The button the leader pressed was situated a foot above the buttons for the rest of the thirty floors. Next he inserted a small key beside the special button, turned it to the left, then to the right, then to the left again.
The elevator jostled and began to rise. Ironic, that they would be going up, when she felt as if she were being led to a pit in hell.
Or to the Panic Room?
The thought sent her heart racing. Fear contracted her hands into fists against her sides. “Are you taking me to the Panic Room?”
The leader glanced at her, his stone face briefly reflecting a look that could be described as perplexed.
Oh. Okay. So that unfortunate moniker was used only by the unwashed masses—or, those not among Alex Atlas’s elite forces and closest confidants.
The elevator rose in perilously slow increments. Torture personified.
What would she face? Whom would she face?
The possibilities were as vast and daunting as they were unknown.
Sophia took solace in her knowledge that she’d always been a model employee. She’d played by the rules. She’d worked her way up on merit alone. She’d instituted the company’s recycling program nine-and-a-half years ago, as an intern. She’d volunteered on company-supported outreach programs. She’d chaired the interoffice book club, focused on selections meant to inspire and drive employees to their highest potential.
How could Mr. Atlas have found fault with her?
If the man was upset about her resignation, they could solve that over lunch. She’d even foot that bill—and Mr. Atlas was known for his expensive tastes in food, entertainment, and women.
Admittedly, it was more than unsettling that she should get hauled into serious questioning on the same day that she’d submitted her two weeks’ notice.
But…what else could this possibly be about?
The elevator doors parted. She half expected to see Dante’s first circle of hell sprawling before her.
Instead, an eerily silent hallway extended to the left and right. In a thriving casino in Las Vegas, silence was the last thing she wanted to hear. The floors were lushly carpeted, the walls showcasing expensive-looking, gold-tinted paisley wallpaper.
Having worked for Mr. Atlas for nine years, she knew one thing for sure. The man’s personally favored décor included anything gold.
In front of her, four steps from the elevator, stood an ominous door—made more harrowing because of its nondescript status. One handle with a deadbolt above it. No numbers. No crafted sign designating its purpose.
As the guards disbanded like a horizontal troop leading her to the gallows, and her human handcuffs walked her into the hall, she noticed her high heels sank into the plush carpeting.
They stopped her in front of The Door.
Oh, God.
With every cell of her terrified being, she knew, knew, her fate would be decided on the other side of that door.
*
She just hadn’t expected it to be hours later.
Past weary, far beyond mental and emotional exhaustion, Sophia wondered if one of Mr. Atlas’s tactics included nerves scraped raw by sleep deprivation. Or maybe that was just her unique circumstance.
How could she know? Her purse, along with her cell phone inside it, had been confiscated at the door to nowhere. She had no sense of time, no way to reach out to anyone. Anyway, she doubted she’d find cell reception in the Panic Room.
So consumed last night with thoughts about taking the monumental step of beginning her own business, she’d barely slept. The excited high had sustained her all day—until this obscene room had enclosed her in its notorious walls. Walls that promised heinous retribution to all who entered, yet delivered nothing but silence.
Would she be deemed guilty of an unknown crime if she just laid her head down for a few minutes and took a quick nap?
Sleep could only be achieved by the innocent, right?
Her eyelids drooped. Once. Twice. So heavy. She folded her hands like a pillow in front of her on the cheap interrogation desk. She rested her forehead on them, just for a second…
The light creak of a hinge alerted her senses.
The door opened with enough wind to stir a few strands of hair across her cheek. She fought the heaviness of her eyelids, the weight of her tongue thick in her mouth.
Finally, coming to enough to realize where she was—and how she’d arrived there—she startled upright with an undignified snort. She subtly swept the liquid perilously close to sliding down her chin and across her hands folded beneath her jawline.
Spur of the moment, she tried to portray the picture of innocence.
A man entered the room.
Someone she’d never seen before in her life.
He fixed his gaze on her.
And he stopped in his tracks.
Though his expression remained blank, she sensed he had sized her up with one look. He stared into her eyes like he knew her deepest, darkest secrets—at a glance.
Those eyes. Although they revealed nothing, she felt herself drawn into them. They were the color of a tropical sea, more blue than green. Then they flashed, and she sat back in her seat. They’d turned more green than blue.
What did that mean?
Was she seeing things?
Had his eyes actually changed color? Or was she so fatigued she couldn’t really tell one way or the other?
With long, confident strides, he approached the table. He brought nothing with him. No notepad. No checklist. Nothing to indicate he was her leading an inquisition on behalf of Alex Atlas.
A chair had been placed opposite her. He pulled it out, his long fingers wrapping around one arm. He slid onto the cushioned surface with the grace of a toned athlete—or a mostly tamed tiger.
His blue-green—or green-blue, she couldn’t be sure—gaze scanned the room in its entirety, every crevice, taking in the tight quarters, from all four walls to the ceiling. He shifted with a trace of discomfort, as if these closed confines disturbed him as much as they did her.
