Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
BIANCA
Shit. I stumble, yet again, as if Brody pushed me—which he may as well have with that very disturbing question.
I catch myself at the same time as he catches me, his hot hands no less electrifying this time as last—and you’d think I was inoculated sufficiently against him by now.
I pull away from him with more force than necessary as his hands fall away.
Sabien precedes us into the empty space between two banks of elevators, then stops, frowning at Brody.
With my voice low and tight because I can’t help the tension, I feel compelled to try and put out my flare of concern. “You said you never left the room. Unless she brought in a JP, the chance that you’re actually married is infinitesimal.”
“But not zero,” Sabien says.
I glare at Sabien. “Not helpful.” Then I let out a sigh. I need to stop all the glaring and put my energy into solving the problem, otherwise known as doing my job. No matter how extraordinary this morning’s problems have been, I need to stay professional. It shouldn’t be this hard.
“Don’t worry,” I muster all my confidence and try to infuse it into my words. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll find a discreet jeweler to remove the ring, and I’ll find your… lady friend and get the story behind the wedding band.”
Sabien raises his brows.
Brody snorts. “Whatever you say, Nancy Drew.”
Sabien elbows him on my behalf, and Brody amends his statement.
“I mean, how do you plan to do that?”
“Never mind. I have a plan.” I have no plan.
In fact, I have no clue, but only because Brody’s been so distracting and difficult.
Very uncharacteristic of me to get distracted from doing my job.
I’ll enlist Bigelow’s help to find a reputable and discreet jeweler, and then I may need to consider hiring a PI to find the showgirl and deal with whatever her story is.
I should probably clear that plan with Jett, but there’s no way I’m doing that.
Not until this mess is resolved, there’s no ring on Brody’s finger, and no showgirl wife waiting in the wings somewhere ready to wreak havoc.
Brody nods, and I take his arm, as if I’m his protection, to walk him to the hotel’s rear exit. The buses are waiting. Sabien follows. I suppose I am the protection because there’s a mob of media waiting between us and the bus’s open door.
When I see the crowd and hear the shouted questions mostly at Brody, I stiffen.
They’re asking about his record-setting scoring pace mostly, but I hear a couple of questions about the latest supermodel he was with.
It’s a young woman asking the question, and I squint to read the credentials hanging around her neck. Barstool Sports.
Maintaining a business-like expression, I maneuver Brody away from her. I detect no tension in his arm where I’m hanging on. I say under my breath, “Smile and don’t say a word. And put your ring hand in your pocket and leave it there.”
“You got it,” he says as his signature one-dimpled grin lights up his face. While he waves with his right hand, his left hand slips into his pocket in a perfectly natural gesture.
Sabien moves ahead of him, waving and exchanging a few quips with some reporters, telling them not to keep calling Brody a phenom because he already has a big enough head. People laugh, and I let go of Brody’s arm as they reach the bus.
Watching him climb the steps, I hold my breath, hoping the seams of those pants hold out against his thighs, but they’re well made—the pants, I mean. I made sure of it.
Turns out Sabien and Brody were the last ones to board the bus because the door closes after them. As the bus pulls away, I let out a long exhale.
Too bad any relief I feel is short-lived.
The list of things I need to do before I go to the game looms urgently.
The first thing on the list is having a conversation with Bigelow.
Ignoring some shouted questions from the reporters, something about photos from last night, I dash back inside the hotel to the concierge desk and hope the young man makes up with eagerness for what he lacks in experience. So far, he has.
But if he thought an emergency request to come up with a designer suit in less than an hour was a challenge or in any way weird, I’m pretty sure he’s going to find my next request next level.
When I see him and another man at the concierge station, I move fast, barely holding myself back from a dead run until I reach him.
“Bigelow, I need your help.” I ignore the questioning glance of the other man.
“Yes, of course, Ms. Brooks. Whatever you need.”
I’m not sure if this is his concierge training talking or if he means it, but I take him at his word. Lowering my voice and angling away from the other man, I say, “I need to hire a discreet jeweler and possibly a private investigator.”
