by Julie Kenner
If the primary plan with Worthington had gone awry, then Clive would have led the bastard down the fifteen flights of stairs to the main landing, and then down two more into the sub-basement. From there, they could access the hotel’s utility room, where linens were washed and pressed on-site.
His secret passage was behind washer number three.
Clive had done his homework, all right. He doubted even the police knew about his secondary route. He needed to take it. Needed to go now. But the second he stepped away from his seven little sheep, they’d start bleating. He’d have to kill them, and he didn’t want to. Killing was only for Worthington. The security guard had been stupid. That hadn’t been Clive’s fault. The guy had been dumb, and he’d brought it on himself.
But the sheep were cooperating. And Clive wouldn’t kill them unless they made him.
He sucked in air, his breath hot and stale through the stocking he still wore over his head. He’d come into the hotel with only one goal—make Worthington pay. A death for a death. Now he’d added another goal. Escaping alive.
The only question was how.
He looked again at Angie, noticing with satisfaction how she drew back, her eyes wide with fear. If he was right, she just might be the solution to his problem.
JOAN AWOKE to find Bryce’s hand pressed against her bare hip, creating a warmth that spread throughout her entire body. She sighed, knowing she was grinning like the Cheshire cat, and pressed a soft kiss against his shoulder. This was nice, and despite the horrific circumstances that had brought them together, she really didn’t want it to end.
Carefully, so as not to wake him, she slid out from under the covers. She grabbed a plush robe from the back of the bathroom door, then padded into the living area. She didn’t want to worry her parents, but neither did she want them to inadvertently discover her predicament. At least she knew they hadn’t already heard the news. Her mom had her cell phone number on speed dial and used it liberally in case of mall sales and traffic pileups. The fact that she hadn’t heard from her mom made it obvious neither the police nor the media had spilled that she was trapped in the hotel.
She punched in the number and listened to it ring. If she was lucky, she’d catch them before they left for work. She took a deep breath, wondering as she did what the heck she was going to say. Hi, Mom. I’m in the middle of all this hostage stuff, but don’t worry. Donovan told me it’s cooled down and I’m safe. She shrugged. That sounded pretty good.
But when her mom answered, calm and cool and collected flew right out the window. Instead of words, Joan managed one choking sob, then sank to the floor with the phone pressed against her ear.
“Hello? Hello?”
“M-m-mom?” Joan managed to say.
“Joanie? Sweetie, are you all right? Peter, it’s Joanie! Something’s wrong.”
A rustling noise, and then her father’s voice came on the line. “Jo-jo? What’s wrong? Where are you? Are you all right?”
Despite everything, Joan smiled, feeling better already. She took a deep breath. “I’m—I’m okay. Really.” Another breath. “I’m sorry to scare you. I just—”
“What is it? Peter, is Joanie okay? Are you okay?” Her mom had picked up the extension.
“She’s fine, Abby. She was just going to tell me what’s wrong.” Her father’s deep soothing voice washed over her. “What is it, Princess? A fight with a boyfriend?”
At that, Joan had to smile. She’d been a million miles from fighting with Bryce. “No,” she said. “In fact the guy part of the equation is the only good thing about all of this.”
Her parents didn’t ask the obvious question—all of what? After twenty-four years, they’d figured out they needed to let her approach difficult topics in her own unique and convoluted way.
“Have you guys been watching the news?”
Her father said no, but her mother drew in a sharp breath. “Joanie, not the thing at the Monteleone?”
“I’m okay,” Joan rushed to assure her. “It’s not like I’m a hostage or anything.”
“Hostage?” her father asked, his voice booming across the line. “What are you two talking about?”
“It’s okay, Daddy.” Joan rushed to reassure her parents. “Some nutcase took hostages at Talon and I was in the penthouse of the hotel. But I’m fine. Really.”
