“Excuse me, Ms. Sanders?” A server appears just behind me, balancing a tray on his arm. “A gentleman sent this over for you.”
I hold up my hand and offer the server a smile. “I’m sorry, I don’t drink before runway shows. Please thank the gentleman for me, though.”
“He was quite insistent.” Angling the tray so it’s closer to me, he adds, “The bartender had to call up to the Lac Bar for the ingredients. I believe this is called a Kvasya?”
My knees buckle, my heart skipping a beat—or two—and I shove at the tray as the cloying scents of cinnamon and yeast hit my nose. The drink tumbles to the ground, splashing my bare toes.
“Sloane!” Marina wraps her arm around my waist. “What is it?”
“Who…who sent that?” I ask, unable to force the words out much above a whisper.
The server peers through the windows into the ballroom. “He was standing just inside a few moments ago. But I do not see him now. Please, Ms. Sanders, wait right here and I’ll return with a towel and some club soda.”
“N-no. That’s all right.” Swallowing hard, I try for a smile, but I’m not sure I succeed since my lips have a mind of their own right now and my fingers are trembling and tapping against one another like I’m playing the piano. “My apologies. I overreacted. I’m tired and I should get up to my room.”
Turning to Donna, who looks a bit shell-shocked, I lean in for another two air kisses. “We’ll talk more tomorrow, yes?” I ask.
“Of course, dear. Get some rest.”
I don’t know how I’ll be able to now, but I nod and pull Marina with me back into the ballroom. A flash of black tuxedo in the corner of my eye almost stops me. Was that the man from the bar? The one whose handkerchief I’m now clutching in case my impending tears spill over? But when I turn my head, he’s gone.
Chapter Ten
Griff
Sloane and Marina flee the ballroom like someone lit their shoes on fire, and I start after them until Marina glances behind her and mouths, “Patio.”
Though I had them in my sights most of the time they were out there, I missed whatever happened to put the fear of God into Sloane. The idea of leaving the two of them alone doesn’t sit well, but as indecision freezes me in place, my watch buzzes.
Marina: Going back to our room. Find out who sent the drink.
Well, at least Sloane’s friend can keep her cool—when she’s not about to rip me a new asshole.
A server is crouched next to one of the tables piling pieces of broken glass onto his tray, and a group of women gather under one of the radiant heaters thirty feet away, smoking and paying no attention to the staff.
“Hey.” I crouch down next to the guy, catching the heavy scent of cinnamon along with something that is vaguely reminiscent of beer. “What happened?”
Without raising his head, the guy’s lips start to move, and I tap the temple of my glasses.
“…of the models was upset that a gentleman inside bought her a drink.”
“Who?”
“Pardon me, sir?” Now he looks up, confusion pinching his brows.
“Who sent the drink? And what was it? Smells like a can of beer made out with a box of Red Hots.”
“Red Hots, sir?”
“Sorry. American cinnamon candy. They’re…strong.”
“Ah. Here we have Zimtsterne. A cinnamon cookie we make for holidays.” After wrinkling his nose, the server swipes a damp rag over the tile, then stands. “The bartender called the drink a Kvasya. I do not see the gentleman who ordered it.”
“What did he look like?” As soon as I’m alone, I’ll look up the drink name, or—if Marina finally tells Sloane about me—ask her why it made her freak the fuck out, but right now, finding the guy who sent it to her is a hell of a lot more important.
“Shorter than you, sir. Black hair. Wide nose. Brown eyes. He was in a suit that did not fit him well. Ask Bernard. He may know more.” Pointing to the same bartender whose palm I greased earlier, he nods at the tray. “I must return this to the kitchen.”
He’s gone before I can thank him—not that I want him remembering my face—or that I asked so many questions.
Bernard doesn’t have much more to offer besides one very telling bit of information. The man who ordered the drink—and told him how to make it—had a distinct Russian accent.
“And he did not tip,” Bernard says, his mouth curving into a frown. “I provide my services to events like this every weekend. Most have two types of guests.”
