Revelation (15 page)

Because I'm not worth accommodating
.

I'm too exhausted to scoff. Or laugh. Instead, I turn without a word.

The restaurant hostess greets me with a smile I can't return. The world is awake and moving now, a few of the restaurant tables occupied—all businessmen in dark suits, cell phones pressed to ears and pages from
Wall Street
Journals
spread across tables.

The waiter arrives not long after I'm seated, wishing me a "Good Morning."

"The morning would be a lot better if I could check into a room, but apparently I'm not worth accommodating. At least not until noon," I tell him. Another sigh. "I need coffee. Black and strong."

The coffee is cool by the time I swallow the last sip, the caffeine already working its magic. I watch people passing windows, traipsing down sidewalks, traffic stopping and starting at intervals.

There's no point finding another hotel. The Council wants me here. My work is here.

You could go for a walk. Go shopping. Take a nap in the car,
the voice in my head suggests. 

"Can I get you anything else, or would you like your check?" the waiter asks.

"Just the check."

I reach for my wallet, remove my bank card. The waiter returns with a black leather folder. I open it, choke back shock at the price of a single cup of coffee, stick my card between the plastic anyway, and hand it back to him, trying not to think about how this hotel is going to destroy my bank account.

I'll get a cheap room and only eat fast food. I'm sure there's a microwave. I can pick up a few things to heat up—save some money.

Footsteps approach as I am lost in this thought.

"Your receipt," the waiter says.

And just behind him: "Mrs. Fleming, I sincerely apologize. We can have a room ready for you immediately."

It's her. The manager.

"What about the policy?"

She laughs, the sound so light and cooperative it's almost shrill and unnatural. "We can certainly make an exception in this case. If you'll come to the front when you're ready, we'll get you checked right in."

I watch her leave, knowing disbelief is painted across my face, because the waiter speaks: "I ran your card. The account is flagged VIP. She could lose her job for what she did," he explains.

"Wow," I say, rising. "VIP, huh? I'll try not to hold that against her."

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.

T
WENTY-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.