Chapter 2
Beautiful, that’s my second thought when the door opens. My first was about freedom and revenge. But as soon as my eyes land on hers, my revenge plans quickly take a back burner.
I allow myself to look at her for a bit. She’s frowning. Her lips are curved like Cupid's bow and perfectly rosy. I can tell she has no gloss or lipstick on. Must be the natural shade of her lips.
I wonder if, when I kiss her, if I touch my lips to hers, the color will change from rosy to red.
The pain in my wrist brings me back to the reality of my situation. This woman just saw what she shouldn't have. That sight would destroy my image. I won't let that happen.
“Suzanne, can you keep a secret?”
Her frown deepens. She steps backward, away from the bed.
“Suzanne?”
She doesn’t answer. She places her hands on her hips and stares down at me. I should feel embarrassed. I’m stark naked in front of a woman who, under different circumstances, I would have tried to impress.
I don't particularly care. My life isn't particularly built on modesty. Covering up will be a concession I am not willing to make, especially to a woman who has seen me at the bottom of whatever this is.
She can look all she wants.
“Won’t you give me a response? I asked you a question, Suzanne.”
“I didn’t tell you my name so you could use it at will.”
I keep my eyes on her face as I smile. It’s been a long night of staring at the wall. But her gaze suddenly makes me feel alive. Fire is dancing in those eyes. It’s raw and untamed. I want to get closer to her, so I can see exactly what’s in those eyes.
She’s definitely gutsy, I’ll give her that. I wonder if she’s like this with all guests, or if I’m just naturally infuriating. I’d rather the latter. I’ll prefer if this side of Suzanne is preserved just for me, especially since I don’t get a lot of it in my daily life.
“She speaks.” Suzanne glares at me. I wonder what her smile will look like. Probably as captivating as her frown. “Tell me…what will it take for you to keep my secret?”
“I won’t tell anyone. I promise. So if you’ll excuse me…” She nods and starts turning around.
“Suzanne…”
She stops moving.
“We’re not done here.” I finally get up from the bed. I do this slowly, because there is a thin gray hum behind my eyes that suggests whatever I drank last night is not entirely out of me.
I cross to the chair by the window and pull on the pair of trousers the woman from last night stripped from me. If only I knew she also planned to disappear with other, more important possessions.
Slowly, I slip each leg into my pants until my lower region is fully covered. When I turn, she is still standing exactly where she was.
I realize I’ve been too conversational. I let my attraction get the best of me. Just as I did last night. Well, it was more than that. I needed a drink and some company. No strings attached. The woman clearly didn’t get the memo.
Suzanne doesn’t speak. I look at her, but her eyes stay fixed on the wall like she’s doing everything she can not to look at me. What a shame.
“I won’t tell anyone. Whatever happens in this room stays in this room. It’s hotel policy.”
“Hmm.”
It might be hotel policy. She might even be telling the truth. I can see it in her eyes. Suzanne doesn’t strike me as a gossip. But I didn't get this far by taking people at their word. I made sure they could never double-cross me.
"That won't be enough."
"Excuse me?"
"Your word. It won't be enough." I button the trousers. "I'm going to need you to sign a non-disclosure agreement. I'll compensate you generously.” I offer her a smile. “I'm very good at compensation."
She gasps. Her face twists in disgust. “Excuse me? What do you take me for?”
“What do you think?” I tilt my head.
I take a step forward. She doesn’t move back.
Now that I’m closer, I can see her better.
Her eyes are fierce and unyielding. Her dark hair is pulled back so tight it shows the line of her temple, the delicious curve of her neck.
Her eyebrows are thick and bushy, framing almond-shaped eyes and an angular face.
Like I said earlier, beautiful. But very, very angry.
She huffs and turns away from me. “I’m not signing anything.”
“You don’t have a choice. I won’t let you leave this room unless you do.”
“Really? Are you going to cuff me to the bed as well? Hold me hostage?”
I grin. Feisty. “Don’t tempt me, Suzanne.”
Our eyes meet again. My body jerks involuntarily. She’s still frowning. But it’s more than annoyance. I’ve gotten under her skin. I’ve made her uncomfortable. Good.
“Look… I’m not allowed to tell anyway. So you can just…”
“Sign the document.”
“Why won’t you — ” She stops. Her face suddenly drains of all color from her cheekbones down to her neck. Her hand comes up to rest on my desk beside her, but it doesn’t reach it.
I don’t give myself time to think. The moment I see her knees give way, I’m across the room.
My hands reach out instinctively, and I catch her before she can hit the floor.
Her weight comes into my chest in a single soft drop.
Her head tips against my shoulder. Her mouth is moving, mumbling something. I don’t hear it.
I lift her and carry her to the bed. She weighs almost nothing, which gives me a clue as to why she’s currently unconscious in my arms. Her cheek against my collarbone is hot and dry. I don’t mind having her in my arms. The mechanics surprise me.
I place her on the bed gently.
I stand over her. I watch her chest. It rises and falls steadily. I pull the duvet up to her collarbone, careful not to brush her skin with the back of my hand, and I step away from the bed. But I can’t help myself. I stop and stare down at her.
She looks peaceful with her eyes closed. Precious even.
I turn around and walk to the safe before I do anything that’ll make her wake up and slap me. The door is still ajar. The interior is still empty.
