Revelation (The Guardians, Book 3) Page 9

  An easy laugh. "Knowledge is power. Enjoy your stay, Mrs. Fleming."

  I grab my things and re-enter the lobby, where the manager stands behind her desk, waiting for me.

  She could lose her job over what she did.

  I want to laugh at the absurdity of it all, but the truth is that I'm too fatigued to care.

  "What type of room are you interested in?" she asks. "The penthouse and presidential suites are booked, but I can offer you a smaller suite."

  "A regular room is fine. It's just me."

  "I'll put you in a room with a king bed. We won't charge for the upgrade."

  I force a smile. "Thank you."

  "How long do you plan to stay?"

  "I'm not sure," I confess. "Through the weekend, at least."

  "We'll put your card on file, but we won't charge until check-out. You're welcome, of course, to stay as long as you'd like."

  She hands me a receipt and my card, then a small envelope with a card key—room number printed on the outside. I study the bank card—my bank card.

  The account is flagged.

  Why is my bank card flagged VIP?

  A bellhop stands ready, waiting to take my suitcase.

  "Just a minute."

  I walk to the ATM tucked in the corner of the room and insert my card. I follow prompts, punch in my PIN.

  Account balance.

  Processing.

  And then a number, flashing across the screen.

  "Holy shit," I mutter, blood draining from my head, legs wobbling beneath my weight. I lean against the machine for support, blinking, trying to make sense of the figure. "Holy. Holy. Holy shit. There's no way."

  But there is a way.

  Carter must've linked our bank accounts when I wasn't paying attention. It's my account, but both of our names are on it, and in it: more money than I've seen in a lifetime.

  Jesus. Of course he'd pull something like this.

  There's no worrying about how I'll pay for the hotel. I could pay for a hundred nights at this hotel. A bubbly laugh builds inside my chest, hot tears prick my eyes.

  I hate him.

  I can't believe he did this.

  I can't believe how right he was.

  Leave it to Carter to find a way to take care of me, even after he's gone.

  * * *

  It's beautiful. A king-size bed, end tables, a bistro table and two chairs. Flat panel on the wall above the dresser. Minibar. Linens shaded in soft browns and other earth tones. I abandon my suitcase by the dresser, kick off my shoes, collapse on smooth satin.

  I could get used to this.

  The television doesn't quite drown out the voices from the hallway, doors opening and shutting, the hum of the unit beneath the window, warming the room.

  Caffeine courses through my body, flowing in my veins until it doesn't and I crash.

  When I fall unconscious, it's hard—a deep, dreamless sleep—as if regaining those lost, restless nights. Nights spent suffocating on wicked dreams. Nights spent alone and afraid. With Seth. Without him. I sleep through the afternoon, passing into dinner. I sleep straight into the evening. And, when I finally emerge, fully rested, it's morning.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I double check the invitation, reading it a final time. A political event. A meet and greet for a Senator on the campaign trail. The other card tucked into the envelope bears only a name.

  The one I'm looking for.

  Lucien Castellani.

  My stomach clenches as the elevator drops, descending to the lobby. I smooth the fabric of the shimmery gold dress at my hips, adjust the collar of the black bolero. Everything is immaculate: hair washed and styled, make-up perfectly applied. I'm stepping into what might be my only chance to make an impression, an impact. Everything counts.

  The gun weighs heavy against my inner thigh, a stark reminder of why I'm here and what I'm after. I inhale, deeply unsettled by my lack of a concrete plan. The fact that I know nothing about this guy. Who he is or what he's done. All I know is that he's here, tonight, and the Council wants him gone.

  Elevator doors open and I step into the lobby, shift down a corridor—blue, red, white balloons gracing the entryway of the Crystal Ballroom like a finish line. The event is exclusive. It's only after I produce my invitation and identification for security that I'm allowed in.

  Inside is like a whole other world. The room is packed with people—men. Each one identical to the next. Expensive suits. Designer watches. Smart glasses.

  How the hell am I supposed to know who Lucien Castellani is?