An unexpected breath of relief sailed from her lips. She sat up stiffly, clamping her mouth shut. She couldn’t let him know his presence had in any way comforted her.
Because it shouldn’t. Right?
In a place like this, she needed to be on guard at all times.
“Sophia.”
When she inhaled, her breath entered her lungs with a stutter. He’d said her name as though beginning a prayer. Her whole being softened—for no good reason.
Then she snapped her spine straight.
“Yes?” she answered, eying him the way a condemned person regarded her executioner.
Instead of launching into a hard interrogation, as she’d expected, he sat back in his chair, away from her. Giving her space to breathe, to be. To collect her scattered, worried thoughts.
She sighed in unspoken appreciation.
“Do you know why you’re here?” he asked mildly.
Shaking her head, she sat forward in earnest. “I swear to God, I don’t know. I wish I did. But if it’s about me putting in my two weeks, please tell Mr. Atlas I’ll take him out to lunch. We can settle this as colleagues, although, of course, he is my boss.” She caught herself babbling. “I promise I won’t take any of his clientele or contracts. I mean, how could I? The people who will be my clients are everyday people, just wanting their taxes prepared. They’re average. Like me.”
His head tilted a fraction to the left. “Do you consider yourself average?”
Cripes, I don’t know. Is that a trick question? She fumbled for a response.
“Just curious,” he responded, in that heady, almost hypnotic voice of his. “Because I find you anything but average.”
Green-blue at the moment, his eyes revealed little—except maybe a glint of respect. Admiration? No, too strong a word. She didn’t know him well enough to expect that much.
“Then, you don’t know why you’re here,” he said more than questioned.
De
speration crept into her tone, and she couldn’t scrape up the pride to hide it. “Can you, please, tell me?”
Those expressive orbs closed. A door slammed on her hope. Her heart sank.
He said, “Yes, I can tell you.”
She inched forward. Waiting for the answer she’d been desperate to understand since she’d arrived.
“But I won’t.”
Confusion mingled with an unreasonable sense of hurt. Her shoulders slumped.
“That’s not why I’m here.”
Tears threatened to breech her lashes. She whispered, “What do you want from me? I can tell you whatever you want to hear—if I knew what it was.”
Abruptly, he shoved back his chair and stood, startling her. Below the noise, he spoke in low tones, his lips barely moving, “Never say that again.”
Her mouth half-formed the word why?
But he cut her off before she spoke. “Never. Again,” he demanded under his breath. Then he raised his voice several notches. “Or I’ll leave here right now. Do you understand?”
He spoke as if the words were intended for someone else.
Shying away from him, she subtly nodded. I get it. Then her eyes implored him. Will you help me?
He gave a tight nod, imperceptible to anyone who might be looking on.
Right. Of course. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Alex Atlas had cameras aimed at every conceivable space in his immense multiplex fortress.
Including this room. Especially this room.
“Can I have some water?” she blurted out. She’d rather have a shot of tequila, but she’d settle for the most accessible drink to quench her thirst.
His nearly imperceptible grin reassured her. “I’ll ask.”
He didn’t ask. He full-out demanded that someone among Mr. Atlas’s crew arrive with water soon, or he’d…well, she didn’t know what he’d do, but his tone indicated something unpleasant.
For the first time since she and Maribeth had conjured gargoyle names for their coworkers, she felt a smile tug at her lips. Maybe this guy really did have her back. Maybe he honestly, truly believed in her. His actions said as much.
But she reminded herself to remain cautious. Mr. Atlas wasn’t above using specialized tactics to get his worst offenders to confess. So she’d heard.
Nerves stretched thin, her well of honesty full but the bucket dragging on a thin rope, she gulped when the interrogator returned to the table. He didn’t close the door entirely behind him. Did that mean someone would come with water?
“Say nothing incriminating,” he hissed under his breath. “Don’t make this harder than it already is for you.”
She blinked. Okay, sold on not making my life harder, she thought.
“I’m here to question you, but I’m not the bad guy,” he said, his expression insistent. “My name is Liam Soren. I can help you.”
Wait.
Was this complete stranger actually on her side?
CHAPTER TWO
At least someone was on her side, Sophia thought, a little bitter Todd hadn’t rushed to offer help, calling the office to learn what had happened. If he had learned what had taken place in the last half hour, would he fly in that night? He hadn’t even touched base to tell her how things were going with his estranged family. Or his mother.
Then she pictured leaving this room, just to find her phone devoid of voice mails or text messages from the person who was supposed to have her back. She felt a little bleak, thinking the only man she could count was the stranger who sat across from her.
She reconsidered demanding a lawyer, or some kind of legal representation. Knowing Mr. Atlas, this all would stop if she insisted the law interfere on her behalf. Still, she knew the best way to clear herself was to stay here and answer questions.
Because she’d done nothing wrong.
“Sophia.”
Her attention snapped back to her interrogator. For the first time, she noticed him as a man, not as just an investigator.
Up close he was alarmingly handsome. His fine, charcoal-gray silk suit, perfectly tailored to fit his long limbs and broad chest, reflected wealth and status. The way he carried himself radiated pure confidence.
