She glanced at her watch and cursed Sam. They still hadn’t heard from her, but knowing Sam, she probably wasn’t even going to show up.
Whatever, they’d have fun without that flakey wallflower anyway.
She stepped into the fourth-floor bar and looked around. Where the hell was everybody? When she’d booked the hotel for Lydia’s bachelorette party, she hadn’t realized most of the hotel was closed off for renovations. Who was she supposed to get drunk and make bad decisions with after boring Lydia and Sam went to bed?
Definitely not Wesley Cross, that’s for sure.
She ground her teeth and wrinkled her nose. Asshole.
She was shocked when she’d seen him in the lobby, but even more shocked when she saw him with a mystery woman later. Who was she? What did she do? Where did he find her? She was definitely prettier than her, right? She took a deep breath and shook her head. Wesley would find a reason to dump the little brunette, just like he did every other woman he dated.
Dated. Ha!
He’d probably leave the chick at the bar... and then maybe she’d find out his room number and sneak up. The thought had her cheeks flushing. Wesley Cross was just as hot as he was an asshole.
But, finding the asshole was not why she’d made her way up to the fourth-floor bar.
No, she had a bone to pick with someone else. She wanted to know why the hell the FBI showed up at her doorstep earlier and more importantly, what Lawrence had to do with it.
She glanced at the clock on the wall—9:44. Fourteen minutes past the arranged meeting time. Where the hell was he? She skimmed the unmanned bar, cocked an eyebrow, and after taking a quick glance over her shoulder, jumped behind and yanked a beer from the cooler.
Don’t mind if I do, she thought.
With a smirk, she decided to take her free drink out on the balcony and watch the storm.
She stepped outside, careful to keep her heels out of the cracks in the wood planks. The rain poured off the roof, just a few feet ahead of her. Lightning lit the mountains, and her stomach flopped as she realized how high she was. She took a sip.
A minute passed.
She took another sip.
A chill slid up her spine.
She pulled the bottle away from her lips, her body tensing from head to toe. She hadn’t heard Lawrence walk up behind her, but there was no doubt she wasn’t alone anymore.
She slowly turned, and instinctively took a step back.
“Who’re you?”
CHAPTER 17
“Ah, here’s your food now,” Becks nodded behind them.
Wesley turned to see a tall, bulky man in a white chef’s coat holding two steaming plates. His long hair was tied back and a thin, black necklace with a line of white teeth hugged his neck. A faint smell of cigarette smoke scented his arm as he slid the plates in front of them.
“Sorry it took so long. I’m the only one here.” His voice was deep, gruff.
“No problem at all.” Wesley nodded to the necklace. “Sharks teeth?”
“Coon.”
“Coon, huh?”
“Yep. Dime a dozen ‘round here. Mean. Smart. Cunning. Don’t take crap from anyone. Reminds me to be the same.”
“Mean and cunning?”
The man grinned. “No, smart, and no bullshit. Cunning when it suits me.”
Becks walked up. “Thanks, Lawrence. They got you pullin’ a double tonight, huh? Cooking and waiting tables?”
“Yep. Just me. They closed the mountain before Don could come in for his shift. Enjoy your food.”
The cook walked away, and Dean turned his attention to Becks. “Hey, what do you know about James O’Conner?”
“The bellman?”
“Yeah.”
“Good kid.” He wiped the bar top. “Been a bit off today, though.”
“Off?”
“Guess he knew that girl that was killed. Y’all heard about it? Throat slit in someone’s basement. Horrible.”
Wesley shifted in his seat. “I heard.”
Gwen leaned forward. “How well did he know her?”
“Not sure. Don’t really talk much. Anyway, enjoy, and let me know if you need anything.”
“Thanks.”
“Well that’s interesting,” Gwen said as he walked away.
Wesley nodded. It was interesting, and now, more than ever, he wanted to know who the hell James called on the phone moments after they’d met.
“I wonder how good of friends,” she continued.