  The women on their arms boast expensive up-dos, wrists and ears and necks sprinkled with glittering jewelry.

  Will he be alone?

  They stand, sit at one of the dozen circular tables, laughing, clinking glasses of wine against the timbres of brass streaming from the live band. Something snappy—jazz.

  I stop, overwhelmed, feeling terrified and alone and horribly out of place.

  Relax, the voice inside my head insists. They're no better than you.

  Gathering nerve, I edge through the crowd, aiming for the bar—somewhere inconspicuous—a safe distance from which to spy. I climb onto an empty barstool, crossing my legs carefully, shifting to avoid displacing the holster.

  "Can I get you something?" the bartender asks. I scrutinize the shelves behind him: hundreds of bottles, colorful labels, crystal clear glasses.

  "Water's fine."

  He reaches behind the counter, produces a bottled water, and slides it toward me.

  "You work for the hotel, right?" I ask, unscrewing the cap.

  "On my good days."

  "So you know some of the guests here."

  An eyebrow lifts, skeptical. "Possibly."

  "What can you tell me about Lucien Castellani?"

  His mouth breaks from a frown to a broad grin, muttering in disbelief. "You and every other woman in this room."

  My body grows rigid, posture straightening at this—at being hoarded into the same category as the rest of these women. Because he doesn't mean this as a compliment, and I would never take it as one. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Mr. Castellani is staying in the penthouse. That's what you heard, right?"

  "I haven't heard anything," I reply, tone sharper than I intend. "I just know he's supposed to be here. I'm curious, that's all."

  He shakes his head, tossing hair out of his eyes. "I've seen him around, but he doesn't go by the name you gave. It's Luke. Mr. Castellani to the staff. He's booked the penthouse for two weeks."

  "What does he do?"

  "Damned if I know. He can afford the penthouse. Who cares?"

  Interesting.

  "Could you point him out to me?"

  "If he comes around. And if I think about it." He slaps the counter with finality, backing away, moving on.

  I spin the barstool an easy one hundred and eighty degrees, take a tiny sip of water, watching affluence commingle. Carter would've been perfect at this. He would've worked this place. Found out in ten minutes who Lucien Castellani is. These are his people.

  No. Carter was better than these people.

  The crowd erupts with applause and raucous cheers as a man in a tailored black suit strolls across the stage, smiling, waving. He stops at the podium, grinning widely, waiting for the room to quiet.

  As I check the time on my cell phone, a chill of premonition washes over me—this sensation—the feeling I'm being watched. My eyes sweep the room, careful, guarded. Everyone is transfixed, focused on the speaker.

  All but one.

  His gaze connects with mine, lingering, lips pulling into a mischievous quirk, as if we're in on this little secret, just the two of us, together.

  A furious blush springs to my cheeks, and my eyes flick to the stage, attention turning to the politician. I see him. I hear his words, but I don't understand them—not really listening.

  Was he checking me out?

  Every ounce of resolve is spent not turn
ing my head in his direction. I follow the audience's cues, clapping when they clap, laughing when they laugh. And, when my willpower finally exhausts itself, I take a swift glance toward the other end of the bar. The man stands, fully absorbed in the speech, arms folded across his chest. My shoulders relax at this, and I steal another peek at my phone.

  The speech lasts forever. There's too much interference: every other statement followed by wild applause and rousing cries of approval. When it ends, I exhale relief and swivel the stool back to the bartender.

  "You still okay with that water?" he asks.

  "I'm fine, thanks."

  "Are you kidding?" someone interrupts. "After what she just endured, something stronger is in order."

  It's him.

  "I was trying to be discreet," I confess. "Clearly an epic failure."

  A perfect smile brightens his green eyes, showcasing straight, professionally whitened teeth. Faint stubble lines his chin, as if he's gone a day without shaving. He's trim—the product of a thousand hours at a gym. Stylish: jeans, leather blazer. And the softest crow's feet at the corners of his eyes, hinting at his age. Thirties. Mid-thirties, maybe?

