Chapter Twenty-Two Who Doesn’t Like a Little Praise?
Adelina
The good news is that thanks to the picture of his ID (and the one West accidentally snapped of his butt), I was able to determine that the guard’s name is Elliot Dupont.
The bad news is that Europe has crazy-impressive privacy protection laws when it comes to personal data, so it unfortunately took me over two hours before I was finally able to pinpoint Elliot’s phone.
I’m sure many of us don’t think of our phones as anything more than a way to call up friends and family, play mobile games, or scroll through social media.
In reality, they make us walking targets.
Apps on your phone are constantly transmitting information about you to ad exchanges to give advertisers the best shot at turning a click into a purchase.
What’s included in that information? General age range, gender, recent browser searches, and—you guessed it—your location.
(I could go into a whole spiel about how we live in a surveillance state, but I don’t have time for that. Plus, it makes me sound like a conspiracy theorist. Which I’m not. At least, not about this. Our phones are absolutely listening to us.)
By limiting my search to everything within the municipality of Nice around the time of the incident at Berruci’s villa a week ago, I was able to find the exact pings off Elliot’s phone through publicly accessible code, and traced a route directly from the villa to H?pital Pasteur a little after West and I fled the scene.
West and I are sitting in the visitor parking lot, our rental car tucked discreetly between two large SUVs. A few people have been in and out through the main entrance, but nobody has paid us any mind.
“How are you going to get past the front desk?” I ask. “It’s well past visiting hours.”
West tilts his head to the side, no doubt strategizing. “I’ll wing it.”
“That’s very reassuring,” I reply dryly.
“Stay in the car, okay? I’ll be back in about twenty minutes, give or take. If you hear alarms going off, start the engine immediately. We’ll need a quick getaway.”
“I don’t want to stay in the car,” I protest.
“What if I crack the window and turn the radio on for you?”
“Fuck off. I want to come with you. If you can distract the receptionist, I can use their system to find out which room Elliot is staying in.”
West hums thoughtfully. “That’s definitely much easier than what I was planning.”
“What were you going to do?”
“Seduce them, probably.”
I glare at him. “What if it’s a guy behind the desk?”
He pumps his eyebrows. “I hope he’s a hunk.
I’d love to be swept off my feet.” When I groan, West throws his head back and laughs, his rich voice filling the cabin of the car.
And I’m almost…glad for it. It’s nice to see him return to his old self.
After the shitshow that was today, it’s a welcome sight.
“I’m joking,” he goes on. “Besides, you know I only have eyes for you.”
My stupid, traitorous heart skips a beat. “Do you really want to keep playing this game?”
“Do you want me to stop?” he asks. Slowly, he leans across the center console, leaving only a few inches of space between us.
All of the air suddenly rushes from my lungs, but I can’t bring myself to look away.
“All you need to do is say the word,” he continues, his voice huskier than a moment before, “and I promise I won’t bother you anymore. ”
The logical part of my brain tells me to run, but when my treacherous eyes flit down to the curve of his lips without my permission, I find myself suddenly lightheaded.
He could kiss me, if he wanted to. A quick lean forward to crash our mouths together.
Wasn’t I the one who dared him to try to make me see stars?
I know this is foolish. Dangerous, even, to allow for such a terrible distraction.
I wouldn’t be here in the south of France (about to partake in a massive violation of personal health information, no less) were it not for the man seated beside me.
Yet there’s something tempting in his smirk, a challenge that I can’t bring myself to shy away from.
When West pushes, it’s a thrill to push back.
“I don’t want you to stop,” I murmur softly. “I want you to touch me.”
West leans forward, stroking my cheek with his hand.
I’m enraptured by the warmth of his fingers and the tenderness of his touch.
He closes the gap between us, leaving me waiting with bated breath, but our lips never make contact.
Instead, he hovers barely a whisper away.
He stares deeply into my eyes, slipping his hand back to brush his fingers over the sunflower tattoo tucked behind my ear.
Sometimes I genuinely forget that it’s even there, so I’m surprised at his sincere caress, and even more surprised that West bothered to notice it in the first place.
His other hand roams of its own volition, tracing a line down my neck toward my shoulders.