“Willard’ll find out.”
“Maybe the kid was jealous of you, or thinks you had something to do with it?”
“And slit my tires because of it?”
She shrugged. “Yeah. He’s young, at that 'invincible' age… fits if you ask me.”
He shook his head.
“You don’t remember selling a gun to his dad?”
“Vaguely. I’d have to look at my records. I sell lots of guns, Gwen.”
She stared down at her plate.
“Eat.” He demanded. Yet another attempt to try to calm her and pretend like everything was okay.
“Mmph.” She shrugged.
“Look, we’re stuck here, and that’s that. It sucks, but nothing we can do about it. Might as well eat dinner.”
“If it’s not poisoned,” she muttered.
He grabbed her turkey wrap, took a bite, swallowed. “Still alive. Eat.”
She took it from him. “Geez, alligator mouth.”
“Alligator mouth?”
She held up the wrap. “Look how much you took. Half the wrap in one bite.”
“Still… alligator mouth? Not very creative.”
“Sorry, I’m not exactly on my A-game right now.”
He continued, “I mean, sure, alligators have big mouths, but certainly not the biggest. Hippos for one… I’m pretty sure hippos can eat an alligator.”
“Fine, hippo mouth, then.”
“Or, mammoth mouth, maybe. Flows better.”
She picked up her butter knife. “I’m going to stick this into your alligator mouth if you don’t shut up.”
“Does it have to be a butter knife?” He leaned in and whispered. “’Cause I’ve got a few other ideas…”
The sound of a muffled argument behind them drew their attention.
The designer husband and wife, dressed to the nines, were at it again. Wearing a lacy black number, the wife hissed at the husband, “I told you we shouldn’t have come to this hell hole, and that goddamn storms were coming. I fucking hate the South. May the whole bottom half of the country burn in hell for all I care. I should’ve stayed home. Let you bring along your little mistress.”
As the bickering couple stepped up to the bar, Wesley glanced at Gwen who seemed amused at the wife’s rant… until they sat down next to her.
He grinned and winked, then looked the couple over. By the swirly look in the woman’s eyes, she wasn’t only pissed off, but apparently drunk—a lethal combination in any man’s book. Botox and fillers aside, she appeared to be half her husband’s age, with gold digger stamped on her wrinkle-free forehead. The man, a business man on all counts, sported slicked-back hair, a three-piece suit with personalized gold cuffs. He ordered a scotch on the rocks and, what else, a glass of champagne for his brooding wife.
“Good evening.” The man calmly addressed them.
The woman snorted and slurred, “Good evening, my ass.”
“Evening,” Wesley slid his arm on the back of Gwen’s chair. He didn’t like that the man had taken the seat right next to her. He leaned forward as Gwen leaned back, sending him a nonverbal message for him to run the conversation. His pleasure.
“Beautiful place.” The man said.
“It is.”
“Are you from here?” He asked Wesley.
“Born and raised.”
The wife rolled her eyes at this.
“My name is Cortez Vega, and this is my wife Amelia.”
Amelia leaned forward. “Charmed,
I’m sure.” She looked Gwen over, her pointy eyebrows tipping up. “Nice dress. Valentino?”
Gwen shrugged, and Wesley grinned at her lack of knowledge of designer duds. That was officially one of his favorite things about her now.
“Well.” Amelia followed the compliment with, “I don’t know why the hell anyone would want to live here. Dirty South, it truly is.”
Cortez shook his head and leaned forward trying to block his wife as Becks delivered their drinks. Amelia swept back her platinum blonde hair and took a sip, pinky raised, of course.
“Wesley Cross,” they shook hands. “And this is Gwyneth Reece.”
“You’ll have to excuse my wife.” His gaze lingered on Gwen a moment too long. “We’ve had a long day of travel, with the weather and all.”
Feeling a surprising rush of protectiveness, Wesley slid his hand from the chair onto Gwen's back, lightly rubbing his thumb on her shoulder. She felt good. The touch, the connection. He liked it. He liked touching her, intimately, as if she were his. She turned to him, eyes bright at his intimate touch and stared at him for a moment.
