Chapter 6 #2
She slipped into the bathroom, leaving the door open, so that a little of the faint morning light could seep in. If she turned the lights on in the white-tiled bathroom, the glare could wake Sam up.
A splash of cold water on her face, a quick wash between her legs—and oh my god, the nap of the washcloth felt incredibly rough against her super-sensitized flesh—a comb hastily pulled through her hair was all she allowed herself time for. Bra and dress went on in under a minute.
Holding her sandals by the straps, she tiptoed her way to the front door.
On the floor was a silky mauve slash of material.
Her panties. Her beautiful La Perla panties, ripped apart.
And how she’d reveled in Sam tearing them off her, because they’d been this unacceptable barrier between her and Sam’s hard flesh.
She closed her eyes for a second, then opened them, intent more than ever on getting out as fast as she could, like someone fleeing from the scene of the crime.
The door. She eyed it warily. Last night, getting in had been like getting into some secret room at the Pentagon. Palm print, keypad, five-digit code. She had no idea what the numbers were. Her mind had been utterly lost in mists of lust.
If she needed a secret code to get out, she was in trouble.
The idea of having to walk back into the bedroom, wake Sam up and ask for a code made her focus, concentrate. She studied the door, narrow eyed. A door had to work both ways, didn’t it? You have to be able to get out, not just in.
There was no security panel. No door handle, either, for that matter. She stared at the door, willing it to yield up its secrets.
Did it open by remote control? Did she have to go back into the bedroom and root through Sam’s pants? That would be the last straw.
There was one button on the wall next to the featureless door. She held out a hesitant finger, hovered over it, then gathered her courage and pressed it, hoping it wasn’t connected to something dangerous, like a siren. Or a bomb.
A crisp click and the lock disengaged, the door sliding open.
Yes!
Nicole tiptoed through, then quietly slid the door closed behind her.
She stood in the hallway, breathing heavily, as if she’d just engineered a jailbreak. Her heart was pounding so hard it was a miracle the sound didn’t echo in the quiet corridor.
It was utterly ridiculous, but she couldn’t do anything about the way she felt—panicky and broken, as if running away from something dangerous.
Mindful of the clickety-clack of her heels on the shiny hardwood floor of the corridor last night, she walked to the elevator and called it up, wincing at the little ping as it reached Sam’s floor. It sounded so loud in the silence.
In the elevator, she clutched her pochette tightly, like a shield, and stared mindlessly at the elevator doors.
When they opened, she stepped out into the huge, glass-encased lobby. The sky was now a dark pearly gray and she could see the beach not fifty feet away, the small waves curling like lace on the sand.
“Miss?”
Nicole jumped and barely managed to suppress a scream.
“Miss? Can I help you?” The tone more pointed, with a slight Hispanic accent.
A security guard, dressed in some security company’s livery, surrounded by a circular polished-wood barrier with lots of video screens showing empty hallways, looking at her with a frown.
Nicole heroically refrained from looking down at herself in dismay but she knew exactly what he was seeing. A disheveled woman who had obviously been up to no good, tiptoeing away from a night of excess in one of the apartments.
This was just so unfair. Nicole was the epitome of a proper lady. Even in the midst of a hot affair, she always kept her decorum; it had been drummed into her. She prided herself on the fact that a casual observer would never know what she was thinking, what she was feeling.
Right now, she might as well have had babe after a hot night tattooed on her forehead.
The only thing to do was brazen it out. She straightened, put on her best ambassador’s-daughter polite smile and lifted her head.
“Good morning,” she said evenly. “I wonder if you could call me an Uber?”
“Sure thing, ma’am,” the guard said, punching out a number on the phone keypad without taking his eyes off her. Presumably in case she made off with one of the stone planters that must have weighed three hundred pounds each.
“Thank you,” Nicole said primly, and walked to the front of the lobby, sitting down on one of the long, gleaming oak benches.
She stared out the two-story windows at the beach.
The sky was cloudless, pale blue, the ocean light gray.
