by Marata Eros
The elevator dings on floor thirty-nine. The doors flow apart and a woman stands at in the opening.
The resemblance is so striking, she must be Lisbeth.
My reaction is startling, as well. My breath rushes out of me as though I’ve popped a balloon.
“Hello,” she says in Norwegian, and I stand before her in a stupor.
I am never tongue-tied.
I feel Tallinn's eyes on me as I say nothing.
“Hey,” he says in English.
The door tries to shut, and Tallinn slaps it with his palm. “We're going up.”
He’s still in English, though we're in Norway. I wake up, scowling at him.
But her dulcet tones reach my ears like a melody I've been waiting for my entire life.
“Down.” She laughs, and it's musical.
I blink as though I’ve been punched.
Tallinn gives me a jab in the ribs.
“Hello,” I bark reactively, and she turns to look at me full on.
Tallinn depresses the door-open button.
I swallow hard.
“Hello,” she says again, this time in English, sticking out an elegant, slim hand.
I hesitate for a long second then take it, and our eyes meet. A zap like an electrical current flares between us and her deep blue eyes widen.
“Francisco,” I say, not wanting the contact to end.
Tallinn groans.
“Paco,” he corrects me from the background.
She smiles, and I cannot help but return it. I feel as though the sun has found the cloud I've been using to hide.
“Greta,” she says, giving my hand a slow pump.
“Hate to break this up, but in or out, guys.”
We turn to Tallinn and he laughs.
“Or stay!” He backpedals.
I shake my head, clearing the fog. “I'm afraid I'll have to go clean up,” I say, making a stab at the casual speak Tallinn berates me with.
Her eyes move over my informal gym attire. When they come back to my eyes, I see heat there.
Or maybe it's wishful thinking.
Another radiant smile splits her face. “Glad to see you're into hygiene, Paco.”
I'm suddenly self-conscious. “Yes,” I mutter.
“Good, it's wonderful to have met you. However, I'm—I need to be somewhere shortly.”
I take in her outfit.
Breathtaking.
An all-cream suit encases a build like a dancer's. A light-peach blouse peeks out from beneath sculpted lapels. She wears high heels that make her just an inch or so shorter than I.
Greta is made of ice and light. She calls to me.
The timing couldn’t be worse. I am destined to save… I can't recall her name at the moment.
A chance meeting in the elevator doesn't change that most basic fact that I’m on a mission, even if the woman has blanked my thought process.
That ghost in my memory seeps inside my thoughts. I beat it down, stepping back. “Of course, you look lovely.”
A fine blush tints her cheeks, though she does not appear demure. Her bold eyes, a deep and abiding cornflower blue, meet mine. “Thank you, Paco.”
She glides into the elevator, and we step out.
“We'll catch the other on its way up,” I say unnecessarily.
Our fingertips slide apart, and I watch her face through the gap as the elevator doors close.
At that moment, I realize we were holding hands the entire time.
“Wow.” Tallinn rocks back on his heels as he surveys the stainless-steel doors.
“Yes,” I say.
“She is the hottest thing in Norway. Just sayinʼ.”
Agreed.
At first, I don't reply. “I have Lisbeth.”
Tallinn cups his chin. “Maybe.”
I begin walking to the elevator that will take us the final floor to the top.
We move inside, and the doors close. Tallinn hits the button twice and we ascend in a slow glide.
“What do you mean maybe?” I ask, rotating my neck from the tension of the weightlifting. After the mystery woman—after everything—a stupor covers me like a cloak. I'm befuddled. I shake it off, trying to force its grip from my mind.
“You sure you can't contact this Sebastian guy?”
“I'm certain. It's part of the mystique, Tallinn. It's what I signed up for. Intrigue—unpredictability. It's part and parcel of the fantasy.”
“And this is supposed to flesh out whether the woman is the right one? Sort of like a pressure cooker?”
A small smile erupts. “Yes. Every scenario presented is hand-engineered—tailored, if you will—to the individual. Myself, the woman. It is meant to help me choose.”
“Help her choose,” Tallinn says, swiping the key card.
I incline my head. “Yes. Though I'd say it should be mutual.”
“It might not turn out like you want.”
I walk into the suite behind Tallinn and stop short.
“Holy crow!” Tallinn says.
I scan the suite, leaving no stone unturned, no piece of furniture untested.
The sound of Tallinn's ankle gun escaping its holster causes instant tension to course through my body.
He kicks the door open wide. It slams into the wall as he sweeps the weapon in front of his body.
“Paco, stay there.” His voice is low and careful.
I back against the door until I feel the solidness against my spine.
Three minutes feels like three hours.
Tallinn returns from his adjacent suite.
“It's clear.”
We survey the damage, our gazes seeking the same thing.
It’s missing—the photo of the woman.
Gone.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Greta
A text dings and I look down at my now fully charged phone.
Zaire Sebastian: Hello, Greta. How you doing, darlinʼ?
Me: I'm fine!
I think of Tor, and a soft smile breaks the seal of my lips.