  "An epically beautiful failure. What can I get you?" he asks. "Glass of wine? Something with an umbrella?" His voice lilts, unmistakably foreign. A brogue. Irish? Scottish?

  "I'm fine with the water. Really. You don't have to . . ."

  "Oh, come on. Don't feign reticence. I watched you the entire speech, dying of tedium. You deserve it after all you've suffered this evening," he insists, tone hinting at amusement.

  "I . . . can't," I confess. "I'm not exactly . . . of drinking age."

  He eyes me carefully, smile fading at the realization. "You're serious?"

  I shrug, shoulders lifting, apologetic. "Sorry."

  "No, it's quite all right," he replies, composing his features, eliminating all traces of surprise at my admission. "I'm sorry I assumed. The way you carry yourself—you seem . . . older."

  "Just turned eighteen."

  "Christ," he mutters. "Barely legal." He slides onto the stool next to mine and motions for the bartender. "A Scotch, please," he calls. "So tell me, Just Turned Eighteen, what can my candidate do to appeal to the younger demographic?"

  The question catches me off guard, not what I was expecting. My lips stumble, tripping over a pathetic response: "I . . . I think he appeals fine."

  The bartender returns with a glass, amber liquid sloshing as he pours, filling it to the brim.

  "Please. You were unimpressed."

  My spine stiffens, cheeks flaming with embarrassment—embarrassment for having been called out, for being so obvious in the first place, so clearly read by a complete stranger. "I'm not really . . . into politics."

  "Just making an appearance," he confirms, taking a sip of Scotch.

  A quiet laugh. "Something like that."

  "Which family?"

  "The Flemings." It's like power on my tongue. The name. The reputation. And I know it means something to him, too, recognition writing itself into his features.

  "Really? I know some Flemings." He rattles off a few names—one that's familiar.

  "Jack. He's my father-in-law," I say, struggling to hide my surprise.

  Small world.

  "Jack is a friend of mine. Good guy." He steals a glance in my direction, eyeing me curiously. "Father-in-law?"

  "Former . . . father-in-law?" I feel the weight of the ring on my finger, now irrefutably conspicuous. "It's . . . complicated," I mutter, reaching for my water. "So, this is your guy?" I ask, nodding toward the crowd, quickly changing the subject.

  "He is."

  "Are you . . . following him around the state or something? Campaigning for him?"

  "I've been a few places, yes," he says. "This is an important weekend, though, so I figured I should show my support. What brings you to the area? Certainly not my candidate," he adds.

  I wrack my brain, mind spinning blindly, desperate for an acceptable answer. "I'm, um, just here for a few days. It's . . . business-related."

  Not a total lie.

  I swallow hard, shoulders lifting in a pathetic shrug.

  "And what kind of business are you in, Ms. Fleming?"

  I suppress a cringe at the question.

  Of course he'd want details.

  I muster every ounce of charm I can manage, indulging him, cramming them into the words: "That would be classified."

  His face brightens—not the response he was expecting, but appeased just the same. "I'll drink to that."

  He lifts a finger, signaling the bartender for a refill. "You're sure I can't interest you in a glass of wine?" He leans in conspiratorially, voice hushed. "I won't tell if you won't." His eyes dance, animated. He's confident. Handsome. And the word sexy plays itself over and over in my head.

  Another wave of heat creeps up my neck and into my cheeks. "No. But thank you, anyway."

  The bartender returns, fills the glass. The man takes a final sip and rises. "There are no more speeches, so you should enjoy the rest of your evening," he teases, removing a sizeable bill from his money clip and tossing it onto the counter.

  I laugh, embarrassed, feeling my cheeks turn fifty degrees of red. "Good to know."

  His fingers skim my shoulder, a hint of a smirk flickering at his lips before he departs, mingling with the crowd, vanishing from sight.

  Wow. Just . . . wow.

  The shame at having been called out for my apathy dies, quickly replaced by the sudden, mortified realization that I'm still watching, looking for him. That I was so obviously flirting.

  What is wrong with me?

  I don't need this. I don't need any distractions. Nothing can get in the way of what I have to do, why I'm here.