He coughs like my words sent a fly down his throat. “I’ll… get on that right away. I’ll have a list of recommended jewelers for you—”
“Now. I need someone asap. Also, I need to hire a PI right away, like within the next five minutes. Doesn’t your hotel have someone they consult with from time to time to deal with difficult situations?”
“Yes, of course. I’ll call you right away with a name and number.”
“And Bigelow, I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that this is all very sensitive.
” I dart a glance at the other man, but he’s helping someone else, thank God.
“Not a word to anyone. Not even your boss. I’ll make sure you’re rewarded.
” I’m not sure about that last part, but I seem to be channeling a damsel in distress from a Sam Spade novel right now.
I am so not in control. A wave of panic rises to the surface.
Bigelow coughs and nods.
“You should get that cough checked out.” It’s all I can think to say.
“Right. I’ll get you the information.”
When I get upstairs, I rush around my room and pack everything I have in less than five minutes like I might need a quick getaway. When I’m finished, I wonder if I should have stayed with Bigelow while he tracked down the information. Too late to second guess.
I’m not used to the cloak-and-dagger stuff. I’m being silly. What’s the worst that could happen? She could have somehow arranged a JP to come to the room after drugging Brody and got married to him. But then why would she have left? She left with his money. But why would she have taken his clothes?
This exercise in trying to puzzle out the mystery of the showgirl is getting me nowhere. Maybe I am leaning too much into my Nancy Drew obsession from childhood, but I need to make sense of it all.
The only thing I know right now is that we need to find the mystery girl before she does any more unexpected crazy shit.
After I’ve paced my small room enough times that I can see my circular path in the carpet, I stop and start checking my watch every thirty seconds.
In fact, I’m impressed with my ability to time my intervals so precisely.
“This is enough,” I say to the empty room and reach for the phone to prod Bigelow.
But before I have a chance to dial, there’s a knock on my door. My heart lurches because I’m in a skittish mood, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Darting to the door, I look through the peephole.
Instant relief settles me, and I unlatch the door and fling it open. Bigelow is hunched and glancing furtively up and down the hall like he’s expecting trouble.
Great. I’ve infected the young concierge with my Nancy Drew paranoia.
“Do you have the number for a detective?”
He steps inside my room, out of breath like he’s been chased by men in dark cloaks wielding daggers. “I got here as soon as I could. I thought it would be best if I gave you the information in person since there are so many ears at the concierge desk at this time of morning.”
He hands me a slip of paper in a way that makes me feel like I should commit the information to memory then eat the paper.
“Thanks, Bigelow.” I glance at the name and number and take out my phone to make the call.
Bigelow stands there awkwardly, and I wonder if he’s waiting for his promised reward or for new instructions. I put up a finger signaling that he should wait.
After several rings, a man answers the phone, and with Bigelow listening in, I proceed to tell him I need to find a young lady. He’s all ears until I tell him I don’t know her name and I don’t have her picture. He hangs up shortly after that.
“Shit.” I toss my phone back in my bag.
Bigelow clears his throat. “I can help you.”
“You can?” I don’t bother hiding my skepticism.
He nods. “I have access to security camera footage. We can get a photo of her from there. All you need to tell me is where she was in the hotel and when.”
“Bigelow, I could kiss you—but don’t worry, I won’t. The young lady in question was standing outside suite 1580 last night at about eleven p.m.” I gave him Brody’s room number, but I’m hoping Bigelow doesn’t realize that.
“Got it. I’ll get the security footage.” He turns to go and then says, “If we’re lucky, I might even recognize her. I know many of the young ladies who frequent the hotel.”
“You might. She looked like a showgirl to my untrained eye, definitely a local who might come here often.”
We each nod, coming to an unspoken understanding about this situation. Bigelow isn’t stupid. He must know whose room 1580 is and that this morning’s rushed need for clothing has something to do with the missing showgirl.
“Did you find me a discreet jeweler?”
“Yes. A very reputable establishment right here in the hotel’s lobby.”
I nod.
I might need to share the problem about the wedding band with him at some point, and I’m okay with that. I trust his ability to keep a secret.
On the other hand, I’m going to owe him a good amount of money because I don’t want to give him a reason to rethink his loyalty. And there’s no way I have the kind of money I’ll need available in my account.