Loverboy (The Company #2) - Sarina Bowen Page 0,59

shock. And she is way too close to an angry, violent crime lord.

Smith has upended Scout’s pilfered laundry cart in a fit of rage. And Scout is backing slowly away, in perfect imitation of a frightened maid.

“Gunnar!” Posy squeaks, which is really inconvenient, since my manager’s name tag says Fred. “There you are!” Her big eyes look up at me, frightened.

My impulse is to go to her, shield her with my body, and evacuate her from the premises. And maybe from the entire city. But I can’t. I’ve got to fix this mess. “Just a minute, ma’am,” I bark in her direction. “It’s only been five minutes since you asked me for those towels.” I whirl on Scout. “The towels were for her. This room is not to be entered. No puede entrar!”

“What did she steal?” Xian Smith says, kicking around the contents of the laundry cart. “You’re not as slick as you think you are.”

No kidding. “Sir,” I say in my most obsequious voice. “I’m sure nothing was stolen. It’s a simple misunderstanding. I’ll deal with her.” When I glance up again, Scout has already vanished. She’s probably in the service elevator, or dashing down the back stairs. Which means I’ve only got Posy to worry about now. “I’ll make sure this doesn’t happen again. And let me send someone to clean this up right away.”

Smith is still digging through the laundry, trying to figure out if this was truly a hotel mix-up or exactly what he suspects it to be—an invasion of his private space for the purpose of espionage.

“Come with me, please,” I bark at Posy, my tone so cold that the temperature in the hallway declines by ten degrees. We’ve got to get out of here before hotel security arrives and exposes me for the fraud I am.

And here I thought tonight’s job would be quick and easy.

Trying to appear purposeful and unhurried, I step away from Smith and beckon to Posy, without looking at her. She’s a smart woman, so she says nothing. The fire stairs are closer than the elevator, so I push open the door and usher her through.

The last thing I do before leaving is to glance back at Smith. He looks up at me, rage burning in his eyes. I snap the door closed behind me. “Go,” I say. “Quick, now.”

We dash down the stairs, but there are a lot of them.

“What just happened?” Posy hisses after a couple of floors.

“Later,” I grunt. “Come on. Hustle.” I doubt that Smith will try to confront us in the lobby. A smart spy would check all his security feeds first.

But you never know.

She falls silent, possibly because it’s hard work running down fifteen flights of stairs. Meanwhile, I tally up tonight’s collateral damage. Smith knows my name now. Or at least part of it. And he’s seen Scout’s face, as well as Posy’s. I feel sick about that. Smith knew better than to come at us on the hotel property. He’s a familiar face at this hotel, and their security is watching.

But tomorrow is a different story.

We make it all the way down without incident, catching up to Scout on the final flight. When Scout grabs the maid’s pinafore and throws it down onto the stairs, I hear Posy gasp. And when I turn to look at her, Posy is a picture of pink-cheeked adrenaline and wide-eyed confusion.

“Come on,” I say gently. “There’s a van outside. Stay right beside me.”

“I’ve got your six,” Scout says, lining up behind Posy.

I open the stairwell door a crack. And as I do, a couple in evening wear brushes past us, heading up the stairs. They obviously didn’t want to wait for the elevator, and they don’t spare us a glance.

Smith is nowhere in my field of vision, so I beckon to the women, straighten my spine, and stride into the lobby like a man who’s not in a rush.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Scout touch Posy casually on the elbow. “Have you had the margaritas here? They’re excellent.”

Posy’s face doesn’t play along. Her expression wonders what planet she’s landed on, and when she can grab the first shuttle off.

And I don’t blame her one bit.

19

Posy

On an ordinary night, I would never climb into a windowless van with a strange woman who’s just impersonated a hotel maid, and who is now babbling at me about margaritas.

Then again, this is not an ordinary night. Gunnar's urgency is contagious. He practically frog marches me into