“Fine?” her mother repeated. Now Joan could hear the steady buzz of the television in the background. “My God, Joanie. The news says they’ve evacuated the hotel.”
“It’s okay, Mom. The cops have it all under control. I talked to Donovan and everything. They’re wrapping up, doing the negotiating thing with the gunman. It’s not dangerous. Just inconvenient.”
“But they evacuated,” her mom repeated. “Where are you?”
“I’m in the penthouse. They didn’t evacuate the penthouse.”
“Well, why on earth not?” her father said.
Joan shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, Daddy. The point is, I’m safe. I just wanted y’all to know.”
“Is there still room service? What are you going to eat? They can’t make you starve.”
“It’s fine, Mom. The penthouse has a kitchen.” She didn’t mention that it was essentially bare.
“I’ll make some calls,” her dad said in his familiar no-nonsense voice.
Joan smiled. Peter Benetti worked on an assembly line at Gribell Helicopter, on his feet all day doing backbreaking work. Which meant that at night he sat down at Pritchard’s, a popular Trenton hangout for both the Gribell workers and the Jersey cops.
“Listen,” Joan said, “I should go. I don’t have my cell phone charger and the land lines are down. So I want to save the battery. I just wanted you to know.”
She caught a movement out of the corner of her eye and looked up to see Bryce lounging in the doorway to the bedroom, watching her with curious eyes.
“You call us if you need anything,” her mom said.
“Are you alone?” her dad said.
“No, Daddy. I was, um, delivering some books for the store when it happened.” She met Bryce’s eyes, saw that the curious expression had been replaced by one of amusement. “He’s been very nice about sharing his space with me.”
“Dinner,” her mother said. “My meat loaf.”
Joan blinked. “Pardon me?”
“Friday,” her mom said firmly, as if saying it would ensure that the crisis would be over. “Yes. Come over Friday night and bring the young man with you.”
“Um, Mom, that’s very nice, but he might have other plans.”
“What’s that?” Bryce said, loud enough for her parents to hear. He moved to her side, sliding his fingertips under the collar of the thick terry cloth robe.
“Is that him?” her mom said. “You tell him we insist.”
Bryce’s fingers stroked her collarbone, and Joan shivered, his touch sparking a million tiny goose bumps. At the same time, she glared at him. She could hardly fabricate a lie now that her parents had overheard the question.
“My mother wants you to come for dinner Friday,” she said, the words emerging on a shaky breath. “A thank-you, I guess, for being so hospitable. You don’t have to feel obligated.”
“Nonsense,” Bryce said. “I’d be delighted.”
“Great,” Joan said, not entirely certain it was great. She didn’t want illusions about this man. Didn’t want to believe that what they shared inside the penthouse could translate to the real world. They were in fantasy land right now, some magic netherworld. But past that door…that was reality. And Joan’s reality didn’t mesh with Bryce’s. She knew that; she just didn’t want to think about it.
“Friday,” her mother said firmly.
Joan drew in a breath and nodded, realizing this was her mother’s way of making the abnormal seem normal. “Absolutely, Mom. Friday.”
AS JOAN FLIPPED HER phone closed, Bryce wondered what he’d just agreed to—and why. No, that wasn’t true. He knew why. He wanted an excuse to see Joan
again, even after this crisis was over.
Even that, though, wasn’t entirely true. With any other woman, he would have simply pulled out his day planner and made arrangements for dinner or drinks. With Joan, he’d gravitated toward meeting her parents.
For the bulk of his adult life, he’d avoided getting close to women. He’d seen how a trusting relationship had devastated his father. Hell, it had devastated Bryce, too. Why put himself through that? It wasn’t as if his life was empty. His work filled it to over-flowing. In fact, he didn’t have time for a relationship even if he wanted one. Which he didn’t.
And yet he was having dinner with Joan’s parents.
He frowned, not liking the implications.