“Oh?” This should be interesting.
“Those who remember what it is to work hard for a living and those who prefer to forget.”
Offering Bernard a weary smile as I tuck another ten franc note into his tip jar. “And which type am I?”
“You, my friend, are unique. A man used to hard work, but with the means to forget. Or to be forgotten.”
“Forgotten, Bernard. Let’s go with forgotten.”
Sloane
The elevator ride up to our suite passes in a blur. The disgusting odor of the Kvasya fills the small space, and memories hit me from all sides. Dimitri’s fetid breath after he had his third or fourth of the night. How once, when I angered him, he punched me hard enough to break my nose, then threw the drink in my face.
That night, I tried to sleep with toilet paper shoved up my nostrils, but that wasn’t enough to dull the sweet, cinnamon stench.
“Sloane? Look at me, sweetie?” Marina cups the back of my neck, and I meet her gaze. “We’re safe.”
I blink hard and see the cream-colored walls of our suite. Shit. I didn’t even realize we’d gotten off the elevator. My toes are sticky, and the brand new shoes Beauty and Style sent to go with my dress? They’re ruined.
“I have to get out of these clothes.” I don’t give Marina a chance to say another word before I lock myself in the bathroom. Sinking down onto the edge of the tub, I unbuckle the strappy heels and dump them into the sink before spinning the hot water knob as far as it will go.
I’ll have to pay for those. But I don’t give a damn. Even if the brand new Louboutins likely retail for over $1000.
The dress is unscathed, thank God, and I reach under my arm to undo the hook and eye catch and lower the zipper. A few rational thoughts start to hammer away at my hysteria, and I shut off the water and open the door to a very worried Marina with her hand raised, ready to knock.
“Don’t ask. Please,” I whisper. “Just take care of the dress and get me something to change into?”
My best friend folds me into a gentle hug. “No more secrets, remember?”
“Marina—”
“Shhh. You don’t need to explain right this minute. But don’t think I’m going to be patient for much longer.” Helping me out of the dress, she drapes it over her shoulder and arches her brows. “Arms up. You know that bra is a bitch to get out of.”
She’s not wrong. The strapless number relies on adhesive to hold it in place, and I hate peeling it off.
“Ouch! Dammit!” Between the lingering scent of cinnamon syrup in the air and the pain as Marina digs her nails under the edges of the sticky side panels, I struggle not to cry.
“One, two—” Ripping both sides off at the same time is one of Marina’s many talents, and she never waits until three to do it. “There. All better. Put some aloe vera on those marks before you come out, and I’ll order up a fresh tea service.”
A velvet and silk bathrobe hangs on the back of the door, and I pull it on, retrieve the shoes from the sink and shove them into the plastic-lined trash can. Ten minutes later, my feet and ankles scrubbed within an inch of bloody, I slather on the aloe vera and tiptoe gingerly into the bedroom.
Instead of my sleep shirt and shorts laid out on the bed, I find a pair of black yoga pants, a tank top, a soft blue sweater, and socks. I’m too tired to care, so I dress, but before I open the door to the main room, my phone buzzes in my evening bag.
Max: Need to talk to you. Come to Room 422. Alon
e.
It’s about damn time. My lightweight, cushioned Sketchers feel like heaven after hours in heels. I don’t bother swapping out my evening bag, just tuck it—complete with the heavy room key inside—under my arm and rush into the main room.
Marina pauses, a bone china tea cup in her hand. “Sloane? Where are you going?” The cup rattles as she skirts the beige velvet sofa.
“Max texted. Finally. I have to go to his room so we can figure out what to do next. It’s going to be okay, Marina. I promise.” Waving the phone at her, I flash a tight smile. “Be back soon.”
She calls after me, but the heavy door clicks shut, leaving the silence of the hall to envelop me.
The plush deep purple carpets are like walking on air, and I rush through the empty corridor, around the corner, and to the opposite side of the hotel. If Max tried, he couldn’t have booked a room farther from mine.
The door to room 422 isn’t locked—the swing bar latch is flipped backwards to stop it from closing completely. “Max?”
