Simon Says...

by Donna Kauffman

  “I beg your pardon,” Mr. Sexy Accent said, jolting her back to the moment at hand. He was sitting on the side of the bed now, sheet at his waist, well-toned calves braced apart and manly feet planted on the bedside carpet. “No insult intended, but are you claiming we…know one another?”

  Sophie was no actress, but she gave it her best shot. “I’m hurt you’ve so quickly forgotten. Must be the tequila.”

  “Tequila? Never touch the stuff. Unless, perhaps, you’re referring to your proclivities?” He leaned forward and braced his arms on his knees, so he could get a closer look at her.

  Sophie shrank back, but the angle of her hand, presently buried elbow deep in seat cushion, kept her from scooting away.

  “Because, tequila or no, I’d have remembered you.”

  A sliver of daylight speared the crease between the curtains. Just enough to illuminate his face more fully when he leaned forward. Green eyes. He had dark green eyes. And thick lashes. So unfair. No one should get all the goods in one package.

  She tried to keep her gaze from dipping to what goods he might have in his other…package. Maybe he wasn’t so gifted there. Maybe that was the karmic balance. All that perfection on the outside, but then when you unwrapped it… Except Delia had been pretty specific about…things.

  Things Sophie wished her friend had never, ever mentioned. Ever.

  Things that made her wish she’d been the one to go pub crawling in the wee hours with the rest of the gang as the party had wound down, instead of having to report to work for her shift. Things that made her wish she’d ended the night doing tequila shooters flat on her back on some sticky, nasty bar while some guy licked salt from around her navel.

  Specifically this guy.

  Her gaze dipped to his mouth and her own went dry.

  “Tequila does crazy things,” she said.

  “I’m beginning to believe that, yes.”

  Suddenly there was a knock on the door, making Sophie jump, then freeze. Now what? Room service probably. Great. If whoever was delivering recognized her, and there was a better than average chance of that happening, she was well and truly screwed. Like you’re not already.

  Then she noted that his entire demeanor had changed. No longer smiling, the muscles across his chest and shoulders tensed—and even more clearly defined—he grabbed the sheet and dragged it around his hips as he stood. “Don’t move.”

  Sophie looked up—way up—to where he towered, Roman godlike, over her, and was pretty sure she couldn’t have moved even if she’d wanted to. He was quite intense and very serious, his amusement regarding her unexpected presence completely gone now.

  The knock came again, quite loud and insistent, and Sophie automatically found herself thinking she’d have to speak to the room service manager about tempering the enthusiasm of the delivery staff. Or maybe—what if it was someone coming to see him who didn’t need to discover him with a woman in his room? A coworker, or worse, a girlfriend…or a wife!

  Sophie watched him stride to the door, then she glanced frantically around the room, her gaze landing on the connecting door between rooms. She could use her key and be through that door in a flash. Or course, she risked rousing whoever was in the adjoining room, but a few quickly made apologies and a fast escape into the hall might still be a better strategy than staying in this room another minute longer and facing…whatever it was she was about to face.

  Surely he wouldn’t give chase wrapped in a bedsheet.

  Except, she hadn’t found the cell phone yet. Well, maybe it was for the best. Delia was simply going to have to face the consequences of her actions after all. Sophie winced as she tried to imagine the very public spectacle that consequence was likely to be, given the level of attention being paid to what everyone was calling the most romantic wedding of the year. The tycoon and the cocktail waitress. Despite Delia not having been one for years. Nightclub manager apparently didn’t make nearly as good a headline.

  Sophie slid her hand from the cushion. Maybe they’d both luck out and the battery would have died and it wouldn’t ring. Then she could come back in here later after he checked out and do a more thorough search before housekeeping did their thing. But in order to do that, she had to get out of here. Right now. And pray like hell he didn’t complain to hotel security…and that he checked out while the day staff was still on duty.

  She was just starting to inch her way across the floor, when he stepped back into the room.