It was going to be a glorious day, as so many days were in San Diego.
She stared out at the ocean, thinking of absolutely nothing, until she heard the guard call out. “Uber’s here, ma’am.”
She turned her head and sure enough, a car was coming around the circular driveway. Nicole nodded to the guard and got into the car. She gave her address to the driver and stared blindly out the window as he took off.
This part of San Diego was beautiful, but she barely noticed the white sand beaches, lush vegetation, the light dancing on wavelets over the ocean, the runners on the beach.
All she could think about was Sam Reston on top of her, nose an inch from hers, staring at her fiercely as he moved in and out of her. And the fact that all last night, she hadn’t thought once about her father.
New York
“Paul Preston for Mr. Mold. I have a ten o’clock appointment.”
Ah. Finally. The last secretary in the gauntlet.
She lifted her gaze and gave him a small smile, just a slight baring of beautiful white-capped teeth as large as Chiclets, then her gloss-covered mouth closed tightly.
Muhammed had learned that the more powerful the man, the less friendly the secretary.
He’d cycled through three secretaries already, offering smiles in decreasing increments, as he neared the “Holy Presence.” This secretary was the one who held her boss’s schedule. She was powerful beyond measure and she knew it.
Muhammed had asked for this appointment, desperate to get to top financier Richard Mold as fast as possible, knowing that time was vital, yet trying not to press too hard, because Mold would see it as a sign of vulnerability.
These men could smell desperation at a hundred paces, like hyenas can smell blood from miles away. Muhammed was desperate, but not for money. Though he lived in a world that would do anything for money—live for it, die for it, even kill for it—he was indifferent to its lure.
Particularly now, when he—Muhammed Wahed, a child of the camps—was going to change the course of human history. Men would weave stories of his actions for a thousand years. More.
So it was hard for him to keep calm in front of the secretary’s cool gaze as she pressed a button and quietly said, “Mr. Paul Preston to see you, sir. Your ten-o’clock appointment.”
Did she notice the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead? See that he had to work to keep from wringing his hands?
Maybe she did. Maybe that was for the best. Maybe if he were too cool, it would be noted, commented on. Richard Mold commanded an empire and his methods were harsh. In his own world, he was a caliph, a sultan. Anyone asking a favor was meant to be a sweaty, trembling supplicant.
There was a low, calm, deep murmur from the intercom—the tone of command very clear—and the big mahogany and brass door to the right of the desk issued a faint click and slid smoothly into the wall.
The secretary looked at him coolly. “You have until ten fifteen, sir.”
The subtext was that at 10:15, security would be called in.
Well, by 10:15 he’d either have a name, or not. It was in Allah’s hands at this point.
He walked through the door.
Over the past years, Muhammed had been in countless offices of the rich and powerful.
Some preferred the English Lord look. Paneled walls, deep leather armchairs, crystal decanters, as if an office on the fortieth floor of a Manhattan skyscraper had been in existence for three hundred years, bequeathed down through the generations, from earl to earl.
Some had offices that looked like they’d time-traveled back from the twenty-second century.
But all of them, all of them exuded a specific aura—look at me. Look at what I’ve accomplished. Look at how powerful I am. Do not mess with me because I will crush you.
Muhammed had been in this office once before, when Mold had just taken over the big hedge fund. It had looked like Versailles then. Now it was all sleek black marble and Lucite.
They said that Mold had spent three million dollars redecorating his office.
And there he was, behind a twelve-foot-long slab of ebony with transparent legs, the desk empty and bare and highly polished, as befitted a Master of the Universe.
Mold stood but didn’t offer his hand. “Preston,” he said. The deep voice wasn’t particularly warm or welcoming. “What can I do for you?”
That was a loaded question, if ever there was one. Muhammed was here only because Mold hoped Muhammed could do something for him. If it was only a favor being asked, Muhammed would be marched out by security the instant Mold pressed the red button that was undoubtedly on the underside of the desk.
All nervousness had gone, sucked away like the stale air into the invisible conditioners.
Muhammed had seen the future.