With effort, he shook off the contemplative mood. There was no unconscious motive. Rather, the opportunity had arisen, and he’d taken it. That was, after all, what he did best. No sense second-guessing himself now.
He realized that Joan was staring at him, her lips slightly parted, her brow furrowed.
“I think there’s some coffee in here,” he said, brushing past her.
She followed. “Do you realize you’re stuck now? My mom will have a fit if you don’t come to dinner.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” he said. And he was. Despite the implications, despite the feeling that this woman could make him lose control in more than just the bedroom.
Joan pushed past him, then bent down to look in the cupboards. “You’re right,” she said. “There’s coffee.” She opened the tiny refrigerator. “No cream, though. Do you take it black?”
“I can handle it.”
She nodded, then started a pot of coffee. “There’s orange juice, too,” she said. “And you mentioned vodka.”
He laughed. “Coffee and screwdrivers. Hell of a breakfast.”
She grinned, a little sheepish. “Believe it or not, breakfast is the one meal I can cook. I make fabulous waffles, and my omelettes are to die for. But you haven’t exactly left me a whole lot to work with here.”
She propped a fist on her hip and stared at him, silently challenging him to insult her culinary skills. Bryce laughed, then tugged her close, planting a quick kiss on her cheek, then sliding down to meet her mouth. She made a startled little noise, then matched his kiss with an enthusiasm that made him wonder if they shouldn’t forget breakfast altogether and head straight back into the bedroom.
When she pulled away, her face wore a lopsided grin. “No way, mister,” she said. “You owe me some tat.”
“That I do,” he said. “How about business over breakfast?”
She nodded. “Good.” She poured them both a glass of orange juice, then looked at him. “Vodka?”
Bryce shook his head. He never drank in the morning. “Help yourself, though.”
“No way,” she said. “Considering everything, I think I want to keep a clear head.” She ran her teeth over her lower lip, her brow furrowing with worry. “My mom’s right, you know. We’re going to get hungry if they don’t let us out of here soon.”
“I’m sure they will,” he said. Bryce couldn’t imagine this dragging on much longer. “Which means we better get started with your tat.” He checked his watch. “And now’s as good a time as any.”
He headed back into the bedroom, gesturing for her to follow. She did, but her expression was dubious, becoming even more so when he climbed onto the bed and patted the mattress beside him.
“My turn, remember? Business, not bed.”
“Trust me.”
Joan didn’t look convinced, but she climbed into bed and settled back, a pile of pillows plumped up behind her.
He punched the remote, turning the television on. They checked out the news first, learning nothing they didn’t already know about the situation downstairs. While Joan had been speaking to her parents, Gordon had called Bryce back. No news there, and so Bryce had next called Leo. But all the attorney had to report was that he was providing the police with Bryce’s crank file—the file with all the threatening letters Bryce had received over the last ten years. Bryce wasn’t surprised. He was savvy enough to know that this situation may be centered around him.
He hated the possibility. Hated the fact that some madman was threatening innocent people because of him. And hated it even more because he’d spent so much of his career trying to make sure as few people as possible got injured as a result of his deals. He shook his head. Some irony.
“Bryce?” Joan’s brow furrowed.
“I’m fine,” he said, then tuned into the financial channel. With effort, he forced his mind back to the present. “Lesson number one,” he said, using the remote to gesture toward the screen. “In the business world, you need to keep up with your competition and keep an eye open for opportunities.”
“Right,” she said. “Competition and opportunities. Got it.”
He settled in, hooking an arm around her shoulder. She snuggled close, and, despite the short amount of sleep they’d gotten, she stayed awake for the entire two hours that he watched the program. Not only did she stay awake, she even asked some questions—damned insightful ones, too—when the commentator started discussing Warren Buffett’s investment strategies and successes.
As soon as the show was over, Bryce clicked the television off and turned to her. “Have you watched this show before?”