  “And where might you be going?”

  “Really, I’ll get out of your hair. I don’t need my phone that badly. Just, if you find it, would you turn it off and leave it on the dresser? The cleaning staff will find it and turn it in and it will all be okay and—” She was babbling.

  But that came to an abrupt stop when she finally turned and looked at him.

  He was standing in the space where the hallway opened into the bedroom. The sheet was tucked low around his hips. In one hand, he held a white envelope that she recognized as hotel stationery.

  In the other hand, he held a gun.

  2

  SIMON LASSITER HAD A NUMBER of concerns at the moment, each carefully accounted for, each with a plan of action in place. Every move he made while he was here in Chicago had to run like a perfectly crafted Swiss timepiece. There was no room for error. One mistake, and all would be lost.

  He looked at the woman presently perched on the chair in his hotel room, and tried to tell himself she wasn’t that fatal mistake.

  He certainly hadn’t accounted for her. And there was no plan in place to deal with something like this.

  But Simon hadn’t gotten to this point in life by being a pessimist. According to the note he’d just received, one he’d paid handsomely to have delivered instantly, day or night, under any circumstances…Tolliver had checked in. His quarry was on the premises. Finally, it was all coming together. Not that getting his hands on the Shay Emerald was going to be easy, but he was a damn sight closer now than he’d been before. And it was a certainty that he’d never have a chance again.

  Which had him thinking that, perhaps, the hotel key card currently dangling from his surprise guest’s lovely neck might be of great assistance in that endeavor.

  “Mr. Templeton,” she blurted, her gaze fixed on the gun in his hand. “Really, I don’t think that’s necessary.”

  “This?” He wiggled the barrel slightly, making her tense further. “I believe you broke into my room. I’m merely protecting myself.” He frowned, then. “Who’s Templeton?”

  “Daniel Templeton?”

  He slowly shook his head.

  “Seriously?”

  “Quite.”

  Her chin dropped, along with her shoulders. She closed her eyes and swore quietly. “All this, and I snuck into the wrong damn room. This is 706, right?”

  He nodded.

  “If the Wingates don’t kill her, I’m going to kill her myself.”

  Simon didn’t understand what she was muttering about, but whatever had pissed her off wasn’t his problem. Getting into Tolliver’s room and stealing—retrieving—the emerald before it went on display at the Art Institute Museum this weekend, that was his problem. “Have a seat,” he told her, motioning to the chair behind her with the gun barrel. “We need to have a little talk.”

  “Do you really need to point that gun at me? I assure you, I’m not dangerous. Just let me go and we can pretend we never met.”

  “Ah, but you did pretend we’d met. In fact, you wanted me to believe we’d had something of a fling. Under the influence of tequila, I believe you said.”

  She didn’t respond to that, squirming a little in her seat instead. So, she was game to be bold—her presence in his room was evidence enough of that—but when pushed, she really wasn’t a very good liar. Good to know.

  “Of course, you thought I was a certain Mr. Templeton. Just how many men’s rooms do you visit every night?” He motioned to the key card. “Perhaps in America, a five-star hotel provides a l
evel of personal service we don’t typically experience in London hotels of the same caliber.”

  “London?” Her brow furrowed. “You are British, then? Because you don’t really sound—”

  “English? It’s home currently, but I’m native Kiwi. New Zealand,” he added, when her brow wrinkled even further. And why on earth was he telling her any of this? Was it those oh-so-wide gray eyes? Or perhaps it was the combination of the strawberry blond curls and milkmaid skin. Skin that hadn’t been baked or painted within an inch of its life, as most American women seemed to favor. Innocence. She projected it. And yet, here she sat, in his room, without invitation.

  Simon well knew that looks could not only be deceiving, they often were. In fact, these days, he’d come to bank on that fact, and used it for his own advancement whenever it suited his needs, adopting the Yankee sentiment that if you couldn’t beat them, joining them was often the wise alternative. Perhaps he straddled that line a bit, but the premise still worked.

