Masked Secrets (Love Over Murder #4)

1. Stuart

STUART

My father can be infuriating at times. I love him, but instead of treating me like the fully functional thirty-two-year-old adult I am, he acts as if I’m still in school.

It’s true, my mates and I haven’t grown out of the party scene.

We still enjoy Ibiza and the other locales frequented by offspring of the wealthy.

That doesn’t mean I’m inept at business matters.

I’m perfectly capable of handling them for my family when necessary.

Dad, however, didn’t even think I could select my own hotel. He ignored my choice and insisted I stay in downtown Los Angeles. Doesn’t he know that Beverly Hills, Malibu, or a dozen other places would have made more sense?

As usual, I tried to explain. Of course, he wouldn’t listen. He just repeated his argument that I’m here for work, not pleasure, and need to be near our business advisors. And he wasn’t joking. I’m literally staying in the same building as the law firm and PR firm we use. Talk about efficiency.

It’s not like I can complain about the accommodations themselves. I’m in a luxury suite on a secure floor, accessible only by keycard. The amenities are first class, and room service offers everything from caviar to Wagyu beef.

My complaint is that downtown LA is not where I want to be in the evenings.

I’d much rather be where there’s nightlife and then travel downtown for business during the day.

Hell, much of my business here isn’t even in downtown.

I suspect this is Dad’s way of trying to limit my appearance in the tabloids.

If I’m not out and about, the paparazzi won’t catch me having much fun.

I shouldn’t be surprised that Dad is pressuring me to leave all the fun behind and turn into his version of a serious adult. However, my frustration with him often leads me to party a little harder. I should be allowed to control my own life, right?

While my dad doesn’t approve of my lifestyle, he’s right that my goal is to have fun and enjoy life for as long as possible. There will be plenty of time to live the boring decades of adulthood when I take over his position. Fortunately, that’s still a few years in the future.

For now, I did receive one bit of good news. My uni mates, Evan and Sean, are meeting me for drinks tonight. If they hadn’t happened to be in LA, I’d be stuck grabbing a drink by myself, which is not my favorite way to spend an evening.

A quick glance at my Patek Philippe watch shows I’m running a bit late. They’re probably already sipping cocktails at the rooftop bar. I need to hurry if I’m to catch up.

As I pull the phone from my pocket to text them, the lift—or as my American friends would say, the elevator—finally arrives.

After punching the button for the Sky Lounge, I lean against the back wall of the empty space, texting:

Me: I’m in the lift on my way up. Order an Old Fashioned for me.

Evan: Sorry, mate. We’re stuck in traffic. The driver says it’s 2 hours from Malibu to downtown. We should have hired a helicopter.

Me: 2 hours! That’s bloody ridiculous. Let’s meet up another time.

Evan: Okay. Let us know your schedule.

Me: Will do.

They’re staying at a beach house in Malibu while I’m stuck in the middle of the business district of LA. No one I know is nearby. It’s too bad that my assistant, Lawrence, didn’t travel with me this time. We could have checked out some clubs. He has a girlfriend now but still makes a good wingman.

Hell, at this point, I should go back to my room, order room service, and call it a night.

But I don’t. Experience has taught me that the best way to overcome jet lag is to immediately adapt to the schedule in the new time zone.

If I retire to my suite now, I’ll give in and fall asleep, sure to regret that choice when I wake up fully rested around 3 a.m. local time.

My thoughts are interrupted when the lift slows to a stop, and the doors slide open. A woman steps in, holding the door open as she speaks to someone out of eyesight. “I’ll head up to save seats for everyone. See you in a few minutes,” she calls out, her voice bright but forced.

She notices me, and her head bobs a perfunctory nod. I catch a glimpse of her eyes—green, flecked with gold. In that instant, I sense she’s sharp and observant with an underlying hint of softness. There’s also a trace of exhaustion hiding behind her polite exterior.

As I lower my head, once again focusing on my phone, she turns back to the panel, pressing the already lit button for the top floor.

Soon, her citrus perfume permeates the air, causing me to look up again and appreciate her reflection in the mirrored doors.

Her auburn hair, illuminated by the soft overhead light, falls in loose waves over her shoulders.

She flicks errant strands off the delicate curve of her neck and gives her head a quick shake.

I can’t take my eyes off her curls as they bounce against her emerald, sleeveless blouse that’s fitted just enough to outline her shape without being too suggestive.