Knocking quietly, I push on the door and peek my head inside. His room is the mirror image of mine. The same overstuffed sofas, the same thick beige carpet over polished marble floors, the same heavy drapes—though his are drawn shut.
I can’t see anything. The single lamp next to the desk is on its lowest setting, casting a pale, yellow circle that barely reaches the edge of the dark cherry wood.
“Max? I got your text.” Two steps into the room, the door rattles against the slipped latch, and I stifle my yelp. But at least my eyes adjust. He’s sitting in a chair in the corner, shadows hiding half his face, head tipped back like he’s asleep. But the man has a strong, sharp nose, and I’d recognize it anywhere.
“This is ridiculous. Are you pretending to be The Godfather or something? After what I told you earlier? It’s not funny. I’m turning on the lights.”
Brushing the switch next to the door, I turn back to him.
He’s not asleep. My purse hits the floor. I want to scream, but no sound comes out.
Crimson spills from a rough, ragged gash across his throat, soaking the front of his white dress shirt. There’s so much. It’s everywhere. I can’t smell the Kvasya anymore. Only the thick, coppery stench of blood.
Falling to my knees, I cover my mouth as a wail builds in my chest.
No, no, no. Not Max. Not here.
“Sloane! Look at me!” The strong, smooth voice carries weight, and I fall onto my ass trying to twist around.
It’s the man from the bar. The one who was so nice. The one whose handkerchief is still tucked in my purse. Was he following me? Following Max? Oh, God. He could be the one who…shit. I have to get out of here.
My fingers curl around the strap of my evening bag, and I stagger to my feet. I have to get out of here. But he’s between me and the door.
Think, Sloane. Distract him. Do something.
“Who are you?” I ask, adjusting my grip on my bag. It’s heavy—the Baur au Lac’s room key enough to do some serious damage.
“There’s time for that later. Right now, you need to listen to me—”
I swing the purse with all my strength, and it collides with the man’s jaw.
“Fuck,” he groans, cupping his cheek and staggering a few steps to the right.
I take off at a run, the purple carpet nothing but a blur as I spring down the corridor toward my room.
Get inside. Just get inside and call the police.
The room key falls from my hand, and I scoop it up and slam it into the lock. With a quick twist, the door opens, and Marina’s there, catching me so I don’t fall. “Lock it. Now. Please,” I beg.
Marina shuts the door firmly but doesn’t flip the deadbolt. “Sloane—”
“Now! Max… Max is…shit. Call your cousin. I need…I need help.”
Someone pounds on the suite’s door, and I skirt the couch. Like that’ll protect me. “Don’t let anyone in!”
“Sweetie, look at me.” Marina takes me by the shoulders and forces me to meet her gaze as the pounding continues. “That’s what I was trying to tell you.”
Keeping one hand held up in the universal gesture for stand still, she checks the peep hole, then opens the door.
“Stop!” I scream.
The man—the one I ran from only seconds ago—stalks into the room, slams the door, and fixes me with a cold stare. “Did you touch anything in that room?”
I jerk back, looking around wildly for anything I can use as a weapon, until Marina wraps her arm around me. “Sloane, I called Clive before we left New York. This is his guy,” she says.
What? This…this man who followed me, who’s glaring at me like he’s ready to kill… Her cousin sent him?
She offers me a weak smile. “This is Griff.”
Chapter Eleven
Griff
Wide blue eyes stare up at me, equal parts terrified and livid. After what she saw in that room, I’m amazed she’s still standing.
But she hasn’t answered my question, and before I do anything else, I need to know if her prints are anywhere in that room.
“Did you touch anything in your manager’s room?” I ask again, using my foot to kick the door shut behind me so I don’t have to tear my gaze from Sloane’s face.
“What?” She blinks back tears as she stares at Marina, then me.
“Fingerprints. Are your fingerprints anywhere in his room?”
“N-no? I…the door wasn’t locked. I pushed on it. The outside. And I turned on the light.”