Zaire Sebastian: Great.
Me: Can I ask questions now?
Zaire Sebastian: You may, but I might not answer them.☺
I stare at his smiley face emoticon and scowl.
Mysterious jerk.
Me: Fine, nevermind.
I sigh.
Zaire Sebastian: Take heart, sweet thing—it's all part of the CA experience.
Right.
Me: Okay, ttyl.
Zaire Sebastian: Take care, Greta.
I've been with the Club Alpha fantasy for over a week and haven't felt as though it's very dangerous. I think back to some of the questions posed on the twenty-page psych evaluation. There was no mistaking that it'd been exactly that.
Some of the questions gave me pause. So did the rigorous physical paces they'd put me through.
So far… I'm on cloud nine. I met Tor!
My smile is crooked. He didn't even look at my swatches.
A new notification dings. It’s from Charles Oppenheimer, my boss. A flutter of apprehension floats inside my stomach.
Charlie: Hi, Greta.
Me: Hi.
Charlie: Wow, you do move fast! Excellent work.
I wrinkle my nose.
Me: What do you mean?
Charlie: You got the Aros deal!
Relief and elation vie for position inside me. I squeal in delight, jumping up and down.
Me: Really?
Charlie: Yes! Negotiations are in full throttle, thanks to you. When are you scheduled to return?
I bite my lip. I've got the deal nailed, though not thanks to my business savvy. Other things are at play here. But I would bet Charlie doesn't know that.
I begin to tap out a response and a second text appears.
Charlie: You deserve it—why don't you stay an extra week?
That gives me two weeks in Norway. It'll be long enough to explore what's really happening between Tor and me.
I nod, realize he
can't see me, and let my fingers fly over the virtual keyboard of my smartphone.
Me: I'd love to, thank you.
I manage that instead of a hell yes!
Charlie: Terrific, see you before Halloween.
I frown. I'll be home before then.
I shrug.
Me: See you then.
I swipe my phone with my finger, telling it to hibernate, and set it on the nightstand. I have another date with Tor—a real one. No business, just… I don't even know what. Excitement threatens to scoop out my insides, and I dance over to my closet to look at outfits.
I think of my past and how I left Norway for an exclusive American girls’ boarding school in my teens. I didn’t sneak out with boys like a lot of the girls did. Sometimes, I think I am the most boring girl in the world.
Then the news came of my parentsʼ accident. I was already attending the University of Washington by that time.
Mum died instantly, and Father had lingered, as Tor mentioned—just long enough to feel like goodbye never came.
It was awful.
The attack happened so close to their deaths that I felt as though I’d drowned in a river of grief—for the loss of my parents and the robbery of my innocence.
I shove the memories aside for now. Gia would be so disappointed that I'm “dwelling,” as she calls it.
I give one last cursory glance to the dreamsicle outfit I chose. I suppress a giggle.
I'm all cream and peach. Good enough to eat.
I do a small whoop, wrapping myself in the newfound confidence of a sealed business deal.
I’ve found a man I might actually trust enough to like. Something I take a chance on might actually work. I hum an off-key tune as I leave the hotel room, feeling happy.
*
I glide down the hotel corridor, my mood unstoppable. My suite shares the entire floor with only one other. I briefly consider what it'd be like to own the entire top floor for my stay.
I briefly contemplate who's up there.
I reach the elevator and push the down button.
The elevator dings, and the doors slide apart with a whisper. I start to step inside as two men move to get out.
I don't believe in a physical reaction when meeting someone for the first time. I'm excited about the subtle chemistry that's going on between Tor and me—like a slow burn.
The man who stands in front of me is internal combustion.
An inferno.
Well over six feet, he wears clothes so sweat-soaked they cling to every sculpted bit of his body. I stand in the elevator's threshold stupidly, hanging onto my composure by the barest margin.
He seems as taken aback as I am, and he doesn't say anything, assessing me as I do him.
His eyes are the most arresting thing about him. Thickly lashed in black, they are so green, I'm certain he's wearing contacts.
Then he blinks.
No. There's just a man this gorgeous in existence. Who's breathing in the same space I occupy.
He commands the molecules of the moment.
His black hair is tied at his nape, giving the illusion of short hair, and his face is naked of distraction. His features are sculpted and masculine; a square jaw connects in a deep cleft at his chin.
The moment spins out as I sense a subtle tenderness from him in the same way I ignored the primitive warning my subconscious tried to give me the night of my attack. I don't know how I sense it but I do.
A woman should listen to her gut. Men do.
All these thoughts race through my head in seconds.
A strong sense of déjà vu has me stumbling deeper into awkward territory.
I jerk myself together. “Hello,” I say in Norwegian, though he looks exotic enough to possibly be… Spanish? The engrossing emerald of his eyes throws me, and that subtle sense of memory overlap washes through me again, though how would I ever forget him if we'd met?
I stick out my hand, and he envelopes it inside his own, giving it a slow handshake.