My gaze travels down, landing on her black pencil skirt that hugs her curves just right.

My eyes follow as the fabric moves with her as she shifts her weight from foot to foot as if her feet are aching from a long day in high heels—extremely sexy high heels.

Her professional clothing, bright voice, and well-practiced movements to manage tired feet suggest she’s accustomed to playing her role for as many hours as required.

It’s the slight slump in her shoulders that tells me her reserves are running low.

I know that feeling of smiling through fatigue and putting on the expected show.

I’m expected to keep a stiff upper lip no matter what. It’s the rare moments alone or times with a few close friends when I let the fa?ade drop and allow myself to process feelings and events. I wonder if she’s like me in that way.

It’s none of my business, but I can’t tear my eyes away from this woman.

The sway of her body, the stretch of her neck, and the soft sighs are alluring.

I shift to the side, ostensibly concentrating on my phone while letting my eyes secretly trace the lines of her form and catalogue the tiny details that make her so attractive.

If I had to bet, she’d rather go home after spending a long day at work. Instead, she’s expected to meet up with colleagues or clients. It doesn’t matter though. I don’t even know her.

As if she can feel my eyes on her, she glances over her shoulder, giving me a quick once over. I catch her lips curling up at the corners as her head tilts.

Her twinkling eyes lock with mine just before she whips her head back to the front of the lift.

I’m accustomed to pretty women looking my way, but her overall expression conveyed something extra—an intriguing combination of curiosity and mystery. I’d love to chat with her over a drink and learn more ways to make her smile like that.

Maybe I’ll offer to buy her one while she waits for her guests to arrive—that is, if we ever reach the top of this monstrously tall building.

Suddenly, the lift jerks to a halt. Whoosh!

The woman gasps in shock.

My spine compresses violently, instantly shrinking my frame below its normal 6-foot-plus stature. Grabbing the rail behind me with one hand, I reach for the petite woman flailing backward toward me. Just as I steady her warm back against my body, we’re enveloped in darkness.

Her hand clenches my arm that’s holding her.

“This can’t be happening,” she murmurs through shaky breaths as her body trembles against mine.

Keeping my voice calm, and hopefully reassuring, I say, “It’s okay. I’m sure it’s just a temporary power outage. We’ll be on our way in a jiffy.”

“It’s a brownout. Still, the elevator should be moving to the nearest floor to let us out. Why isn’t it moving?” Her voice is ragged, and her breaths are shallow.

I pull my mobile phone out, turning on the light to check on her.

She leans her head back, tugging at the neck of her blouse as if trying to access more oxygen.

I slowly spin her around. Her face is pale. Her eyes are watery, and beads of sweat dot her forehead.

Then it dawns on me what’s wrong. I douse the light as I ask, “Do you suffer from claustrophobia?”

“Yes. I need out of here. I’m so dizzy,” she mumbles, burying her face against my shirt.

Instinct kicks in, and I have an undeniable need to protect and comfort her.

“I’m going to guide you to the floor, so you can lean your back against the wall. If you’re dizzy, I don’t want to risk you falling, particularly when it’s so dark. Okay?”

I feel her head nod against my chest, and I assist her to a sitting position, keeping my arm around her shoulder.

“We’re going to take several deep breaths together, letting each one out slowly. Focus on my voice. Inhale. One. Two. Three. Four.”

“You’re doing great. Now slowly let the air out as I count. One. Two. Three. Four. Excellent. Now inhale again. Deeper this time.”

We repeat this process several times. Her chest rises and falls against mine, slowing with each successive breath.

I gently rub her back, hoping it will comfort her as she continues taking the deep breaths.

When her heartrate slows to almost normal, I softly ask, “What’s your name?”

“It’s Brooke. Thanks for your kindness. Being stuck in an elevator has always been one of my worst fears. As you found out, I have trouble with small, enclosed spaces.”

“I’m glad you weren’t alone. By the way, I’m Stuart, but most of my friends call me Stu.” I’m still whispering, wanting to keep her as calm as possible under the circumstances.

“Are we already friends, or do I need to call you Stuart still?” she asks in a flirty tone. The spark in her voice is a good sign that she’s adjusting to the situation.

Keeping it upbeat, I say, “Hmm. Stu seems more appropriate for this situation, don’t you think?”