My pulse comes much too loudly in the quiet stillness of the car, his ravenous gaze setting my blood on fire.
He continues his way down over my breast, sliding over my belly, before slipping his hand beneath my shirt with a curious glint in his eyes.
My breath hitches at the contact of skin on skin, his fingers slowly sliding back up to push aside the fabric of my bra.
He squeezes, lightly pinching my nipple.
“Fuck,” I whimper, pressing my knees together in an attempt to ignore the heat flooding between my legs.
“Do you like this?” he asks, voice low and rough with something I don’t dare name.
I nod, too dizzy for words.
“And this?” His hand slides down, the motion slow and controlled, shamelessly stroking along my inner thigh. Pleasure pulses in my core, building pressure with every passing second.
“West—”
“Look at you. An absolute mess.”
“Kiss me,” I rasp, barely keeping it together.
He glances down at my lips and grins. Just when I think he might finally indulge me—
“I’ll think about it,” he says, pulling away to open the driver’s-side door.
I can’t help but sputter, my whole face burning like I’ve tripped headfirst into lava. “Are you kidding me?”
“Let’s go, mon tournesol. We’ve got work to do.”
“What does that mean?” I call after him, flustered and pent-up as hell.
West laughs like the menace to society that he is. I swear to God I’m going to kill him.
But for now, we infiltrate.
I’m beginning to realize that a lot of what we do comes down to luck.
We’re lucky that it’s a relatively quiet evening at the hospital, only a handful of patients with their family and friends milling about.
We’re lucky that there’s only one young woman (dressed in scrubs patterned with yellow ducks) working the front desk.
We’re also very lucky that the moment West steps in through the automatic sliding doors, Miss Ducky Scrubs takes such immediate and keen (and not at all subtle) interest in him that I’m effectively rendered invisible as he saunters up to her.
“Salut,” he greets, casually leaning against the edge of the counter.
I’m not exactly sure what they say after that, since I’m too concerned with slipping away unnoticed.
I don’t venture very far, choosing a spot on the wall to lean against and deliberately turning my back to her as I pull out my phone and pretend to be enthralled with whatever’s on screen. I have to wait for an opening.
A text from Lily sits waiting for me. She’s attached a picture of herself at some restaurant, new travel companions gathered alongside her.
She’s snuggled up to a very handsome man.
I can’t help but smile. I’m glad one of us is having a fun time in Europe.
Hopefully her new friend isn’t as much of a relentless tease as West.
Lily: Just landed in Barcelona! Thinking of you!
Miss Ducky Scrubs giggles loudly, the sound drawing my attention over my shoulder.
West has convinced her to leave her station, probably inviting her for a coffee or maybe to show him the way to the gift shop.
Whatever his play is, it’s working. I notice West’s nimble hands move toward her hip, expertly swiping the ID card clipped to her shirt.
He plucks it off her in one swift motion, holding it out to me between his middle and forefinger.
West throws me a subtle glance, his way of saying here you go.
I glide past them quickly, but not so quickly that I capture her attention, grabbing her ID card on the way past. My heart is in my throat. How on Earth does he make sleight of hand look so easy? He could pluck the tail off a rat and it likely wouldn’t even notice.
The computer at the front desk is nothing fancy, but it does require a card swipe to log in.
Credit where credit is due: it’s far more secure than a written password.
After I run her ID through the reader, the computer beeps lightly, allowing me access to the hospital’s admittance records.
Unfortunately, everything’s in French, but it’s nothing a quick CTRL + F shortcut can’t solve.
When the search bar slides down in the upper right-hand corner of the screen, I waste no time typing Elliot’s name.
Elliot Dupont—Chambre 412C
Bingo.
I log out of the computer and ensure I’ve left everything how it was, but I keep the receptionist’s ID on hand.
Never know when it might come in handy. West has managed to usher the nurse toward the vending machines on the other side of the waiting room.
He leans casually against the side, her attention square on his dazzling smile.
I leave the way I came, giving West a nod of confirmation as I traipse past and start toward the elevators with purpose.
It’s all about looking like I belong. The second I appear confused or lost is the second someone inevitably asks me what I’m doing here.
West joins me a minute later, just as I knew he would, his hands tucked nonchalantly in his pockets as we wait for the elevator car to arrive.