  I breathe slowly, in and out, gathering whatever composure, whatever decency, remains, the fog clouding my brain seeming to lift.

  The bartender returns with a fresh bottle of water and slips the money into his pocket, a knowing, arrogant grin twisting his features. "Congratulations," he says, eyeing me deliberately. "You just met Luke Castellani."

  The smile drains from my face, disappearing, and my heartbeat kicks higher.

  Shit.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The elevator doors swoosh open and I enter the lobby, stepping into an invisible veil fragrant with coffee. The manager recognizes me, smile brightening the front desk as I approach. "Good morning, Mrs. Fleming."

  I return the greeting, set my purse on the counter between us. "Just out of curiosity, how could I get a message to another guest at this hotel?"

  "It's against policy to provide information about our guests."

  Jesus. This hotel has a lot of policies.

  "I know him," I explain. "Luke Castellani. He's staying in the penthouse."

  Her brow furrows, confused. "How do you know Mr. Castellani?"

  "How is that any of your business?" I counter.

  "I—I'm sorry," she stutters. "It's just that—"

  "He's a friend of the Fleming family," I interrupt. "We met last evening. At the campaign . . . thing. In the ballroom."

  "I didn't realize you had an invitation to that event." She laughs weakly. "Of course you would. Policy-wise, I can't give out Mr. Castellani's private information, but if you'd like to write a note I'll have a member of our staff deliver it." She slides a piece of The Cypress letterhead and a pen across the counter.

  So primitive. We may as well be communicating via messenger pigeon.

  I study the clean page, pen in hand, mind drawing a blank.

  Dear Mr. Castellani,

  You might not remember me, but. . . .

  Luke,

  I'm the girl that. . . .

  A heavy sigh. I'm supposed to kill you and I don't know how or why.

  I finally settle on no introduction, scribbling the words: Enjoyed our chat last evening. I might have a few ideas for your candidate. Would like to meet for coffee. Lobby restaurant. 9:00pm. G. Fleming.

  I fo
ld the paper twice, hand it to the manager—"Please make sure he gets this"—then, hiking my purse strap higher on my shoulder, head for the lobby doors. There's shopping to be done.

  * * *

  By nine o'clock I'm sitting at a reserved table, facing the entrance to the restaurant, waiting. Lucien Castellani never returned my message or sent any kind of confirmation that he received it. For all I know, he laughed it off. Made other plans. Checked out of the hotel early.

  I smooth the folds of my dress, feel the thick straps of my thigh holster beneath the fabric.

  My cell phone reveals the time.

  Nine-thirty. I'll wait until then. If he doesn't show, I'll have to think of something else.

  The waitress drops by, asks if I'd like to order while I'm waiting. I politely refuse, turning back to my ice water—condensation dripping down sides, pooling on the starched tablecloth—intent on wiping the glass clean with the linen napkin.

  My eyes lift in time to find him breezing past the hostess, winding between tables, closing the distance between us. I exhale a rapid breath, wipe my damp palms across my lap, and stand.

  "Good Evening." He leans in, plants a soft kiss on my cheek, hand finding my waist. I breathe him in—cologne and mouthwash trying to mask a pack a day habit, intoxicating. "You look lovely."

  Already heat creeps up my neck and into my cheeks, a daze washing over me.

  Focus.

  "Thank you."

  "Please." He motions toward the table, gesturing for me to sit. "I must confess I was surprised to receive your message."

  "Oh, well, I had a free night, and since I wasn't doing anything. . . ." The sentence dangles, falling casually between us.

  He slides into the seat across from me. "I assumed you something of an insomniac, asking me to coffee at nine in the evening."

  The smile fades. He's right. Who would go out for coffee this late? I clear my throat, smoothing my tone. "It's a bad habit of mine. From high school. A lot of late nights studying."

  Lie.

  "And how long ago was high school, Ms. Fleming?"

  "You can call me Genesis," I say, adding that I graduated a few months prior, omitting the fact that this, in itself, is a miracle beyond miracles.