Fiona rolled her eyes. “I was enjoying that nightlife not so long ago. A bunch of us—staff, I mean—were in Soho. But one of the girls had an argument with her boyfriend, then proceeded to get incredibly drunk. I and one of the others decided to bring her back here before she passed out, threw up or got arrested. We put her to bed, and I decided to have a couple of drinks down here before calling it a night myself. Then you appeared and scared the crap out of me. What about you guys?” She didn’t confess to having seen them earlier. They’d have no doubt wanted to know why she didn’t speak or at least acknowledge them.
“The same, actually.” It was James who spoke this time. “Well, not exactly the same. We were in Soho too, and some drunken arsehole kicked off in one of the pubs. It turned ugly and a bunch of people started fighting. We weren’t involved, of course, but we witnessed the whole thing. As soon as we could leave, we did. Didn’t feel like going anywhere else after that, so we thought we’d have a couple more quiet ones in here before heading to our suite.”
Fiona wrinkled her nose. “Ugh, yeah, I can understand why you wanted to get out of there. Not good. You certainly wouldn’t see that kind of behavior in here. No wonder you guys like staying here so much, especially if you have a suite.” As she said the words, their implication sank in. If they had a suite, then they weren’t just successful, just well off. They were filthy rich. Again, she asked herself why the hell they were talking to her. And—if she hadn’t gotten it totally wrong—flirting with her a little, too.
“Oh yeah,” Logan said. “We always have a suite. We take up quite a lot of room.” It was then she noticed that he’d almost finished the Jack Daniel’s and Coke he’d bought. “And it certainly helps that the suites are soundproofed.” He let out a bark of laughter and grinned over the table at James, who returned the smile, but his looked forced—more like a grimace.
Clearing his throat, James returned his attention to a confused Fiona. “So, where are we currently on the interesting scale? Do I need to start dancing on the table?”
Tutting, she replied, “That sort of behavior wouldn’t be allowed in here, either. I dunno… You’re somewhere between ‘quite’ and ‘very’, I guess.” Then her curiosity got the better of her. Dead cats be damned. The hotel was enough off the beaten track that traffic noise wasn’t an issue. “How about this? If you tell me why having a soundproofed suite is such a good thing, I’ll let you buy me another drink.”
The men glanced at each other, and James glared at Logan momentarily, before altering his expression to a charming smile. “Oh.” He waved a dismissive hand. “That’s nothing interesting, I’m afraid. He snores.”
Logan’s resultant indignation and spluttering told Fiona everything she needed to know. “No way! If that were true, why would Logan have mentioned it with a big grin on his face? People don’t publicize the fact that they snore—much less to the extent that soundproofing is necessary. Come on. What is it? Wild parties? Loud music?” She lowered her voice. “Crazy monkey sex with supermodels? Swinging from the chandeliers?”
After several seconds of silence, in which the two men alternately shared uncomfortable eye contact and finished their drinks, Fiona thought perhaps she’d gone too far, been over-familiar. But then, they’d been the ones that had wanted the conversation in the first place and had agreed to volunteer information. They only had themselves to blame if she’d unearthed the truth about their kinky sex games or whatever.
Something didn’t quite make sense. She’d only ever seen the two of them together, not with anyone else. And yet they were neither confirming nor denying that they had orgies in their luxury suite. Unless their orgies took place with people much more interesting than supermodels… Maybe they were involved in a full-on sex scandal? Married women, royals, dignitaries… In a place like this, with clientele like this, the possibilities were endless. Particularly since she defied any straight woman to turn these two down—or even one of them. She certainly wouldn’t.
“Well,” James said, standing and shooting a meaningful look at his friend, who also slid back his chair and got to his feet. “It’s been really lovely talking to you, Fiona, but I think we’re going to call it a night. Would you like us to walk you back to your room?”