Was this his actual job? Or did he hold a much higher position than that of an interrogator? He had to, dressed as he was. Except, his hair gave her pause along that train of thought.
The high ranking businessmen she knew spent as much time at barbershops as some women did in a salon, clipped and trimmed to regal perfection. This man wore his hair a little too long, the dark blond length reaching just past his collar but stopping before it reached his shoulders, the strands streaked with natural gold highlights from the sun. The front pieces framed his striking cheekbones, and the rest of the length softening the chiseled square of his jaw, dusted with day-old beard growth. He was sheik, but in a laid-back beachy sort of way. Like a country boy who’d made it big in the city. The type who despised sitting behind a desk for long. She wasn’t sure how to interpret the unusual combinations that made up him.
When he cleared his throat, the movement brought her attention there. The top button of his navy dress shirt was casually undone, laying open to reveal a lean column of tanned muscle.
As she pulled up her gaze to meet his again, she found him watching at her patiently, as if waiting for her to finish her assessment.
Those tropical eyes threw a rush of heat over her. Not what she should be focused on, given the tenseness of the situation.
“Sophia Melano,” he began with the somber voice of a judge.
“Yes?” She steadied the trembling in her lips.
“Do you like working here?” His tone had softened a touch.
“Absolutely,” she said without hesitation. “I couldn’t have found a better casino to work for, and Mr. Atlas has been a great boss. He’s given me so many opportunities to prove myself. And I have. I think I have. I hope I have.”
He arched a warning eyebrow over a squint. The effect came across as cautionary. Had she said something questionable? Something an examiner could pick apart for deeper meaning? Ah, she’d hesitated, doubted herself, by using words like “think” and “hope.”
Okay, she was getting the hang of this interrogation thing.
Thanks to his cues.
Relaxing deeper into the chair across from her, he let his wrists drape casually over the chair arms, then he crossed an ankle over his knee. He wore a pair of cracked leather cowboy boots, well broken in—the choice of footwear at odds with the rest of his sleek polish. But they did go with the hair. She kind of liked the nontraditional elements of his style. They made him more likeable, approachable. Less like a nerve-wracking inquisitor, more like a regular guy she could go have a beer with.
Or was his relatability something he used as a tactic, to get the object of his inquisition to trust him, feel at ease? Reveal things she wouldn’t otherwise share?
He was still too mysterious to trust completely. To trust at all?
Then she noticed a smile lingering at the corners of his lips, almost imperceptible. It wasn’t snarky, or cruel, or condescending. It was…encouraging. Like he approved of her observation about his boots, and the rest of him. As if he was silently applauding her for noticing he didn’t fit into a mold.
The smile soon vanished into a straight line. Oh, no. Had she only imagined that glimpse of encouragement, of empathy?
“So you are aware,” he said quietly, in a deep voice like jagged stone wrapped in velvet, “we are on surveillance.”
She swallowed and let her glance casually roam the upper corners of the room. Two of the four were fitted with cameras. Setting her elbows on the table, she extended her clasped hands in a prayer formation. “I promise you, whatever is going on, I have nothing to hide.”
“Did you give Alex Atlas your two weeks’ notice today?”
“I did.” When he didn’t say anything else, she felt the need to fill the silence. “I did that so I could start my own business. I signed
all the non-compete forms the day I started working here, and I will abide by them. Mr. Atlas can rest assured I’ll only offer accounting practices for regular people, not big business owners—or any casinos. I promise.”
When he didn’t respond positively or negatively, her shoulders slumped.
“What can I do to make you believe me?” she asked.
He blinked slowly, then winked his right eye. It was a spit-second movement, something a camera wouldn’t catch.
Did that mean he believed her?
He rolled the ankle inside the boot resting on his knee, bringing her attention back to his aged cowboy boots, and the reminder put her a little more at ease.
“Are you a hard worker?”
She straightened. “Yes,” she said with pride.
He blinked slowly again, followed by a flash-wink. Okay, that seemed to be another subtle sign of communication.
“Have you dedicated yourself to the company’s success for nine years?”
“Yes.”
Again, that slow blink and quick wink.
He was definitely communicating with her using subtle cues a camera wouldn’t catch. Nothing else explained his deliberate responses.
She drew closer to him, across the table.
As if he’d noticed her slight relaxation, he blinked slowly and offered the slightest dip of his chin. Would the cameras catch that? She hoped not.
When the door swung open, she jumped in her seat. The guard entered.
All the tension coiled again inside her. She didn’t trust those other men.
The guard extended his hand to offer a bottle of water.
Instead of letting her reach for it, her interrogator accepted the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and set it aside as he handed her the bottle.
Relieved, she downed several gulps.
The door slammed shut. Her throat clenched, and she almost spit out the swallow remaining in her mouth. She choked and coughed.
The interrogator stood, came to her side of the table, and patted her back. “You okay? Relax, take a couple deep breaths.”
The Billionaire's Seduction (Billionaire Bodyguards Book 5) Page 2