God, she was beautiful. He smiled and had to fight the urge to lean forward and kiss her. Instead, he addressed the miserable husband.
“What brings you to Berry Springs?”
“Business. I’m looking at buying some land in the area.”
“Where about?”
“Along the river. Considering putting in a resort. There’s so much tourism here.”
“A resort... wait, did you say your last name was Vega?”
“Yes. I own the Vega hotel chain. You know it?”
Everyone knew the name. The luxurious hotels were speckled all over the world, all very exclusive, and all five-star.
“Yes, I know the hotels.” He paused, took a shot in the dark. “I visited one in Russia once.”
“Really? What took you there?”
“Work,” he said.
“And what business are you in, Mr. Cross?”
“I make guns.”
“Guns?” Amelia leaned forward, her eyes round. “Do you happen to have one on you now to put me out of my misery?”
“Would be too quick,” her husband said icily, while keeping his eyes on Wesley.
Wesley tightened his grip around Gwen’s shoulder.
“Screw you,” Amelia muttered, then flagged down the bartender. “Another glass.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Becks grabbed a fresh glass and poured her drink. In a huff, she pushed out of her chair—spilling half the Champagne onto the bar and said, “You guys enjoy your evening. I’m going to go find something better to do with my time.”
As Wesley watched her saunter into the lobby, his gaze shifted to the corner of the room. The cowboy in the Stetson and steel-toed boots was gone.
Cortez grabbed his drink and stood. “I probably should go after my wife. Would be a pity if she tumbled over the fourth-floor balcony.”
Gwen raised her eyebrows.
“Have a good night.”
Wesley and Gwen exchanged a glance just as his phone rang.
He snatched it up. “Cross here.”
“Cross, it’s Steele. I hope you’re sitting down.”
He cut a glance at Gwen and considered stepping away for the call. But, no; he didn’t want to leave her alone. “Hey, Gage. What’d you find out?”
“I got you Mikhail Lutrova’s file, it’s in your inbox. But I’m assuming you haven’t been watching the news this afternoon?”
“No, been kinda busy.”
“Thought so. Mikhail Lutrova broke out of prison three days ago.”
His stomach fell to his feet. “What?”
“Yep. FBI’s kept it quiet, until now. Spent the first full day chasing a false lead. They’re combing the area now, but have no concrete leads, or so I was told.”
“How did he—
“Wire cutters. Son of a bitch clipped one link at a time in one of the outside fences. No telling for how long. Got out and vanished.”
“Where the hell did he get wire cutters?”
“Exactly. Had to have someone on the outside, who also possibly picked him up.”
“Who’s on the prison log recently?”
“No one.”
The image of Mikhail Lutrova’s evil, ice-blue eyes flashed in his head.
“Good chance he’s changed his appearance by now, his identity, the works. Or is on a beach in Mexico somewhere.”
“I don’t think that’s the case.”
“For some reason, I didn’t think you did. Care to fill me in here?”
Wesley looked at Gwen as he said, “Mikhail Lutrova isn’t on a beach in Mexico, Steele, he caught a ride to the Half Moon Hotel in Berry Springs.”
His pulse picked up as the shock spread over Gwen’s face.
He needed to get her away, somewhere safe.
Immediately.
CHAPTER 18
Tree branches swiped madly at the windows outside, the trees whirling in the angry wind. Vertical lightning sliced the sky like electric tentacles reaching out to get her. Then came the thunder, not a low bellow but a crackle, popping, startling her even though she expected it. Like bombs exploding in the distance.
She squeezed Wesley’s hand as he pulled her through the lobby. Seconds after his conversation with someone named Steele, he’d paid the tab and escorted her out of the ballroom. There had been a total shift in his demeanor. An urgency she hadn't seen before.