“Francisco.” His voice threads through me, pulling things down low.
I suppress the reaction then say hello again in English.
The second man says in the background, “Paco.”
I barely even notice him.
The name Paco suits the man in front of me. He has an easy but elegant casualness.
I inhale deeply.
“Hate to break this up, but in or out, guys,” the muscle-bound guy behind Paco says.
We both look at him and he chuckles. “Or stay!”
The two of them seem very different but somehow close. I can't figure it out. Paco is all lean, built sophistication, and the other guy is rough at the corners.
A tense silence covers us.
“I'm afraid I'll have to go clean up,” Paco finally says. This time my perusal is warranted because he brought attention to himself.
His hand is large around mine.
I swallow back fear. Hands are a problem.
My gaze shifts to Paco's face. It's nothing like the faces of the men who attacked me. High, broad cheekbones speak of European descent, and his eyes are large and well-spaced. His mouth … God, his mouth.
I could kiss him. I could.
Instead, I give him a smile. “Glad to see you're into hygiene, Paco.”
Light color warms his dusky complexion. “Yes,” he says quietly.
I feel a pang of regret. I hope I didn't make him feel… bad. “Good,” I say quickly, back-pedaling. “It's great to have met you. However, I'm—I need to be somewhere shortly.”
I need to meet Tor—my actual date.
So why can't I make my feet move?
Paco steps aside, sweeping his palm in front of me and says, “Of course, I don't mean to make you late.” His eyes move to my body, consuming me with the intensity of his gaze. “You look lovely.”
I hear, I want you.
Or that's what I want to hear.
His words send a thrill through me, resonating in the place I never let anyone touch. But I fight the other impulses too. Shame, fear and excitement collide in a mixed-up knot of confused emotions.
I stare for a moment longer, and I'm suddenly aware I can see deeply inside this man, as though he allows it.
Or maybe there's a man out there who is just that genuine.
I feel heat in my face and resist touching my flaming cheeks. “Thank you, Paco.”
He begins to move through the open doors. “We'll catch the other on its way up,” Paco says as he and the other man exit.
I feel a tug.
It's only then I realize he didn’t let go of my hand the entire time we spoke.
It felt so natural.
Our grip loosens as the elevator begins to close.
One green eye bores into me through the narrowing slit of the elevator doors, as though he'll etch the memory of my face into his mind. Then he disappears behind the steel.
My finger shakes as I depress the lobby button.
I back away from the softly illuminated panel until my butt smacks the bar inside the elevator.
My mind dissects the three minutes I spent in Paco's presence. I glance at the hand he touched, softly curling it into a fist and laying it against my heart.
He is the one on the top floor. He's staying in a suite that costs three thousand dollars a night.
Who is Paco?
*
My composure returns during my short ride to the ground floor, where I attempt to shake off the disconcerting chance meeting inside the elevator.
The heels of my shoes echo hollowly as I walk across the antique marble floors in the lobby.
Tor's limo is waiting at the curb of the hotel.
I take in his sheer physicality as he leans against the sleek car. Feet are crossed at the ankle, and muscular arms are folded across a barrel chest.
I've known him for thirty hours and feel as though I’ve cheated on him with a rich guy I met in the elevator. I know it's not rational. But I'm in unfamiliar waters
. I nervously stroke my hands down my wool-blend cream slacks. The material is itchy against my palms.
Tor has shown me compassion and presents a link to my family. He already knows the thing I can't bear to tell anyone. There are so many firsts that I don't need to address with him. It makes things easier.
His eyes move down my outfit in clear approval. And even though it's light for the season, I wear what showcases my coloring. For someone as pale as I am, colors are limited. Woman who think being a natural blonde is so great haven't tried finding colors that work.
Can't help what you are, only who.
“Greta,” Tor says with a smile, pushing off from the side of the limo, and strides to my side. He places one flat palm on my lower back as the other finds the hollow between my shoulder blades. He kisses each of my cheeks, lingering a moment longer than protocol dictates. He's so tall, I rise on tiptoes to meet his embrace.
I'm a little breathless. After meeting the enigmatic Paco minutes ago then being in the presence of my first legit love interest is bordering on sensory overload.
“I know it is late for a supper, but may I interest you in a dessert and coffee?”
The venue is not as intimidating as a formal-length dinner would be, and I hide my relief behind a smile. I nod and slip my arm through his, immediately impressed when he opens the door for me instead of waiting for his driver. He's obviously wealthy but somehow prefers to manage the little things by himself.
Father was wealthy but understated. I was raised with those precepts. I'm somewhat indifferent to wealth, though the trust I will inherit on my thirtieth birthday will allow me long-term security. I have a feeling of accomplishment because I've worked for what I have. After a certain amount of money, I don't think a person spends differently. Of course, I wanted independence, and Father fostered it.
He set me free to seek my own path, and for that, I'm grateful. His lessons are part of what hurts so badly now that he's gone. Father is not here to see me triumph over the worst of challenges. Overcoming my fear will be the greatest.