On the contrary, he was incredibly proud of his wife. She’d moved to Los Angeles determined to make it in the world of software development, and she’d done so faster than she had ever anticipated.
If asked, she would probably say that she owed a lot of her success to her husband’s name, but Damien knew better. Nikki would have gotten exactly where she was on her own. More than that, she really had done it on her own. She’d started small with iPhone apps, and now she was heading up a business with a substantial client base and a nicely black balance sheet. Definitely something to celebrate.
So, no, he couldn’t be too frustrated with Abby. Especially since she’d handed him just the distraction he needed. Nikki might have planned this weekend, but he wanted to add a few special touches. Like making sure room service had brought in the champagne he’d requested. And spreading the rose petals he had tucked away all over the bedspread.
Nikki had conceived of this one-night getaway, and he wanted to make it as memorable as possible. As he’d come to learn over the last few years, celebrating the good things was important.
All of which was why he’d dodged the men’s room, snuck out of the bar, and was now taking the service stairwell up to their room. The stairs, of course, had nothing to do with the celebration. But Damien had shortened his morning workout today to play a lazy game of tennis with Dallas. The man wasn’t bad, but the truth was that Damien could have won blindfolded. And the game wasn’t nearly as much of a workout as his usual seven-mile run.
He jogged up the two flights, then stepped out of the stairwell onto their floor, surprised once again by how silence permeated this hotel. In part because Jackson had insulated the rooms well, but also because there just weren’t that many people. It was an interesting concept, a high-end hotel with so few rooms, and Red was right—in order to make a profit, the rooms would have to come with a hefty price tag.
It was going to take a unique marketing campaign to make this space popular, and from what Damien had seen, that wasn’t yet in place. Already, he was making a mental note to keep an eye on it. If it came available, he might snatch it up. Not as a hotel, but as a luxury living space with concierge service.
Not a bad idea, and he turned over the possibilities as he moved through the hall, wondering if maybe he should pull Aubert aside and suggest that Stark Real Estate buy him out.
He didn’t wonder much, though. Business wasn’t his priority tonight. Instead, he was much more intrigued by the woman he’d left downstairs. He hurried to their door, used the magnetic key, and entered. He frowned, realizing the door had stayed open. Most hotel doors were designed to fall back and latch, and he made another note to ask Jackson why he’d chosen such an odd design. A touch that Aubert insisted on, maybe? To make the suites seem that much more like a home?
He shut the door himself, pleased to see that at least it locked automatically.
Then he checked the bedroom and saw that the staff had not only left the champagne on ice, but had left a box of chocolates, too. A nice touch.
He took the petals from his overnight bag and scattered them on the bedspread. For an extra touch, he took the few remaining and arranged them around the chilling champagne.
Only then did he realize that Nikki hadn’t touched her whiskey downstairs. He frowned, remembering that she’d also declined a mimosa that morning at breakfast. She said she preferred simple orange juice. Odd, because mimosas were one of her favorite drinks.
He hoped she wasn’t getting sick. She’d planned every aspect of this trip, and he didn’t want her disappointed. But her heavy workload before their departure and the strange weather might have taken a toll on her.
And though he hadn’t mentioned it to her, he couldn’t help but notice that she’d been a little pale lately. Not to mention that she’d been queasy on the flight. She hadn’t been airsick in ages.
She’d said nothing, and he hadn’t wanted to bring it up himself. But he’d silently worried.
For that matter, he was still silently worrying.
He debated putting the champagne back—he didn’t want to pressure her—when he heard the click at the door. He had to grin. She’d come up, obviously planning on surprising him, but he was more than happy to turn the tables on her. And even more happy to finish what they’d started downstairs in the bar. He hurried to the door and stepped behind it, intending to reveal himself when she closed it.
Except it wasn’t Nikki.
Instead it was a blonde-haired man with an automatic weapon. And Damien stood in shock and horror as the son-of-a-bitch opened fire, laying out a spray of bullets across the whole goddamn suite.
Chapter Eight
The room is in chaos, but one scream stands out of all the rest, sharp and clear.
It’s mine, and I have to force myself to stop. To realize that my throat is raw and that I need to stay still. To stay quiet. To fade away from the sight of the man with the gun and the man beside me, holding me still.
Oh God, oh God, oh God. He’s dead.
Damien is dead.
I can’t think. I can’t process. I can’t understand anything that is going on around me.
All I know is that the tall man in the mask opened fire into the men’s room.
All I know is that my husband was in there.
All I know is that my muscles are straining to run for him—to find him, to help him—but that the man beside me is holding me down.
Damien. Please, God, no. Not Damien.
“Let me go!” My voice is a both a cry and a snarl, but the man keeps me firmly in place. I look up, registering finally what I saw moments ago. Red.
“You.” I recoil back, then yank free of his grasp. “Let me go. I need to—”
“To what?” His voice is low. Harsh. “To go to him? They’ll shoot you the moment you stand up.”
“I have to know if he’s—”
“Nikki,” he says gently. “If he was in that bathroom, then Damien is dead.”
I draw a deep breath, trying to convince myself that he’s right. I want to scream. I want to cry.
“Stay here. Stay calm.” His voice is low. His lips barely moving. “We can get through this, but not if you fly off the handle. And right now, that means if you want to stay alive, I’m your husband.”
“What?”
“If they see you alone with two drinks, they’ll know you’re with someone who’s missing. Probably a man. If he’s dead—and we don’t know that he is—you could be a problem. Easier for them to just get rid of you. If he’s alive, then they’ll know you’re his weakness.”
He turns to look at me. “So you tell me. Who am I?”
My gut twists into knots as I whisper my reply. “Right now, I guess you’re my husband.”
He nods. “Hush now. He’s coming.”
I watch as one of the two men collects the phones from Aubert and his two companions. Then he snaps at the cowering date couple at the two-top, taking their phones and ordering them into the booth next to ours, putting all of us in the same section of the restaurant. He demands the anniversary couple’s phones, too, then heads toward us.
I start to tremble. A bone-deep shivering that consumes my whole body.