Mikhail Lutrova was here. The man who brutally murdered two young women, possibly three now, was here. And she was with the man who had a target on his back.
Her heart raced and she must’ve tightened her grip on Wesley’s hand because he looked down at her, and smiled.
She didn’t smile back.
He gave a slight nod—you’re okay, it said.
She looked at the antique clock on the wall—11:17 p.m.—and just below that, a man and woman stood in the shadows. Her eyes rounded. She squeezed his hand and whispered, “Look…”
He kept his gaze straight ahead. “At Lydia whispering with James O’Connor? Already noticed.”
Of course he did.
He led her to the front desk where Melanie stood, staring at the computer, her brow furrowed, her skin pale. Something was wrong.
“Melanie,” Wesley said.
Startled, her eyes shot up from the computer. They were bloodshot and dark circles hollowed her thin face. “Sorry… yes? Hi. How can I help you?”
Wesley frowned. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Yes.” Melanie clicked a few keys, and the screen went blank. “Just… didn’t really plan on being stuck here tonight.” She glanced out the windows.
He watched her for a moment and Gwen did, too. The weather wasn’t the only thing wrong with this girl, that much was obvious.
“Anyway, how can I help you?”
“Considering none of us are going anywhere this evening, I need to get a room.”
Melanie nodded and turned back to the computer.
“Next to Gwyneth Reece, please.”
He squeezed her hand as nerves skittered through her. Sleeping less than twenty feet away from the incredibly sexy, handsome Wesley Cross was going to be a major testament of willpower, especially considering it had been almost a year since she’d had sex. The last time was with Ryan, three months before they’d officially ended their relationship. Three months. And it was horrible, forced, fake, emotionless. Anything but romantic. She’d even faked an orgasm just to move things along. After that night, she’d realized that was how their sex had been all along—boring. No heat, no passion, no animalistic lust. Just plain boring.
“Is James back from his break?” Wesley said, shaking her from her racy thoughts.
“No, not yet. He gave me your girlfriend’s bag to hold.” Melanie pulled the bag around the corner of the desk. “I guess you’d dropped it off with him earlier.”
Girlfriend.
Wesley took the bag, and Melanie handed
him the key. “You both are on the fourth floor. End of the hall, adjoining rooms. I’ve included two complimentary drink tickets for the bar up there. The view from the balcony is breathtaking. Not that you’ll be able to appreciate it with this storm and all.”
“Thanks, Melanie.”
“No problem.”
As he grabbed her bag, Gwen whispered, “What now?”
“Hunker down.”
Hunker down… in their adjoined rooms.
Oh, dear God.
Wesley carried her bag as they stepped into the rickety elevator that gave her the willies just looking at it. It appeared antique, like everything else in the hotel, and an antique elevator was the last thing she needed to calm her nerves. The small, suffocating box creaked as Wesley’s over-two-hundred-pound body stepped onto it. Thank God she’d packed light. He hit the fourth-floor button, and with a jolt, the elevator began to slowly lift.
She looked at her reflection in the cracked mirror but was distracted by the man standing next to her. He was so damn handsome. Her gaze trailed from his chest to his face, where he was staring at her. The look in his eyes caught her breath—the heat, the fire of it. There was no mistaking what was on his mind at that moment.
And they were about to go up to her room! Her heart started to beat faster.
The elevator bumped, knocking her off balance and he grabbed her hand. She turned to him, eyes wide. He closed the few inches between them, reached up and cupped her face. He stared at her for a moment before he said softly, “Hey, relax. Everything’s going to be okay, alright?”
She nodded, her heart hammering as she gazed back into the flame in his eyes.
He pressed his lips to hers and butterflies exploded in her stomach, her knees turning to water. His tongue met hers and her head began to spin.
Oh, my God.
He kissed her, moving over her lips as if knowing exactly what she wanted. Needed. It was as if he knew exactly how she kissed. As if they’d kissed a hundred times before. She felt a tingle between her legs as his other hand swept through her hair, to the back of her head.
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