Shame the Devil (Portland Devils #3) - Rosalind James Page 0,68

or … or kidnappers? What if this was my big plan, throwing myself and Dyma in your path? Yours and Owen’s, I mean?”

“That’s some plan,” he said, his blue eyes alight with amusement, “risking Death by Bison for, what? A night with me? Not that I doubt my ability to show you a real good time, but I’m not sure it’d be worth dying for. Also, I feel compelled to point out that you didn’t even take advantage of the opportunity. That’s quite the long game you’re playing.”

“You’re taking me to a resort,” she pointed out.

“I sure am. Pretty excited about it, too. And I’ve been doing this job almost ten years now. More like twenty-five, if you count when I started. I’m fairly sure I know the ropes by now, stalkers and all.”

What? Did he really feel like he’d been working at this that long? Not just playing, but working? And how much did that have to do with the town? And his dad?

She was thinking about it, because she was a helper. It was what she did. And then she wasn’t, because he still had her hand and was heading into a cozy lobby that looked like no hotel she’d ever seen. The room’s ceiling was made up of plaster and tree trunks, it had a fire burning in a sort of conical adobe fireplace that she was sure had a name, the grounds outside were lit with absolute subtlety to show off a rocky streambed, steaming against a snowy backdrop just like Yellowstone, except with no killer bison, and the whole place just screamed “comfort.”

They didn’t check in, because the front-desk woman signaled to a bellman the moment she saw them, and about three minutes later, they were stopping outside a door with a plaque on it. Harlan said, “This is you and Dyma. You’ve both got a spa treatment in …” He looked at his watch. “About twenty minutes, so don’t fall asleep. I thought we’d get room service after that. More comfortable. Want to invite Owen and me over for dinner?”

“Uh …” She was having trouble processing, because the plaque said Morocco Suite, and then the bellman opened the door, and … wow.

Dyma said, “You’re kidding.” She was looking, too.

Owen said, “I hope they make a decent steak and give you some sides. All of this spa stuff is giving me a bad feeling. This better not be one of those weight-loss deals, where your outdoor yoga class followed by the Buddhist meditation is supposed to make you not notice that you ate three hundred calories for breakfast and lunch is still two hours away.”

“How would you possibly know about that?” Dyma asked.

“I read a lot of magazines on planes,” he said.

Harlan said, “Since nobody’s answering me, I’m just going to make a plan here. Owen and I will come knock at your door at seven.” He gave Jennifer a smile, and it didn’t look one bit practiced. “Try to stay awake for me, OK?”

Dyma said, “Mom.”

The bellman had deposited their suitcases and left again, and they were standing in the middle of their … living room.

It was Moroccan, yes, it was. It was so Moroccan. It was also the most beautiful room she’d ever seen. The plaster walls were sponged with more of that terra cotta color, overlaid with stenciled arches that looked like mosaics. The ceiling had tree-trunk beams again, and every piece of furniture was vibrantly patterned and colored. It was warm and cozy and like no possible hotel room on the planet.

There was a fruit basket on the coffee table, too. It had a flat black box stuck into the midst of the perfectly shaped, perfectly ripe pears, secured by stretchy gold cord tied in a bow. She had a bad feeling about that box.

“Two bedrooms and two bathrooms,” Dyma said, coming back from an exploration and instantly going for the black box. “Ooh. Truffles. Wow.” She bit into a huge, decadent-looking round thing, opened her eyes wide, and said, “Spicy dark chocolate. Cayenne pepper, I guess. That’s amazing. Taste.”

Jennifer did. This wasn’t turning out to be the weekend to start her new resolutions, that was for sure.

Dyma said, “This is the most bizarre trip. It’s like—whiplash. Also, one of the bathrooms is amazing. It’s like a shrine in there. I’m guessing that’s yours. And, see, I told you Mark took you for granted. We should take pictures and text them to him. That’d be so great.”

“Nope,” Jennifer said. “We broke