Dangerous Ladies

by Christina Dodd

  “There was.”

  “And you caught him.”

  “Her.” Devlin nodded at the screen as Meadow turned a corner and moved to a different monitor.

  “Her?” Gabriel was getting confused. “Your wife broke into your hotel.”

  “Right.”

  “Why don’t you tell me about it?” Because Gabriel sure as hell couldn’t think of any reasonable explanation.

  “No, you tell me. How’d she get in without setting off the alarm on the front door?”

  Gabriel’s people had done their work before he got here, so he knew the answer. “She opened the door with a key.”

  Devlin swiveled to face Gabriel. “A key? Why wouldn’t a key set off the alarm?”

  “People still use keys, so as standard operating procedure we make sure a key will open a lock without setting off the alarm. That’s been changed.” And the guy who didn’t ask what the owner preferred was kicking shit down the road right now. Gabriel operated the biggest security firm on the East Coast. He’d built it from the ground up. He didn’t accept mistakes like that.

  “So any key would have opened the door?” Devlin asked.

  “Any key that fits that lock, and there aren’t many that will. It’s a Sargent and Greenleaf lock. They’ve been a solid, innovative firm for a hundred and fifty years. That lock was fitted on the door when it was put in place, the work of master craftsmen.” Sargent and Greenleaf constructed the kind of lock that made work like Gabriel’s easier. “It’s never easy to pick, and it wasn’t picked this time. There weren’t scratches inside or outside the lock. It wasn’t forced. We found fresh metal residue inside a very old lock that had not been used for months, probably not since the former owner moved out.” He sat forward, his arms on his knees. “More interesting, the metal was silver. That’s an antique key, and even then it’s rare—and it fit the lock.”

  Devlin stared at Gabriel long enough and with enough concentration to make the hairs stand up on the back of Gabriel’s neck. Getting up, Devlin walked to the large desk and opened the belly drawer. He pulled out a key, a large, ornate silver key, and held it up. “Like this?”

  “I would guess just like that.” Gabriel examined it. “Fascinating. Does it open the front door?”

  “No. Old Bradley Benjamin didn’t give me the key to the front door. Claimed it was lost. But this was stuck in the back of this desk, so we went looking for the lock. Had a dickens of a time finding it—it opens a gate in the yard.”

  “What’s on the other side of that gate that’s worth a silver key?”

  “A garden.” Devlin’s tone was flat and uninterested.

  “A garden.” Gabriel turned the key over in his hand. The silver glinted in the light. “Somebody must have loved that garden.”

  “Probably. The Benjamins are notorious for wasting their time with foolishness.” Devlin dismissed both the Benjamins and their foolishness with a wave. “Where do you suppose Meadow got a rare silver key that fit the front door?”

  “She’s your wife. Why don’t you ask her?” That seemed only logical, but the whole situation—a wife breaking into her own husband’s house with a mysterious key—wasn’t logical.

  “I will.” Devlin stood and clapped his hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “Thanks for coming in.”

  “I had to. It’s not often someone breaches our security.”

  “I’d swear she didn’t realize it when she did it.” Devlin started for the door, then returned and shut off the monitor for the corridor where Meadow still wandered.

  Yep. Possessive of his property.

  “Have a cup of coffee,” Devlin said. “Stay for dinner. The chef is trying out his new dishes in preparation for the grand opening. I’ve been eating like a king for two weeks.”

  “I’d love to, but I’ve got to catch a plane. There’s a family gathering in Texas I want to attend. My youngest sister just had a baby, and we’re getting together for the christening.”

  Devlin didn’t understand how happy it made Gabriel to say that.

  “Sure. Next time.”

  Gabriel sobered and got back to business. “I’ll be here for the grand opening. I intend to see that nothing goes wrong with security. I hired someone new, a female with great references.”

  “Where’d she work before?”

  “A guy in Atlanta by the name of Hopkins. Do you know him?”