  “You should do a better job keeping your…callers straight. Men like to feel as if they’re the only one, after all, even if it is a shaky illusion at best.”

  Those lovely dove-gray eyes widened. “You think I’m a hooker?”

  “You sneak into a man’s room and start digging around the furnishings looking for a purported cell phone. Not on the bedside table or dresser, but wedged down in a chair. You then imply we slept together after an evening spent at least partly consuming an ambiguous quantity of alcohol, and call me by some other bloke’s name. Which, in my book, means one of two things.”

  She folded her arms and, for the first time, he saw a spark of defiance. Albeit, barely more than a flicker. After all, he was holding a gun on her.

  “And those two things would be?”

  “One, you had a fling with a gentleman who was in this room prior to me and are only now tracking back to where you might have lost your phone.” He leaned against the wall, careful to keep the gun poised and aimed at her. “Or two, you broke into my room to steal something from me and the rest was just a clever ruse to make me think you’re not really a common thief.”

  “Why would I steal something from you? I thought you were Daniel Templeton. I don’t even know you.”

  “You apparently don’t know Mr. Templeton well, either, if you didn’t know I wasn’t him.” He tugged at the sheet tucked around his waist. “Or perhaps it’s some other part of Mr. Templeton you’d recognize.”

  Her mouth dropped open in instant offense, which both heartened and amused him. Because while he honestly had no idea why she was there, the fact remained, she was. He was fairly certain that key card hanging around her neck was a master key, as it was the most likely way she could have gotten into his room. Which meant she was probably employed here, and though the Wingate’s extensive marketing campaign wanted you to believe they could anticipate their guests’ every need, he doubted those of the more carnal variety were on that catered-to list.

  Clearly, she’d ignored more than a few rules. All of which was in his favor, as a passkey to any room in the hotel—one in particular that he had in mind—could come in very, very handy right about now.

  If only her skill at lying was a bit more sharply tuned, he might be able to use her in a few other ways, as well.

  “So, if you are neither thief nor…gentleman’s companion, then please explain why you are here, uninvited.”

  “I told you. I was trying to retrieve a phone. And the reason I didn’t recognize you, or that this wasn’t the right room, was because I’m not retrieving my phone, it’s my friend’s phone.”

  “Ah. Your friend’s phone is it now?”

  She sighed. “I know that sounds like a cliché, but it’s true.” She looked at him, as if sizing him up, her gaze clearly wary. “I’ll tell you the whole story, but could you please lower the gun? It’s not like I can go anywhere or do anything.”

  He lifted a casual shoulder. “I don’t know what you’re capable of. What I do know of you is that you are capable of breaking and entering. Not a point in your favor, I might add, so who knows what other lengths you’d go to? Or what other hidden skills or weapons you might have?”

  “Please,” she said. “I’m just a friend trying to do a friend a favor and get her out of a potential jam with her fiancé. Which, since I trusted her to remember which room she was in, by now has already exploded in her face, as I didn’t get the phone back in time. Trust me, I don’t make a habit of breaking into strange men’s rooms, or any rooms. It was a one-time thing, which I only did out of desperation, and because I felt a little responsible for getting her into a situation where she might use bad judgment, which, you know, boy, did she.”

  Simon listened to her sudden explosion of chatter with one ear tuned to how he could use the information to his advantage, and another ear just, well, amused by her. She was certainly unlike any woman of his acquaintance. “It’s so implausible, I actually want to believe you.”

  She heaved out a sigh of relief and started to stand up. “Great, thank you. And I promise I won’t tell anyone that you have a gun, which I completely understand, by the way. You can’t be too safe when traveling, and I’m sure it’s registered to you and all that, and, of course, we could always hold it in the hotel safe for you, but then, I guess that would defeat the purpose of having one in case of…well…”

  “Someone breaking into my room?” He couldn’t help it, he smiled. She was quite something when rattled. She was quite something, period.

