Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
Myles
I race downstairs, running along a hallway lined with closed doors.
Zara could be behind any of them. Terror burns in my chest, fear that I’ve lost her, that I’ll somehow never see her again.
It’s obvious what happened now, and I curse my stupidity at not speaking up, but my mind was still so fogged with sleep.
Katya, in her usual fashion, has obviously shown up and blagged her way into my room.
She’s been here before, so it’s not like she wouldn’t have known where I was, or that the staff wouldn’t recognise her.
She always complained bitterly about staying here, wanting to be in the new modern enclave rather than the heart of the old city.
Christ. What must it have looked like to Zara, after all we’ve been through?
She knows what Katya’s like but, more importantly, she knows what I’m like.
What I used to be like, anyway, taking Katya back every time she pulled a stunt, like a fool.
Of course she was going to think that was what happened again.
Things between us were so new, so fragile.
And now Katya’s appearance might have damaged them irreparably.
I slow to a stop, my chest aching, my eyes sore. I cannot lose Zara, not now.
Where the hell is she?
I head down to reception. I should have come here first, but my brain, my heart, are too scrambled. All I know is that I have to find her. I go to the front desk.
“Can you tell me which room Zara Woodman is in? It should be on my booking.”
“Of course, Mr Brandon. Are you enjoying the suite?” The young woman behind the desk smiles. “And did Miss Evanovna find you?”
“She did.” The words are curt, and the young woman’s smile fades slightly.
It’s not her fault, but I feel irrationally angry with her.
Katya is famous and it’s well-known she’s with me.
It makes sense, especially if she acted as though she was meeting me, that they would have let her into my room. “The suite is fine. But Miss Woodman?”
The young woman types something, looking at her screen. Then she turns to me, a slight frown on her face. “She’s in Room 157,” she says. “But she’s checked out already.”
“How long ago?” I snarl the words. My heart is agony. Where the fuck has she gone?
“Around ten minutes,” another voice says. I recognise the young man who showed us around the suite. Was it only two days ago? It feels like a lifetime.
I don’t answer, running for the door. She might still be there. But when I get outside there’s no sign of her. I glance up and down the street, but can’t spot her in the crowds. I turn to the doorman.
“Miss Woodman. Tall, with brown hair? She left just a few minutes ago. Did you see which way she went?”
The man looks startled. I suppose I might look somewhat dishevelled, in my crumpled linen and bare feet. I run a hand through my hair, and immediately remember Zara doing the same last night, my face between her legs. This is torture, pure and simple. I cannot lose her.
“She got in a taxi, sir. I believe to the airport.” He glances at the security guard, who nods.
I pat my pockets. Shit. I don’t have my wallet or any way to pay.
I head back inside, taking the elevator to the roof and running back into the suite.
Katya is still there. She’s naked now, her lush curves splayed across the bed where, just a few hours earlier, I’d held Zara close. It feels like a violation.
“Myles,” she calls, drawing out the syllable. “Come back to bed. C’mon baby. You know you want to.”
I ignore her, grabbing my passport, wallet and laptop, stuffing them in a bag. The hotel can pack up the rest and send it to me.
“Myles!” Katya’s voice follows me, the volume increasing. It cuts off as the door closes behind me.
I race downstairs again, dropping my key at reception. “Miss Evanovna can stay in the suite tonight if she wishes,” I say. “I’ve left some items there too, that I need sent on.”
“Of course, Mr Brandon.” It’s the young man. “Is… everything all right, sir? It’s just, the young lady, she seemed quite upset earlier.” At a warning glance from his co-worker he stops, clearing his throat. “I hope you had a pleasant stay, sir.”
“Yes.” I sign the hotel bill, trying not to think of Zara crying as she left the hotel. Now she’s out there, alone and upset, because of me. The pain is almost unbearable.
I head outside and take the first cab I see. Urgency pulls in my chest as we thread our way through the traffic towards the airport. But it’s slow going, even slower than usual, and frustration burns through me.
“What’s the holdup?” I snap.
The driver shrugs. “Sorry,” he says. “Cart overturned.”
I peer over his shoulder. Up ahead one of the ubiquitous wooden carts, loaded with orange tree branches, has overturned, spilling its load across two lanes.
The driver has led his donkey to the side of the road and is now trying to clean up, helped by a couple of passers-by.
But traffic has slowed to a crawl, cars trying to get around the mess of branches.
Hopefully Zara’s been caught in the same traffic.
Or hasn’t been able to get a flight. Christ, I just want to see her, to hold her close and tell her I’m sorry, over and over again.
I could say it’s not my fault that Katya showed up, but in a way it is, because of how many times I’ve taken her back before.
What else was Zara supposed to think, seeing us like that?
I pull out my phone to call her, even though I don’t know what to say.
It rings, and I wait, hoping to hear her voice. But she doesn’t answer.
Finally, after what seems like an eternity, we pull into the airport.
I’m out of the taxi before it comes to a full stop, handing a pile of notes to the driver, far more than the fare.
I don’t look back, racing into the terminal.
I stop, looking around. There are people everywhere, but I would be able to pick Zara out of a crowd of thousands.
I can’t see her. Fuck. What the hell am I supposed to do now?
I check my watch. There’s still a few hours before my take-off slot, but I can go through security now.
I make one last pass along the check-in desks, past the cafés, but there’s no sign of her.
I head for security, scanning my passport and taking the FastTrack lane.
And all the while my heart is beating Zara’s name, calling for her.
I feel as though I’ve lost part of myself, and I’ll never be the same again.
Once through security I head through duty-free, weaving between the crowds, searching everywhere for Zara’s brown ponytail. I go to each gate, because I don’t know where she’s gone. Then, at the second-last gate, I see a sign for London. I race up to the desk.
“I’m sorry sir. The flight is closed.”
I look out the window to see a plane reversing back, turning slowly like a great ship.
“Did you see a girl with a brown ponytail?” I ask. “Is she on there?”
The flight attendant shrugs, glancing at her companion. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know. The flight is fully booked, lots of people.”
“Can you check the passenger list? Zara Woodman. It’s… important. Please.”
The plane is heading towards the runway now and I watch it go, anguish burning in my chest. I don’t know if she’s on there. She could have chosen to fly anywhere. Butmy heart tells me that she’s on that plane, that she’s going home.
The flight attendant glances at her companion again, then at me. Perhaps it’s the desperation in my voice that sways her, but she quickly types something in, scrolling with her mouse. “Yes. I can confirm she was on the flight.”
Thank God. At least if she’s in London there’s a chance I can see her and explain.
“Thank you.” I wander over to the seats, sinking into one, feeling as though I’ve been punched in the chest. I pull out my phone and text my pilot, asking about an earlier take-off slot.
Then I lean forward, my head in my hands.
Even though I’m going back to London as well, I can’t shake this feeling that I’ve lost her.
I don’t know what I’ll do if I have.