“No,” she snapped. “That won’t be necessary, particularly as we’re not done here. You”—she waved her index finger between the two of them—“started this. You took us down this path, and now you won’t answer me. You’re forgetting I have a wild imagination, so if I’m not right about orgies or supermodels, then what the hell are you two up to? Something illegal? Drugs? Porn? People trafficking?” Panic made her brain spin with the possibilities. “Is that why you’re loaded? The bloody property development malarkey is just a front for your more nefarious activities, is it? Christ, and here was me thinking there was only a certain type of clientele that frequented this place!”
She got up too, only she shoved her chair back so hard it fell over. Not bothering to pick it up, she snatched her bag, downed the last dregs of her drink and turned sharply on her heel, but not before throwing over her shoulder, “I’d say it’s been nice chatting with you, gentlemen, but I don’t think any part of that sentence is true. Goodbye.”
The swirl of emotions battling inside her didn’t leave room for worrying about anyone else witnessing the display. She was far too concerned with the thought that these sexy yet shady characters were clearly using the premises for their dodgy business deals. What the hell was she supposed to do? Keep quiet and pretend she didn’t know anything? Go to the hotel manager? The police?
As she strode to the elevator, she quickly discounted the last two options. She had no concrete idea of what was going on, only speculation. What if she pointed the finger and there was no evidence in James and Logan’s suite? She’d end up looking ridiculous and could get into trouble for calling into question the integrity and reputation of two of the hotel’s regular clients.
But she wasn’t happy with leaving things alone, either, not when she could have stumbled across a prostitution ring, or the selling of illegal drugs. Her conscience wouldn’t allow it.
Stabbing the elevator call button, she willed it to hurry up and arrive. She wanted to be as far away from James and Logan as possible. For all their good looks, nice clothes and impeccable manners, they weren’t people she wanted to be associated with.
There was a flurry of movement behind her as the doors opened, and by the time she realized they were crowding into the car with her, it was too late to do anything about it.
Ignoring them, she lifted her hand to press the button for her floor, before thinking better of it. She didn’t want them to know which floor she was on, much less in which room. No, she’d wait for them to exit the elevator, then head back down to her own accommodation. She dropped her hand.
Logan reached out and selected the top floor, then sighed and ran a hand through his hair as the mechanisms kicked in and they began to rise up the innards of the building. “Fiona. Whatever you’re thinking, you’ve got it wrong. I have no fucking idea what’s going through your head, but I guarantee you that we don’t do anything illegal.”
“So you just screw supermodels, princesses and politicians,” she said dryly, some of the panic trickling away. Logan seemed more exasperated than worried—like she had got it wrong, rather than thinking she was about to expose some criminal activity and blow their operation wide open.
“No, not even that. Look, this is going to sound even more dodgy than what your imagination has probably already come up with, but can we just show you? It’s much easier to show you than to try to explain. Please, just stay long enough until you understand, then you’re free to leave whenever you like. We won’t stop you. You have my word. In fact, why don’t you text one of your friends or colleagues and tell them exactly where you’re going, so they know where to find you if necessary?” He peered at her earnestly. “It won’t be necessary, but if it makes you feel safer…”
“No need. Just show m
e what you’re going to show me. Let’s get this over with, so I can at least go back to my accommodation with a clear conscience and sleep without having nightmares about God knows what.”
Huffing out a breath, Logan nodded. “Yes, okay. We can do that. Thank you.”
Snorting, she shot back, “Don’t thank me yet. Who knows what I’ll do with the information I’m about to receive?”
Neither man replied, and the rest of their skyward journey was made in silence, punctuated only when the elevator pinged its arrival on the Totally Five Star’s top floor.
Chapter Eleven
Logan stepped out first, and James indicated that Fiona should go in front of him. Tentatively, she followed Logan, despite feeling as though she was trapped between them—the filling in a very sexy sandwich, but a dodgy sandwich, nonetheless.
