I felt a tightening in my chest, a sweet sensation, like a hug to my soul. “I already know that.” I rose up on my knees to kiss him lightly. “Now go do your thing.”
I watched him go, sighing a bit because he was wearing a suit and, honestly, the man looked too damned amazing. Once the door clicked shut behind him, I considered going back to sleep, but the allure of Southern California was too much, and within the hour I was showered, changed, and full up on a bagel, cream cheese, and at least a gallon of coffee.
I didn’t have a car, but I did have cash, and I asked one of the taxi drivers to simply drive me around Beverly Hills. It turned out to be even better than I anticipated, as he knew the flats intimately, and pointed out at least a dozen houses that had once been owned by various studio darlings from the Golden Age of Hollywood.
He went up into the hills next, and the drive was much less interesting, since most of the homes were behind massive stone fences or set so far back from iron gates that there was nothing to see. But once we reached Mulholland Drive, I was in awe. The day was unusually clear according to my driver, and I could see all of the west side spread out below me, not to mention the roofs of some homes that looked like they could house every resident of a small country, but were probably only occupied by one couple, one child, and a very spoiled dog.
By the time I returned to the Beverly Wilshire, I was deep in thought about real estate and the Chicago market, and how I could position myself to sell houses like that—the kind that could keep a commissioned agent living high for a solid year.
I half-regretted my plan to abandon the grift in favor of this new career. If I combined the two, I could probably make a killing.
The thought amused me, and I was grinning when I got on the elevator. My grin widened when I checked my phone and realized it was almost one. With any luck, Cole would be waiting for me in the room.
He wasn’t, though, and I swallowed my disappointment as I stepped inside and tried to decide what I wanted to do. I was debating between going downstairs for a drink or taking a taxi down to the beach in Santa Monica and simply texting Cole to meet me there, when I noticed that the message light on the phone was blinking.
I knew it wasn’t from Cole, since he’d call me on my cell. But I hit the button to play the messages on speaker just in case it was important, then went a little bit numb when I heard the soft, female voice.
“Hey, Cole sweetie! It’s Bree. I can’t wait to see you, but I need to change our plans up a bit. I left a message on your cell phone, too, but it keeps going straight to voicemail without any sort of greeting from you, and I’m afraid I wrote the number down wrong and I’ve been bothering someone else.”
She laughed then, light and airy, and I felt a sudden need to punch her in the nose. Who the hell was this woman? And what plans was she talking about?
“Anyway, hopefully you’ll get one of my messages. Call me back, okay? Love you! Oh, and here’s my number in case you need it again,” she added, then rattled off a number in the 310 area code, which I’d recently learned included LA.
I pressed the button to end the message, then just sat on the bed staring at the phone like it was a wild thing about to bite me. Then I played the message again. And then one more time after that.
It never changed. Never gave a clue who this woman was or why she was calling my boyfriend “sweetie.”
And the message sure as hell didn’t give me a hint as to why Cole hadn’t said a single thing about her.
I told myself that Cole was not sleeping with this woman—he’d told me as much, right? No Michelle. No anyone else.
So it was ridiculous for me to be getting worked up.
Except, dammit, I was worked up. And even if this woman was a former fuck buddy, shouldn’t he have told me?
And considering that my name was on the room registration just as big and as bold as Cole’s, didn’t that mean that I hadn’t violated any major rules of etiquette by listening to it?
I banged the heel of my hand against my forehead in the hopes that I might actually knock some sense into myself. Because I could either sit there for another half hour and make up another dozen or so ridiculous excuses—or I could simply pick up the phone, dial the woman’s number, and politely explain that Cole was at a meeting. And then equally politely ask who the hell she was.
I chose door number two—then almost choked when the voice that answered was Cole’s.
“Kat,” he said, his tone apologetic. “I’m sorry I’m late. And I’m sorry for what you must be thinking.”
I opened my mouth to reply, realized I didn’t have a clue what to say, and shut it again.
“Catalina?” The apology was gone, replaced by worry. “Are you there?”
“Yes.” I cleared my throat and tried again. “Sure. Yes. I’m here.”
“Come on down. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
“Down? You’re here?”
“In the lobby.”
“Oh,” I said as the universe tentatively righted itself. Because surely he wasn’t inviting me down to meet his mistress. “I’ll be right there.”
When the doors to the elevator opened, I saw Cole standing next to a stunningly beautiful woman with ebony skin, legs that seemed to go on forever, and a friendly, welcoming smile. She looked barely over twenty.