  “I’ve heard of him. Runs an import/export business.” Devlin recalled another tidbit. “And lives on the shady side of the law?”

  “A polite way of putting it.” Gabe’s mouth curled with distaste. “Mr. Hopkins, as he is always referred to, is never seen. No one knows where he lives. No police reports are ever made about him. Yet there are a lot of rumors circulating—that he rewards betrayal with a single gunshot to the back of the head. That he enforces his will with threats and torture. That he always keeps a few of Atlanta’s politicians and judges in his pocket.”

  “Good God. Do we want his security?”

  “Absolutely. Who has better security than a man who is never seen?”

  “Right.”

  “Besides, female personnel are necessary for surveillance—guys can’t watch the ladies’ rooms in the public areas—yet damned hard to find. The weekend of the grand opening, there’ll be no trouble at all.” Gabe was a handsome guy, one of those blends of Hispanic and Anglo who had taken the best from both. He was tall, muscular, with black hair and green eyes that made women take a step back, then a step forward.

  Devlin knew; he’d seen it happen. He liked Gabe. More important, he trusted him. “I know.” His computer chimed. He had e-mail.

  “I’m off to talk to my people.” Gabe gave a wave and went out the door.

  With anticipation, Devlin opened the e-mail—and frowned.

  The report was short and decisive. At the age of four, while in the company of her stepfather, Bjorn Kelly, Sharon Benjamin was killed in a car accident in Ireland. Isabelle Benjamin had no other children.

  Bullshit, Devlin typed back. Dig deeper.

  8

  Meadow needed a floor plan. She’d left her room thinking she would look the hotel over, retrieve the house key from the couch, check out the paintings and find the one she came for.

  Hey, she believed in positive thinking.

  Besides, this time she had a lie ready—if caught, she’d claim she was lost.

  But she became fascinated by the renovations that had turned a house called Waldemar into a hotel called the Secret Garden. The grand old house her grandmother had so carefully described had been changed.

  Walls had been rearranged to create rooms where none had existed before. The long corridors were rabbit warrens bounded by closed and locked doors, and without windows of any kind. On the third floor, Meadow met a crew of a dozen maids pushing linen carts, running vacuum cleaners, and making beds. One guy was installing a Coca-Cola machine next to an ice maker.

  She said hello to them.

  They said hello to her.

  She briefly considered asking if they’d seen the painting, but as soon as they spoke, they returned to work with a frenetic energy that told her more clearly than words how tight their schedule must be.

  And asking about the painting wasn’t clever; if Devlin was keeping an eye on her, as he’d practically threatened he would, he’d know who she talked to and perhaps question them later.

  So she strolled along, looking at the art on the walls, but it was unremarkable—impressionistic landscape prints mixed with typical late-nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century family portraits done by artists long forgotten. She glanced at the prints and dismissed them, but scrutinized the portraits, longing to catch a glimpse of a feature, a smile, a familiar posture. She’d gone up grand stairways and down elevators, but so far she’d had no luck.

  Now her lie was the truth. She really was lost, and the corridors were eerily empty.

  Maybe she didn’t need a floor plan. Maybe she needed a compass.

  Sh
e decided to head downstairs—as soon as she found more stairs or another elevator—in the hopes of finding the kitchen, where surely someone was cooking or getting ready to cook or something. At least, she hoped so. She was hungry.

  Hearing voices somewhere—around the corner—she hurried forward.

  “Why did the tree blow over?” It was Devlin’s voice.

  “Rotten to the core, sir.” She recognized the voice of the guy who replied. It was Sam from last night, the man who had wanted to call the police on her.

  “Must have been old Bradley’s favorite tree. All right, I want it and the other one, the one struck by lightning, taken out today.”

  “I don’t know if I can get the local guy out today.”

  “Then get someone in who’ll do it.”

  She paused. Devlin sounded different than he had earlier. Harsh, driven, uninterested in excuses.