She’d been to the top floor of the hotel before, but not often, and only for short periods of time. On her first tour of the building she’d seen the rooftop garden, one of the huge suites, and the world-famous restaurant—complete with world-famous chef—that were up there. She wasn’t keen on having her view of the ultimate in luxury suites sullied, but she didn’t feel as though she had much choice. Logan and James insisted that they weren’t up to anything illegal, but she wasn’t going to take their word for it. Only first-hand evidence—or lack of it—was going to put her mind at rest. So she just had to suck it up, get on with it then walk away. The place was big enough that she could easily avoid them in future.
Surreptitiously wiping her clammy palms on her skirt, she waited as Logan unlocked the door to their suite and stepped inside when he opened it and gestured to her.
“Leave the door open,” she commanded, as she moved farther into the room, peering anxiously around, just waiting for something to jump out and prove one of her theories.
“Um, that’s gonna be a problem,” James said, pausing with his hand on the door handle.
Turning and fixing him with a withering look, she replied, “I thought you said I could leave whenever I wanted.”
“You can,” Logan interjected, moving to stand beside her, so close she imagined she could feel his body heat. And the scent of his cologne was real enough. It had been present in the elevator, albeit mixed with James’, but now it was individual, unique. Intoxicating.
Shit. Keep your head, Fiona! These guys are fucking dangerous. What the hell are you doing here?
“So why can’t you leave the door open?”
“Because what we’re going to show you is…kind of sensitive. Not for the public gaze,” Logan replied.
“I fucking knew it! Come on. Just stop playing games with me, will you, and get on with it?” Not for the public gaze? Christ!
“We can’t. Not until you agree we can close the door. I promise you, no harm will come to you. You know how these doors work. They lock from the inside, but there’s nothing to stop you from turning the knob and walking right out. We won’t lay a hand on you.”
Sighing, she took a couple of steps away from Logan, hoping that putting some space between them would help slow her racing heart. She wasn’t even entirely sure why it was pounding or why her hands continued to sweat. What exactly was she scared of? Them? What they were going to show her? Or the fact that in spite of their apparent nefariousness, she still found them magnetic—captivating and utterly gorgeous.
God, is it the thought of a bad boy? Two bad boys? They’d never done much for her in the past, but the ones she’d encountered were the more traditional kind—tattooed, motorcycle-riding or fast-car-driving types with vague employment records and a string of crazed ex-girlfriends.
James and Logan were a different breed altogether—suave, successful, stylish and smoldering—but still bad boys. And everyone knew that bad boys were good for nothing but an amazing screw and a broken heart. Just as well she’d be leaving them firmly in her rear-view mirror, then. Though it was a pity to skip the amazing screw.
“Fine,” she bit out, defeated. “Close the door. But soundproofing or no soundproofing, you do anything I don’t like and I’ll scream until my lungs explode. I also have a mobile phone and a can of pepper spray in my bag. I will fight you.”
Logan and James exchanged a look, and she thought she saw the faintest glimmer of a smirk on Logan’s face. But before she could call him out on it, it was gone. He cleared his throat loudly—exaggeratedly, she thought—and said, “Hearing you loud and clear. Ready, James?”
Nodding, James quietly closed the door, then crossed the room and headed into one of the bedrooms.
“Okay,” Logan said, his tone even, but betraying something she couldn’t quite place. Strain, perhaps? “I’m going in there, too. Come on in after a couple of minutes. Stay by the door if you wish. But just promise me one thing?”
Sniffing, Fiona replied, “I don’t think you’re really in a position to be asking me that.”
“I have to, otherwise this isn’t going to work.”
She rolled her eyes. “All right. What is it?”
“Promise that you’ll stay long enough to absorb what it is you’re actually seeing. Don’t make a rash judgment and leave straight away. To understand, you need to see.”
“I promise.” The cloak and dagger crap was starting to get to her, now. The delays, the anticipation—her imagination continued to run away with her. But, for some reason, she wasn’t scared. Nervous, yes, but not scared for her life or her wellbeing, not even for the wellbeing of others. Her gut told her that whatever the fuck was going on here, it wasn’t, to paraphrase James, for public consumption. So what the hell was it?
