. . . I feel that lust with whatever side of his personality I get. He might awaken unusual stirrings of desire within me, but mostly it’s . . . awe. He could have thrown me at the man with the gun to his head. He could have left me and ran into the hotel. You’re steel. It had sounded like admiration.
I stare at the bedroom door from where I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, naked. I can hear activity, the passing of people, the calling of names, the sounds of cell phones ringing. He hasn’t come to get me. Am I supposed to sit here until he does?
I’m contemplating the question for another half hour before I finally throw on his black shirt, pull the jeans up my legs, and pluck up the courage to venture from my room. I take the handle and turn, cautiously peeking down the hallway. I can still hear people, but I can’t see them. I wander down the wide corridor on my bare feet, taking in the art that hangs between every door, elaborate abstract prints in vivid colors hung on plain cream walls. There are a lot of doors. The one to my suite is double, wooden, and heavily engraved, as is the next door. That’s Danny’s suite. His scent is leaking through the wood. The room next to mine is his. The terrace next to mine is his.
The rest of the doors are single, all closed. I count a dozen on each side of the long corridor, until I break out onto a gallery landing. The marble steps sweep down to the right, the balustrades gold and sparkling, reflecting pretty twinkles of light from the crystal, low-hanging chandelier suspended from the high ceiling above. My warm soles hit the cold marble, my hand taking the railing, but quickly retracting, not wanting to smear the shiny metal with my sweaty palms. The front doors, towering and white, are at the bottom of the stairs, each side flanked by huge urns bursting with palms.
When I reach the bottom, I instinctively take a right, following the voices until I reach a pair of double doors that are wide open. The giant room seems small. Because it’s full of men, all standing. And sitting at a desk in front of a set of glass doors that lead into the garden, is The Brit. The Angel-faced Assassin. He looks like a king showing his army the battle plan, pointing to something on his desk, moving things around. I hover on the threshold, just watching him looking all kingly and listening to him as he talks, his voice that of a leader. And deep, and raspy and . . .
“They’ll come in from here.” He indicates whatever it is on his desk and the men move in closer. “We’ll have a boat here, keeping watch. Anyone drifts into the space, get rid of them, preferably without raising any alarms.”
“What about the Coast Guard?” Brad asks. “They have a habit of showing up when they’re not wanted.”
“If they do, they’ll be distracted. Ringo’s gonna be here.” He points to something else. “Both when we take delivery and when we do the exchange with the Russians. I have a feeling that dodgy engine in that shit-heap boat of his is finally going to fail.”
“I’ve been meaning to get it fixed.” A man, Ringo, I presume, shakes his head in feigned despair. He’s a beast of a man, tall and slim, and extremely scary looking. “Thought I’d get one more fishing trip in first.”
“Don’t get burned, will you?” Danny asks seriously, making a few of the men chuckle lowly. “Don’t want to ruin that pretty face of yours.”
More chuckles, and I have to force my own back. Ringo is probably one of the ugliest men I’ve ever laid eyes on, and I’ve seen some pig-ugly guys in my time. His pitted skin is like leather, his nose big enough to land a small jet on. I’ve not spent much time with him, but I’ve figured his personality isn’t exactly winning either. Poor guy hasn’t got much going for him. Except, maybe, the ability to kill from a mile range.
Ringo sniffs back the insults, but says no more, leaving Danny to go on. “We have an hour tops turn around. Get the consignment off, in the containers, checked, and we’re out of there. Then we wait for the—” Black’s head snaps up, finding me at the door, and I