to them that made Ottilie uncertain. Then she wondered why she was feeling so weird about returning to a woman with such magic hands.

Maybe it was her overconfidence? Ottilie did not approve of that. Worse, she didn’t like the feeling that she didn’t understand Ms. Carson much at all. Ottilie hated the unknowable, mysteries; their lack of resolution always picked away at her, like vultures on a carcass, until she solved them.

“We’ll see,” she said. “My schedule is quite tight.” She reached for her purse. “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing.”

Ottilie peered at her. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m proposing a quid pro quo.”

“What do you want?” Ottilie asked suspiciously.

“Your company. For breakfast tomorrow morning.”

As in a… Was this a date? But who did dates for breakfast? Maybe Ms. Carson was too busy with clients at other times.

Ottilie wondered where she was expected to share her morning toast and tea with this unusual woman, and she glanced around the room.

“Oh, not here,” Ms. Carson said with a smile. “This is my workplace. Well, one of them. I’m talking about downstairs in the hotel’s main restaurant. Say, eight?”

“Why?” Ottilie asked. “Do you get lonely eating your cereal on you own?”

“Exactly.” Ms. Carson smirked. “I’d like to get to know you a little better.”

“To what end?” If her intentions were romantic, they’d be short-lived. “You must be aware I don’t live in Vegas. I’m not here for long at all.”

“All the more reason to have breakfast tomorrow. I’ll explain in the morning.”

Explain? That didn’t sound romantic, then. Did she have something else in mind? Ottilie couldn’t begin to think what this woman wanted from her, given Ms. Carson had no clue who Ottilie was or the power she possessed. “Why me?” she asked as she slowly turned toward the door. “I’m entirely uninteresting.”

“Ottilie, come now,” Ms. Carson said with a tsk as she opened the door for her. “That’s not true. I knew that from the moment I passed you in the hallway two days ago.”

So that explained the flash of recognition when the woman had first laid eyes on her. It was startling that a complete stranger had worked out she hid a great many secrets. That never happened.

“I’m as boring as can be,” Ottilie persisted, stepping into the hall.

Ms. Carson laughed. “Oh, yes. As boring as Hedy Lamarr. You know, she was a lot more than just a pretty face.”

“Of course I know that. She was the mother of Wi-Fi,” Ottilie said promptly. Not to mention, wasn’t there something about a torpedo and frequency hopping? She racked her brain to pull up the facts.

Wait, had the woman just called her pretty ?

Ottilie slid a suspicious gaze toward her, but the woman’s expression gave nothing away.

“Until breakfast,” Ms. Carson called cheerfully before she closed the door.

Had Ottilie even said yes? She stared at the room number.

What had just happened?