Zoe glances at me when we pull up at the hotel. She’s been wringing her hands since we left the restaurant. Instead of quieting her fiddling, I let her have the outlet even if it distracts me from my thoughts of what the fuck to do with her. I get out and go around to get her door. I don’t give her a chance to reject my offer to help her from the car like she did with Gautier. With him, I allowed it, preferred it even. I didn’t like him touching her. My grip on her waist is firm as I swipe my access card to open the door and lead her inside. There’s no receptionist or lobby staff, part of the reason why I chose to stay here. It’s more like an aparthotel with the services of a hotel.
Gautier and Benoit scout the area before they follow, as much from habit as a necessity in a high crime area. We ride the elevator together. I tell them in French to have dinner before catching a few hours of sleep. It’s only after eight. The kitchen staff deliver meals to the rooms until ten. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.
On the top floor, we split. They go to the room they share at the end while I take Zoe to the penthouse suite.
She pulls back when I unlock the door with my card, but it doesn’t take much to push her over the threshold. She doesn’t weigh more than a cat. A small kitten, really. When I lock the door, she puts distance between us, backtracking to the middle of the floor.
The suite is three times the size of Zoe’s apartment. She looks lost, hugging her slight frame in the middle of the lounge in her frilly blouse and hip-hugging skirt, and even more petite than usual against the floor-to-ceiling window framing Melrose Arch. With those black curls and pearly skin, she’s more than easy on the eye. Long lashes frame her blue eyes, and her mouth is pouty like a budding rose. The blush on her cheeks is as pink as the petals of that rose, the darker hue closer to the stem if I were to pull the flower apart.
At my evaluation, she folds into herself like a flower that curls up at night. I’m staring too openly, the lust I don’t care to show in public probably visible on my face. I remove my jacket and hang it over the clotheshorse. Then I put my Glock and access card in the safe, making sure my body blocks the code so the little flower I plucked from her life isn’t baited with temptation.
When I turn back to her, her eyes are swimming with trepidation. The way the tears make them glitter are gorgeous. They seem bigger and even more expressive. It’s a pretty sight, but I don’t want to torture her. She did nothing to deserve what’s coming to her.
Folding back my shirt sleeves, I advance slowly so I won’t frighten her. She tilts her head back to meet my gaze when I stop in front of her.
Her voice is as silky as her flower-petal skin. “Why am I here?”
I know what she’s really asking. “Don’t worry. I’m as little a rapist as I’m a stalker.” Only a killer.
Swaying a little, she frowns and rubs at her temples. “Then why did you bring me to your hotel?”
She’s exhausted, has been since she came home with sagging shoulders, dragging feet, and two tomatoes for dinner. “To sleep.”
“I have a bed. I have a home.”
Not any longer. I walk to the wet bar and pour a glass of water, which I carry back to her. “You had too much wine too quickly. Drink.”
She takes the glass and gulps everything down. I refill it and take the pill from the box waiting next to the decanter. It’s a good thing I had the foresight. Being kidnapped can be draining on all counts, both the spirit and the body.
“What is it?” she asks when I hand the pill to her with the water.
“Something for your headache.”
She regards me with mistrust, as she should. It’s not a lie. It will take away her pain. It’s just not the full truth. It’s not the first time I don’t give her the truth, and it won’t be the last.
“How did you know I have a headache?”
“It’s obvious from the way you rub your temples.”
She studies my face with wide, weary eyes. I see the exact moment she decides to believe me. Putting the pill in her mouth, she swallows it down with the water.
I take back the glass. “I have some business to take care of. Why don’t you have a nice, warm bath?”
She glances at the bedroom door.
“This way.” I take her arm and lead her to the opposite door that gives access to the bathroom. “I’ll be a while. Take your time.”
She looks around the room, seeming as lost as when I brought her into the suite.
“Do you need help with operating the facilities?”
Her look is scathing. “I can open a tap.”
Ah, her fire hasn’t burned out. It pleases me. I smile. “Call if you need me.”
She scoffs before pushing past me and slamming the door in my face. The lock turns on the other side. As if she has any power. Grinning, I shake my head and drag a hand over my face. The stretch of my lips is a foreign feeling, something I haven’t experienced in long time. Maybe never.
Leaving the little flower to her bath, I steel myself for the call I have to make. Certain she can’t escape, I go onto the balcony for privacy and check the hour. It’s the same time in France.
It takes a while for my father to take the call. From the cutlery sounding in the background, he’s having dinner.
“Did I catch you at a bad time?” I ask in French.
It’s my brother who replies. He’s jovial, a few glasses of wine already in his stomach. “How are things working out in South Africa?”
I roll my shoulders, but my voice comes out tight, anyway. “Fine. I didn’t know Maman invited you for dinner.”
“We’re at the club.”
My spine goes stiff. The club is where the deals are made. Alexis is greedy to undermine my power. “Let me speak to our father.”
“Do you have her?” He sounds excited.
Something dark stirs in my chest. I can’t discuss her with him. Even that little will soil her.
“Max?” Alexis’s voice rises in volume. “We have a bad connection. I can’t hear you.”
“Put Father on, Alexis. It’s late.”
He laughs. “Getting old?”
I let the jab slide, but get one of my own in. “Pronto, little brother.”
The diminutive works. A moment later, my father’s cigar-rough voice comes on the line. “Did you meet with Dalton?”
Good evening to you, too, Dad. “You’re at the club.”
“The business doesn’t go on hold when you’re not here.”
I force nonchalance into my tone. “What’s Alexis doing there?”
The way my father changes from brusque to overly friendly tells me everything I want to know. “It’s just dinner, Max.”
“I thought you said it’s business.”
“For me. Your brother is networking. Enough of family. Tell me about Harold Dalton. Did you see him?”
“Last night.” I hated every minute of the dinner I shared with that shark.
“And?”
“He’s not going to last.”
There’s a moment of silence. “Is he as bad as our dealers say?”
“Worse. His mine reeks of mismanagement, and his board is corrupt.”
“Did you have a look at the books?”