What was inside the safe were the original acquisition papers from the Maddox deal. The private memos. The reasoning. The methods I employed in ripping the company out of Henrik’s hands. They were legal — my lawyers made sure of that. But they were also brutal and unethical.
In the wrong hands, these documents become a lie. Nobody grabs them by accident. This is planned. Leaving the key on the nightstand was a nice touch. A humiliation ritual.
I'm not sure who it is. That’s what happens when you offend a lot of people. It could be Neil. He wants my company badly, and I can always smell the jealousy rolling off him in waves. But Neil is too stupid and too desperate to pull something like this off.
Then who?
I take my phone off the dresser. I scroll to the one number that answered at any hour. My eyes find Suzanne as I wait for Marisol to pick up.
“Mr. Nightingale, is everything alright?”
"Not exactly, Marisol, but we’ll talk about it in person. For now, I need you to pull every file we hold on the Maddox acquisition. I also need footage from the Cresswell bar. I’m looking for a woman. Tall redhead."
“Hmm…did she take something from you?”
Suzanne moans and shifts her body slightly to the left. She curls up now, looking adorable between my sheets. I keep watching her. “Yes, I just need you to find her and figure out who sent her.”
“Do you want the police involved?”
“No. This stays between us.”
She is quiet for one second. I know she is surprised. Things like this don't happen to me. I’m usually very thorough and careful. Yet this woman managed to trick me.
"I'll call you back in an hour," Marisol finally says.
I end the call.
I stand in the middle of the bedroom with the phone still in my hand and let myself, for the first time since I opened my eyes this morning, confront the question I have been sliding past.
What exactly happened last night?
My memory is hazy, but I can still remember a bit of it.
I went to the bar last night. I was on my second glass of whisky when the redhead approached.
She seemed perfectly harmless and eager.
When she offered to buy me a drink, I thought it was clever flirting.
She slid onto the stool next to mine, and I remember her hand on my thigh.
She ordered a second drink, then a third.
That’s exactly when my memory cuts off. Nothing after that.
But I know exactly why I was at that bar in the first place. I was trying to prove something to myself. And even now, when the answers are more important than my ego, I still won’t admit it.
I put the phone face down on the dresser and look at the woman on my bed. She’s still asleep. Her cart is in the hallway. I can see the handle through the open door of the bedroom.
I walk to it. It’s only fair that I check inside. The cart is the only object in this suite I have not inventoried. I roll it into the room. I lift the stack of folded towels off the lower shelf. A softbound sketchbook with Suzanne's name on the cover slides out and lands at my feet.
Interesting.
The cover is gray cloth. The corners are worn round. There is a smudge of charcoal on the spine where I imagine her thumb has held it open.
I pick it up and open it.
The first page is a pair of hands, wringing a cloth. The line work is fast and precise — the bones of the knuckles, the cord of a thumb tendon, the wet weight of the fabric. I've never seen anything on a page feel as real as this.
I turn it.
A view of a lobby from inside a service corridor. The doorway is a black rectangle. The lobby beyond it is sketched in light. The two figures crossing it are turned away from her, and you understand without being told that the woman who drew this watched them from the dark and was not seen.
I turn it again.
This one is of a woman. An older woman, I assume. Her mother, perhaps, or grandmother. Her hands are clasped in front of her. Some of the features are incomplete and inconsistent, as if she couldn’t quite remember what this person looked like.
I glance at Suzanne again. Her mother must have passed. I know I should understand her grief, given recent circumstances, but I don’t allow myself to. I don’t want to.
I close the sketchbook.
The art world has always been in my periphery, for as long as I can recall. I have looked at thousands of portfolios. I have signed several artists over the last couple of years and paid off a number of them when things didn’t work out. I know what I’m holding.
She is extraordinary.
I look up through the doorway at the woman asleep in my bed.
Who are you?
I don't have an answer. Her hair comes loose where it catches against the pillow, the line of her cheek, the duvet rising and falling at her shoulder — and my heart moves beneath my ribs.
I don't want her to leave… That is interesting.
I turn the sketchbook in my hands and watch her sleep. There's a lot I don’t know about her. She already has an unfair advantage over me since she has witnessed me at my most vulnerable. I need to even out the playing field somehow.
I doubt if Suzanne will ever let me get close enough to truly discover who she is underneath all that fire. Or maybe she will, and I’ll get burned. Nevertheless, I know for a fact that it will be quite a ride.
Suzanne starts to stir. She stretches, and her eyes open slowly. They dart around the room for a second before landing on my face, then my neck, then the book in my hands. She sits up and jumps out of bed.
“Careful.”
She ignores me. She marches right up to me and snatches the sketchbook from my hands. “You have no right.”
I cock my head. “Don’t I? You’ve seen me naked. We’re not even yet.”
“I didn’t ask to see you naked. You were sprawled out here for literally anyone to see.”
“And I didn’t ask to see your sketchbook. You really shouldn’t keep personal things so carelessly.”
She glares at me and starts tucking the sketchbook into her cart. I want to stop her. I want to say a smart thing to keep her here longer. It's about much more than the NDA. I want her. But I know I’ll have to bide my time.
I’ll have to let her go today. And maybe even a second time. But my patience can only last for so long, and I may never let her go.
I don’t say anything as she pushes her cart past me. Suzanne doesn’t even look at me. In a second, she’s gone from the room, and I hear the door close angrily.
There’s only one thing I can do now. I reach for the hotel landline and dial.
"Front desk. Put me through to Roger Tate. Housekeeping."