  “I want the damned tree gone, the stump removed, and the landscaping done and growing before the grand opening.” In fact, his tone and his words recalled last night before he’d declared she was his wife, and her first impression that he was cold, ruthless, and unfeeling.

  “Yes, sir.” Sam’s submissive attitude only bolstered her feeling.

  “What about the mattresses?” Devlin’s attention whipped from one subject to another.

  “They’ll be here today. The company apologized for the mistake and offered to pay overtime to get them installed.”

  “Very sweet, but that’s hardly enough to make up for the inconvenience.”

  “I know, so I told them to throw in mattress pads for each mattress. They did.” Sam sounded pleased with himself.

  “Excellent.” Devlin gave brisk approval. “How are we doing at hiring more help before the opening?”

  “I’ve got six new people starting today, and some woman who says she has experience in laundry called and is coming in for an interview. The trouble is, we’ve tapped out the number of people in town who are willing to take on the old guard.”

  “I hope those farts burn in hell.” Devlin sounded vicious. Vindictive. Every emotion that was bad for his soul.

  Before he could call down more bad karma, Meadow headed around the corner, talking as she went. “Whew! I’m so glad I found you guys. I’ve been lost for an hour!”

  Devlin made the switch from hard-nosed businessman to smooth operator without a hitch. “We were about to send out a search party.”

  Sam started to move away, but she headed right for him, hand outstretched. “We didn’t meet formally last night. I’m Meadow.”

  “Sam.” He put his clipboard under his arm and briefly shook her hand.

  “You must be part of the security team,” she said. He was built like a linebacker, and Devlin’s abrasiveness seemed to have scratched away any sense of humor.

  “Actually, I’m Mr. Fitzwilliam’s personal secretary,” he said.

  She laughed, then realized he was serious. “That’s wonderful. What made you take a job usually considered the province of women?”

  “Mr. Fitzwilliam pays well.” He walked away.

  She waited until he was out of earshot before turning to Devlin. “Did I hit a tender spot? I simply meant he’s confident in his masculinity.”

  “Don’t worry. You can’t offend Sam. He’s not much of a talker.” He looked her over in a way that made it clear he’d dismissed Sam from his mind. “Is that my shirt?”

  Recalled to a sense of grievance, she advanced on him while holding out the shirttails. “It sure is. I had to cover myself somehow. What made you think I would wander around this hotel in an outfit better suited to some prepubescent teenager than a—”

  “Married woman?”

  “Yes. No!” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t try to confuse me. I told you I don’t remember getting married.”

  “You still don’t remember anything?” Catching her hand, he tugged her closer.

  “No.” Inspiration struck. “But what do you know about me?”

  “What do you mean?” He twirled a curl from her hair around his finger.

  “We got married, and I must have told you about my life. Tell me about myself.”

  “I could.” He drew out the pause while he leaned into her and took a long breath above her hair. “But I won’t.”

  “Because . . . ?” She took a long breath, too, and his familiar scent started a chain reaction of longing, lust, and wariness. Because she did recognize his scent, and she’d slept in his arms, and come alive at his bidding.

  He was a man to guard against.

  “You have amnesia. It would be best if you discovered the truth on your own.”

  Damn, he was good! She couldn’t catch him out no matter how hard she tried. “My amnesia seems to be spreading. I don’t remember eating breakfast this morning.”

  “Hungry?” He spoke close to her ear, so close his next move would be to kiss her.

  “Starving.” She shoved his head aside.

  “You could have called for room service.” He placed his hand at the base of her spine and guided her down the corridor. “After all, you know where the phone is.”

  She braced herself, waiting to see if he recited parts of her conversation with Judith.

  He didn’t. He left the comment hanging, and said, “Come on; I’ll show you where the kitchen is. We can beg something for you.”

  “I didn’t know room service was working.” As they walked, she leaned into him. She didn’t know why. He simply felt as if he could support her—in every way.

  If this farce continued for long, she was afraid she’d start to believe in him and his silly marriage story.