Shit. I’ll have to call the guys, but I flipped the latch to rights and set out the Do Not Disturb sign, so I should have at least an hour.
“Good.” Spotting a tea service on the table, I glance at Marina. “Pour her something and keep her calm. I need to call Clive and then we’ll talk.”
Sloane wriggles out from under Marina’s arm and straightens her shoulders. Her lips are doing that thing again. The nervous pursing and mashing together until she clenches her jaw and the rapid movements transfer to her fingers tapping against her thighs.
“Wait. You knew who I was in the bar, didn’t you? I thought I saw you at the cocktail party too. Were you following me?” After a beat, she shakes her head. “You were. You were following me.”
Thank fuck she didn’t destroy my glasses. She’s talking too quickly for me to read her lips, and I suspect she’s about to lose her shit all over the place once my presence stops distracting her from the memory of her manager’s dead—and very bloody—body.
“Yes, I was following you. That’s my job. And yes, I should have introduced myself, but then again, someone should have admitted she called me in before the party tonight so I could have been with you the whole damn time.”
Sloane sinks down to the floor and covers her face with her hands. Her voice is so muffled, even the glasses can’t pick up what she’s saying, and Marina rushes over to her.
“Go. Make your call. I’ll take care of her,” she says, and I close myself in what appears to be Sloane’s bedroom. It smells like her. Aloe, along with a hint of coconut and something decidedly tropical.
The space is pristine, except for a velvet and silk bathrobe draped over the end of the bed and several tubes and bottles—lotions and shit, I assume—lined up on the dresser.
Clive answers almost immediately, and his words scroll across the phone screen. “What’s wrong?”
“Can you call Austin? Or Dax? Conference them in? Max is dead, and it’s fucking obvious someone killed him to send Sloane a message.”
“Shit. Yeah. Hang on a second.”
While I wait, I check the balcony doors. Locked, but any idiot with a credit card or even a paperclip wouldn’t need more than thirty seconds to break in. Pulling a thick rubber band from my pocket, I loop it twice around the door handles. It’s not much, but given its strength, it’ll at least cause a racket and wake her up if someone tries to break in.
“Got both Austin and Dax on the call,” Clive says, his words sw
itching to blue text on the screen.
“Max is dead? How?” Austin asks, the green type an homage to Mik’s job as a botanist.
“Someone cut his throat. In his hotel room. I was only in there for a minute, tops. Sloane was the one who found him, and I didn’t want to leave her alone. But no obvious signs of struggle or other injuries. Body was posed in a chair facing the door.”
Dax—whose words appear in black, cuts in. “You secure the scene?”
“I’m not an idiot. Put out the Do Not Disturb sign, made sure the door was closed, and left. Her fingerprints will be on the light switch, but that’s it. I’ll go back after I’ve explained things to Sloane, but the way I see it, we’ve got three options.” Taking a deep breath, I stare out over the serene water of Lake Zurich. “At the party tonight, someone tried to rattle Sloane by sending her a distinctively Russian drink. I have a vague description of the asshole, but nothing solid. And Marina told me Max texted Sloane and asked her to meet him in his room. Given the condition of the body, there’s no way he sent that message. The killer did.”
“Fuck. And the options?” Dax asks.
I tick them off on my finger, “Dangerous, dumb, and risky. Dangerous is sending Sloane back there to rediscover the body and call the authorities. Dumb? Taking the sign off the door so housekeeping can find him in the morning. And then there’s risky. Cover the whole thing up. But if we do that, and the killer saw me follow Sloane into that room, my cover’s blown.”
No one speaks for several long moments, until Austin’s green text appears. “Wren managed to Photoshop you into a couple of Sloane’s existing Instagram posts, and the hotel reservation system has you listed as the second guest on her suite with Marina staying next door. It’s not that much of a stretch that her overprotective boyfriend wouldn’t want her going to Max’s room alone.”
Dax adds, “Or that the two of you got distracted and didn’t make it there at all.”
Rogue Officer: A Protector Romantic Suspense Standalone (Gone Rogue) Page 9