Chapter Fifteen
The ding of the text message brought Alice out of the first night of solid sleep that she had experienced in a very long time.
For a moment she thought she was back in her cozy little cottage on the campus of the Ballantine Academy, protected by high walls and surrounded by colleagues who respected her abilities and students who needed her skills.
In the next beat of her heart, reality lanced through her. Cadence Ballantine was dead, and the Academy was buried beneath the high-rise towers of a tech company.
She opened her eyes and discovered that Sebastian was hovering over her. He chortled a greeting. The lenses of the glamorous sunglasses and the crystals of his necklace sparkled in the morning sun. She reached out to give him a hug.
“I know,” she said. “It’s time for breakfast.”
“Breakfast is on the way.” Owen emerged from the bathroom wearing a pair of khaki trousers and a partially buttoned long-sleeved white shirt. His severely cut dark hair was still damp from the shower. “I ordered room service. It will arrive in about twenty minutes.”
“Sounds good.”
She sat up, instinctively clutching the sheet to her throat, and stomped hard on the glorious little thrill of intimacy that was making her senses zing.
Technically the morning marked the end of their second night together, and they hadn’t even shared a bed last night.
But she was still a long way from being able to think of Owen as a partner and colleague.
When he was in the room, she was aware of him in ways that were new—and invigorating.
She liked having him around, she realized, and not just because he was on her side in the battle against the Kelbrook empire. She liked it because it felt right. There was something satisfying about his energy.
Sexual attraction, she reminded herself. Powerful and stimulating, yes, but nothing a mature adult steeped in the Ballantine Method could not handle.
Core Principle Number Five: You control your talent; your talent does not control you.
Wait. That principle did not apply. This wasn’t about controlling her psychic senses. It was about dealing with sexual attraction.
This was a situation that required Core Principle Number One: Do not mistake impulse for true intuition.
So, was this attraction driven by impulse? Or was her intuition trying to tell her something?
Damn. Talk about complicated.
“I think I heard a text come in on your phone,” Owen prompted.
“Oh, right.” She grabbed her phone. “Unknown number.”
“Click on it. Probably spam, but we can’t risk missing any new info.”
She clicked on the text. Her pulse jumped.
She read aloud.
“ ‘I was his girlfriend, the one he named in the video that was posted online by the Curtain. We need to talk. The Ruins Club. Tonight. Midnight. Come alone.’ ”
“Now that,” Owen said, his voice dangerously soft, “is interesting.”
“How should I respond?”
“You sure as green hell will not be leaving the Amber Palace to meet someone at a nightclub in the middle of the night.”
“You said we needed information. She must have some.”
“Information that she wants to sell, assuming she’s who she claims to be, which is a very big question. But we’re the buyers. That gives us leverage. We choose the location. Tell her you’ll meet her here at the Amber Palace. The mezzanine coffee shop at eleven o’clock this morning.”
“She won’t go for it. That coffee shop overlooks the lobby. It’s a very public space. She’s obviously nervous about being seen with me.”
“Tell her that you can’t leave the Amber Palace and the coffee shop is the only option. If she is for real, she’ll agree.”
“And if she doesn’t agree?”
“Trust me, she’ll go for it.”
“You sound like you’ve done this kind of negotiating before.”
“Yes,” he said.
He did not offer any more context.
Focus, Alice.
She went back to her phone and made her counteroffer. She held her breath, certain that whoever had sent the text message was scared—maybe too frightened to meet in public.
It seemed like a very long time before she got a response. When it came it was short.
“ ‘Meet you at the coffee shop. Eleven. Look for blond hair and sunglasses. I will be carrying a copy of the Curtain.’ ”
“That description will probably cover half of the women in the coffee shop,” Owen said.
“It’s not like we gave her much time to plan.” She hesitated. “This feels a little desperate.”
“Everyone involved in this thing is probably desperate by now.”
“Last night you were sure that Kelbrook’s fixer would be the first one to make contact.”
“I said Twitchell would be the first one to contact me. You got a surprise text from a player who wasn’t even on the board until the video went wide. That changes the dynamic.”
“How?” she asked.
“We’ll find out if the mystery woman shows up at eleven.”
A series of crisp knocks sounded on the door.
“Room service.”
Owen started across the suite. She suddenly remembered that she was in bed, dressed in a pair of pajamas. Alarmed, she jumped to her feet and fled toward the sanctuary of the bathroom.
Halfway across the room she noticed that the sofa bed Owen had used was still open. The rumpled sheets and blanket provided visual evidence that the Deranged Bride and her new husband had slept in separate beds.
“Owen,” she said, struggling to keep her voice down. “The sofa is still open. The room service guy is bound to notice.”
“Look on the bright side,” Owen said. He opened the door with a flourish and smiled triumphantly at the room service waiter. “I survived the night.”
“Congratulations, sir,” the waiter said. “And thanks. The room service staff had a bet going on whether I’d find you dead in bed. I just won a hundred bucks.”