  “The people working on the hotel need to eat,” he said, “and the kitchen staff and service people need to practice. The Secret Garden’s grand opening is in three weeks. So, yes. We have room service.” He led her around a corner and there they were, face-to-face with an elevator. He pushed the down button.

  “I came up on an elevator, but when I turned around it had disappeared.” She glanced around. “And this doesn’t look at all familiar. Do you think it wanders when no one’s looking?”

  “There are two elevators. You came up the other one.”

  “Oh.” Yep. He’d been watching her.

  “I have to get to a map,” she said.

  He showed her a speaker set into the wall. “Did you see any of these?”

  “Yes. They’re for music, right?”

  He didn’t laugh at her. She had to give him that. “They’re intercoms. See this button? Anytime you’re lost, push it. Someone will direct you or, if you’re really confused, come and get you.”

  She blushed. She couldn’t help it. She’d seen intercoms at the university, but it hadn’t occurred to her how useful they would be in a house as big as this. “I guess you think I’m a hick.”

  He ushered her inside the elevator. “I think you’re delightful.”

  “I’d still like a map.” Because she didn’t want everyone to know where she was searching.

  Well . . . apart from Devlin. And the security people. And anyone else watching the monitors.

  “You can have whatever you want.” He smiled whimsically, and that was an expression she would bet he didn’t often wear. “Except . . .”

  “Except what?”

  “Except for your own bed at night.”

  As the doors closed he kissed her, a warm salute of appreciation, one so genuine she could almost taste the salt from the Mediterranean on his lips.

  9

  As the elevator slowed to a stop, Devlin lifted his head and examined Meadow’s upturned face. Her flushed cheeks and supple lips showed a woman who had been thoroughly kissed, and when her eyes gradually blinked open, they were a soft, blurry blue.

  Those eyes. Those beautiful, expressive, betraying eyes. “Let’s get you that breakfast now,” he said.

  “Hmm?” She smiled at him, a smile of pure pleasure.

  Then he saw her snap back into consciousness. He
stepped out of the elevator and held the door.

  “Hey. Wait a minute.” She followed him out. “You never answered me about this outfit.”

  “I’ve never answered you about a lot of things.” He viewed the kitchen with satisfaction.

  Jordan Tapley ran a taut ship. The black granite countertops and black gas ranges shone brightly. The range hoods held nary a speck of dust or grease. The two cook’s assistants chopped and rolled, their shoulders hunched, their faces unsmiling, and neither looked up, not even at Devlin’s entrance.

  Jordan himself had his head buried in the commercial-size refrigerator, flinging produce into the garbage with vicious abandon while demanding in a thick New Orleans accent, “Who is the idiot that okayed this asparagus? This celery? These tomatoes? None of this is fit for pigs. Do you hear me? Pigs!”

  “Jordan. Come and meet my wife.” Jordan had already tried to ban him from the kitchen, so when handling the temperamental cook, Devlin made it his practice to keep his voice low and his gaze level.

  Jordan spun around, a graceful movement for a man with an immense girth and three chins. “Your wife? I didn’t know you had a wife.”

  Nonsense, of course. Devlin knew that since last night word of his unexpected marriage had swept the hotel.

  Slamming the refrigerator closed, Jordan minced over, his feet tiny compared to the immense bulk above. “Miz Fitzwilliam, it’s good to meet you.”

  “I know you. You’re the famous Jordan Tapley.” Meadow went to meet him, arms outstretched wide. “I’ve got your cookbook!”

  Before Devlin’s astonished eyes, Meadow and Jordan hugged and kissed, both talking at the same time. His voice was loud and sounded like New Orleans. Hers was low and warm and without any hint of an accent. Yet the two of them were instant friends. Devlin heard indecipherable terms like andouille sausage and garde-manger flung about with abandon. For the first time ever, Devlin saw Jordan’s teeth flashing, not in annoyance, but in an exultant smile.

  As if waiting for an explosion, the two assistants watched the display warily and muttered to each other.