Her brows lifted. “Oh, sure. All the time. I never miss it.” She frowned, then shook her head. “Okay, that was a big fat lie. I never miss The Simpsons, and I was totally addicted to Survivor. But this stuff…no way.”
He laughed. “I suppose if we had a camera in here, this would almost be like a Survivor episode.”
She scooted around and kneeled on the bed in front of him, the robe tucked under her knees. “Sort of,” she said. “Especially if we end up stuck in here and have to eat bugs.”
“The hotel management will have a fit if they hear you suggesting there are bugs in this suite.”
She just grinned. “Probably. At any rate, it’s not really Survivor material. I’d say it’s more Big Brother meets Joe Millionaire.”
Bryce shook his head, not familiar with the program.
“They sent all these women to live with this guy in a castle, and told them he was a millionaire. But he wasn’t really. And each girl wanted him to fall in love with her, and then he picked one girl and had to tell her that he wasn’t really rich.”
“How’d she react?” Bryce could guess. In his experience, he hadn’t met a woman yet who he believed would stay with him if he wasn’t rich. Although maybe Joan…
He shook his head, not interested in letting his thoughts go that way.
“She stayed,” Joan said.
“Are they still together?”
She blushed. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I was mostly just interested in the fairy-tale part.” She licked her lips and looked him in the eyes. “I like to believe in happily ever after.”
She looked so innocent that he kissed the tip of her nose. “We all do.”
The blush deepened, and she shook her head. He had the feeling she’d said more than she planned, and he smiled to himself, pleased that, subconsciously she trusted him enough to drop her guard for a moment.
“Actually,” she continued, “I only watched a few episodes and missed the finale altogether. But it was all over the news. I’m surprised you missed it.”
“The financial news has a remarkably limited scope,” he said.
“You need to broaden your horizons.”
“I thought that was what I was doing with you.”
She tapped the side of her nose. “Righto.”
“So why’d you only watch a few episodes of the millionaire show?”
She shrugged. “I guess I liked the concept better than the execution.”
A knot of disappointment settled in Bryce’s gut. “The idea of marrying a millionaire?”
“No,” Joan said. “I mean, that would be awesome, of course, but—” She cut herself off, then stared
at him, her cheeks blooming pink. Apparently, she’d just remembered the bulk of his bank account. “Well, it would be cool,” she said defensively. “But what I liked was the idea of pretending to be someone you’re not.”
“Really?” Bryce’s pulse increased as he remembered her fib about her academic achievements. Did she actually have a motive that made sense? “Who do you want to be?”
“Oh, no one, I guess. I mean, I don’t have some big fantasy life in mind. I just thought the concept was neat.”
“You’re happy with your life,” Bryce said. It was a statement, not a question.
“Yeah, I guess I am. I love my job. My parents are great. I don’t have a steady boyfriend, but I’ve got time before I need to get all weirded out by the biological clock thing.” She shrugged. “Overall, I’d say things are going pretty well.” Her brow furrowed with her frown. “I mean, assuming we don’t have to stay in this penthouse for the rest of our natural lives.”
Bryce just shook his head.
“What?”
“I so rarely meet people who admit to being happy with their lives.” As he spoke the words, he realized how true it was. Most everyone he knew wanted what was over the horizon, beyond the next conquest. They were never happy with the here and now. Himself included. He’d never thought of that as a character flaw, but now he wondered what he was trying to prove. Was it really his personality to be so driven, or was he running from something? From women like Joan who could make him slow down and watch the world as it went by?
“Happy, yes,” Joan said with a laugh. “I’m also as flighty as they come.” She slid off the bed and padded into the other room. “Orange juice?” she called over her shoulder.
“Sure.”
She came back with the carton of orange juice, then refilled their glasses.
She handed him the glass, then took a sip of hers, regarding him over the rim. “Actually, I owe you an apology.”
“The Ph.D.?” he blurted out, then cringed. It had become desperately important to him that she admit the fib.
Her eyes widened. “How’d you know?”
