Chapter Forty-Four
In a hotel, people assume you belong until you make it obvious you don’t. It’s important you at least pretend to know where you’re headed. Thankfully, I do.
Ian claims the Marriott is nice enough that he doesn’t have to check for bedbugs but not so nice as to garner attention. And he always stays in a suite, the sort with a separate bedroom, a view of—well, the highway, since we’re so close to the airport—and a small kitchen.
I skip the bank of elevators and pace myself going up the staircase—he stays on the tenth floor, so it’s a bit of a climb—then step out into the hall.
Horrible carpet, worse abstract paintings on the wall.
God, whoever designed this place should be fired.
A camera looks right at me and I keep my hat on, my gaze lowered, my gun at the small of my back.
His room would be the one on the end, assuming he’s staying here. If it were me, and I planned to betray my friend, I’d switch things up. But Ian’s a man of routine. And a man, period, meaning he assumes invincibility.
Blowing out a breath, I approach the door. Brian might be hidden behind it, gagged, drugged. Or he’s already dead. Or they’re not here; they could be far from here. One last glance at my phone, but nothing from John.
I step to the side, out of view of the peephole. I knock gently.
Five seconds pass. Then ten.
I knock again, count one, two, three…
The door opens. I whip around, shove inside, pushing through the door and smashing the person who opened it backward. They go down with a yelp, and half a beat later, I’ve kicked the door shut, whipped out my gun, and have it held in a two-handed grip, pointed at their chest.
It’s not Ian.
It’s not Brian.
It’s a woman.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Who the fuck are you?” she replies, glaring.
There’s hint of an accent, but I can’t place it.
She has long, dark hair; blazing eyes; tanned skin.
If we were anywhere else, I’d feel the need to ask her where she gets her hair done—it’s immaculately straight and shiny, and I’d be lying if I said I’m not jealous.
“Where’s Ian?” I snap.
“How the hell would I know? Why do you think I’m here?
” She scoots back, sits up, touches a hand to her head.
“Why did you do that? You could have just asked to come in. But no, you had to do the Hollywood thing. It’s very American of you,” she adds, as though that’s something I should really work on.
That’s when I realize she’s not scared—not trembling or looking at the gun with wide eyes.
Which means she probably knows everything.
I open my mouth, try to find the right words. “Why are you not afraid of the gun?”
“Because you’re her.” The woman’s words are loaded with disgust and she sneers.
“Her?”
“The woman he’s fucking.”
I freeze, then shake myself, frown, lower the gun slightly. “I’m not fucking anyone.” Not even my own husband, given what I saw in San Diego. Then I realize he’s been fucking other people, which means I’ve effectively been sleeping with other people too. Ew.
She snorts. Brushes herself off, stands, ignoring my weapon entirely. “Right. You’re not having sex with my husband, but he’s at your beck and call.”
“You’re Ian’s wife?” I put together.
“Yes.” She stands a little taller, like she’s proud of that fact. She puts her hands on her hips and surveys the room critically, and I realize what she’s been up to—she’s searching the room. Also hunting for Ian. Which makes me like her more and him less.
“I’m not sleeping with him,” I say. It’s important she knows that. Important she likes me, maybe even sees me as a friend, because I know instinctively that she will be useful. Besides, kissing is not fucking. But back to business. “He took my husband.”
“You’re married?” She looks uncertain, and maybe a little hopeful.
Though I have no doubt this woman is dangerous, she doesn’t seem like she wants to attack me. And she knows what Ian is, what he does for money. A quick sweep of the room tells me she’s here alone. I put my gun in its holster. “Yes.”
“Well, that might be the case, but it’s not because he’s not trying. He’s obsessed with you.”
“What?”
“You heard me. It’s always ‘Nadia this, Nadia that.’ ” She turns her back, goes to the bulky dresser, and starts pulling out drawers. “Why do you think I’m here? He takes off again to this godforsaken state. So I followed him.”
The pieces start to form a cohesive picture. Ian took off. His wife—this woman—pursued him here. She thinks we’re having an affair. She says he’s obsessed with me. Which he’s not, but I can see how she’d get the wrong idea.
“Look, I have no interest in Ian beyond finding him before he kills my husband.”
She looks up at me, gives me another intense stare. “Well, that makes sense. Fucker.”
I feel like I’m missing something, and I sit on the edge of the king-sized bed, watch as she moves on to his roller bag, sifting through the contents.
“You think he wants to kill my husband because he’s obsessed with me?”
She gives a quick nod. “I don’t think. I know.”
“There’s a contract on my husband. That’s why he wants to kill him. It’s worth a lot of money.”
“Whatever helps you sleep,” she says.
“But there is. My handler gave it to me.”
And suddenly, in an obscure way, it almost makes sense. Almost. The contract is real. But Ian could have lied—about many things. What he saw Brian doing, specifically. Maybe there’s another explanation for the woman I saw him with. Hope rises up inside me only to plummet back to Earth.
Then why would Brian have such a large contract on his life?
“Do you know where he is?” I ask.
“No. Of course not. God forbid he tell me anything.”
I stare at her. “Can you help me?”
She raises her brow. Smiles in a way that is not a smile at all. “Why would I help you?”
“Because I don’t want your husband. I want my husband. And as long as I’m with mine”—assuming he’s not trafficking people, I add silently—“I am obviously not with yours.”
She sits down in the nearby chair, shoulders slouched. She sighs. “What do you want?”
“I just need to know where he is.”
“And then what are you going to do?”
“Get my husband back.” And try to sort out this mess. God, what if Brian isn’t guilty of anything? What if he’s only guilty of being with someone like me?
“And to my husband? What are you going to do with him?”
I tilt my head. Ian took Brian. Ian is maybe obsessed with me. He lied to me. Betrayed me. I’m not sure what I’ll do. If I were a different type of psychopath, I’d kill him. But I’m not like him. At least, I’ll keep telling myself that.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask.
She smiles for real this time. “Maybe don’t kill him. But put a bullet somewhere it will hurt.”