  “Right,” she said on a half laugh, even as she blushed quite prettily in embarrassment. She edged away from the chair. “And please accept my apologies for starting your day off like this. If I can do anything to make it up to you—” Her eyes widened when his smile spread to a grin. “I mean, not anything anything, but, you know, anything within reason. Or maybe just letting me go and pretending we never met is enough. I’d be fine with that. Whatever you think is best, really. I’ll just be going and—”

  He waved the gun casually, motioning her back to the chair. “What I think is best is that you sit back down and we talk about how you might make it up to me.”

  Her throat worked, and she wetted her lips. He was surprised to feel his body respond to the sight of that pink tongue and those lips that he was only now realizing had a rather kewpie-shaped bow to them. Quite delectable really.

  “Is that really necessary? I mean, I’m sure you have important things to do—” She nodded jerkily at the envelope he still had in his other hand. “And I would be happy to make myself scarce. You’ll never see me again. I promise.”

  He forced his thoughts away from watching those lips move and back to the moment at hand. “Indeed, I do have important things to do, and I think you can be of some assistance with that.”

  Her gaze dipped to the sheet wrapped at his waist, and his body responded with another twitch of awareness. Best to get them off that path as soon as possible. That was the last kind of distraction he needed at the moment. No matter what his body would have him believe. “I assure you, I am not looking for those kinds of favors.” He waited until she mercifully looked back at his face. “What would be more helpful in the way of making up for this…disturbance, would be that you extend your life of crime to include one more round of breaking and entering.”

  She frowned now, clearly surprised by the request. “What do you mean?”

  He motioned to the key card dangling between her breasts.

  “Can you please not wave that around?” she asked. “In fact, can we agree you don’t really need that anymore?”

  “Not quite yet. When I can keep the odds stacked in my favor, I do.”

  “So…what do you want, then? I can’t give you this key.”

  He leaned against the wall, wrapping one arm around his waist and bracing his other elbow on it to keep the gun steady. “Really?” Because he was thinking she might be persuaded to let him have the key. When she wet her lips again, his body decided maybe he could co
nvince her to give up a few other things, as well. He ignored his body. Now was not the time. Nor was she his type. She’d come into his life as trouble, and he was pretty certain that was what she’d always be.

  “Really,” she said, though her voice was a bit unsteady.

  He wiggled the gun when she started to argue. “Not only am I holding encouragement for you to do just that, but even if I wasn’t, I have the weapon of knowledge. I don’t know who you are or where you came by that key, but I imagine hotel security would be quite interested to know of its whereabouts and usage in the past hour.”

  She sat a bit more rigidly in her seat, but didn’t answer.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “Two wrongs don’t make a right. I know what I did wasn’t ethical, but it was for a good cause and no one was harmed in any way. Still, I should have been more direct. Just knocked on the door and disturbed a guest at the crack of dawn…or—or something. But I won’t compound my bad judgment by doing something even more wrong.”

  “Unfortunately, it’s the only thing you have that I want.”

  Her gaze dipped down again, and he would have sworn a brief flash of insult crossed her face. He hadn’t intended the slight, but perhaps it was just as well she believed he had.

  He drew her attention upward. “How do you know I don’t want to use it for some benevolent reason? Such as the one you purportedly had?”

  “Because you carry a gun. I only carry a key.”

  “Both pretty powerful weapons,” he pointed out. “Both capable of creating leverage where none might otherwise exist. And of getting the user into unplanned trouble when mismanaged.” He lowered the gun. “In my case, my weapon has a safety, to keep bad things from inadvertently happening. I’m assuming your key didn’t come with a similar safeguard.” He smiled. “More’s the pity for you.” He tucked the hotel stationery under his arm, then stuck out his free hand. “I promise I’ll turn it back in to you. Unless, of course, anything should happen. Say, you run and tell someone I’m a bad guy with a gun and a passkey. Then all bets are off.”