“Remember, give us a couple of minutes at least then come on in.”
Fiona inclined her head and watched as Logan strode after his friend. She hadn’t heard anything since James had gone into the bedroom, and she didn’t hear anything now. But then there was what felt like a mile between where she stood and the door they’d disappeared through.
Dragging her attention from the men, she turned it to the room in general. When else was she going to get the chance to poke around in one of the hotel’s most beautiful suites? Particularly when it was inhabited. That, after all, was what made the rooms so interesting. Not the facilities, not the décor, not the furniture—but the thought of what people would do within the four walls. A room was just a room… But add life, love and lust to the special brand of luxury that was a Totally Five Star hotel, and you had a heady cocktail indeed. Heady and hopelessly addictive.
Crossing over to the windows, she peered out. As the building was an older one, which the Totally Five Star had purchased and renovated, it was far from being a skyscraper. In fact, it was the same sort of height as the places adjacent, and so the view was of the heart of Mayfair only. She couldn’t see Hyde Park, which was just a couple of minutes’ walk away, on the other side of Park Lane. She couldn’t see Grosvenor Square or Berkeley Square. She definitely had no chance of glimpsing Bond Street, Savile Row, Piccadilly or Oxford Street, but it didn’t matter. It was enough to know that they were there.
She kind of liked the fact that London wasn’t laid out before her, as though she was on Mount Olympus, perusing all that was below. It meant that she felt very much a part of it, instead of being above it, detached from it. And she’d rather have a gorgeous old structure with stunning period features than a glass and steel monolith like The Shard any day. That was what made the place so unique, she felt—the perfect blend of traditional and modern, resulting in a charm that was unparalleled. Clearly she wasn’t the only one who felt that way either, as the Totally Five Star was always busy, always sought-after, and customer feedback was consistently spectacular—even from guests for whom luxury was the norm.
Moving back into the room, she admired the glittering chandelier, which sparkled so much it looked brand new. Not a smear, not a speck of dust to mar its magnificence. The lovely flocked wallpaper on two walls stood out against the other two walls, which were painted in an off-white—a wonderful background
to the expensive paintings hung upon them. Fiona, not being much of an art buff, had no idea who the artists were, but it didn’t matter. The guests would probably know, and that was what was important.
Off to one side, the sitting area alone could have easily encompassed her apartment. Huge, sumptuous sofas looked as though they’d be more comfortable than the average bed, and between them stood a coffee table plucked directly from the pages of Perfect Homes magazine. More realistically, it had probably been plucked from the furniture department of Harrods or Selfridges—or even custom designed and made. She resolved to find out. Any such details were useful when it came to showing off the hotel in press releases and other copy. It was the sort of thing that would pull patrons in.
A bar was next to the sitting area. Not quite the size of the bar she’d just left, but impressive nonetheless. This was no mini-fridge. It was fully stocked, by the looks of it, and the only evidence of use were two empty glasses on the shiny black surface.
A large table took up another corner, complete with four chairs and a pull-down screen mounted on the wall beside it. For business meetings, she assumed.
Opposite the room the men occupied was another door—to another bedroom, probably. That was why suites were popular with businesspeople. They could stay close, but still have their own space and privacy.
Which begged the question, why had James and Logan gone into the same bedroom, and what the hell were they doing in there?
She’d been nosing around for longer than the couple of minutes Logan had requested she wait, so she decided to forgo any further exploration and go and find out what all this palaver was about.
With a glance at the door leading out of the suite to reassure herself that it was within reach, she moved toward the bedroom, careful not to snag her heels on the plush carpet and send herself sprawling to the floor.
Signs of life, of movement were audible as she drew closer, but that was all she could figure out. It was them, she knew, but it wasn’t conversation. Maybe just the occasional word, or sound—and a noise she couldn’t identify. Frowning, she took in the changing view as she approached—the different carpet in the room, the edge of a wardrobe, another plush sofa, second glittering chandelier, the base of an enormous bed.
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