Secure Location - By Beverly Long Page 0,10

work. Where she felt in control. Competent. Energized.

Or she used to, anyway. Someone was intent upon spoiling the salvation she’d clung to for the past year.

“Thank you so much,” she said. Charlotte was amazing. If Meg worked a twelve-hour day, Charlotte stayed for thirteen. “Well, go home soon,” Meg ordered lightly. “Your mom will be worried.”

“I promise. She won’t call you again.”

“You know I didn’t think anything of that,” Meg said. “She’s sweet.”

“Maybe,” Charlotte said, her tone noncommittal. “That’s what I get for letting her move in. Anyway, what’s with the salad on the desk?”

Meg had forgotten about that. “I’ll get it in the morning,” she said.

“Already done,” Charlotte assured her. “Everything okay? I heard about your car.”

That hit a nerve. She hated it when people talked about her. “From?”

“Sanjoi in Security. I think he figured I knew.”

She said it casually but Meg caught the inference. I should have known.

Charlotte liked to be in the know. And in control. The woman was practically a machine when it came to running the office—details didn’t get missed, appointments didn’t get forgotten, reports were never late. Well, sometimes she did forget to tell Meg that Scott had called but the woman handled a frightening amount of work with relative ease.

“Do the police think it has anything to do with that letter you received?” Charlotte asked.

“Perhaps. They’re investigating. In fact, that’s why I’m calling. Can you run me a report? I need...”

Meg gave her the details, including the need for pictures from the security system. Charlotte assured her that she’d get the information right away and put it on Meg’s desk.

Meg ended the conversation without telling Charlotte that she was staying at the hotel, with her ex-husband a mere doorway away. She’d have to tell her eventually but after the day she’d had, she just didn’t have the strength to stand up to Charlotte’s inevitable questions.

She took the elevator back to the lobby, turned the corner and saw Cruz standing to the left of the gleaming wood and marble registration counter, feet spread hip-distance apart, arms crossed over his chest. Six feet of hard muscle and grim determination watching everybody and everything that was going on. His medium-sized duffel bag was sitting next to him. She suspected it was filled with more T-shirts and cargo shorts.

“Everything settled?” he asked.

“Yes. I’ll get your room key and you can get unpacked. If you’re hungry, the restaurant in the hotel has pretty good food or there are all kinds of places along the River Walk.”

He studied her. “What are your plans?”

“Well, I guess my first stop is the dry cleaner. I want to get there before they close. Then I’ll swing by my office, do some work for a while, and pick up the list you requested. I’ll slide it under your door.”

“I’m going with you,” he said. “Dry cleaner, then dinner. Together.”

Didn’t he understand? She couldn’t allow herself the luxury of slipping back, even an inch, into the past—to when things had been easy between the two of them. “I don’t think so,” she said.

“Come on, Meg. Cut me some slack. And yourself, too. I’ve been traveling since early morning. I missed lunch and you didn’t eat much of your salad. Can’t we just run the errands and have dinner? Can we keep this simple just for tonight?”

She wanted to say no. But what he said made sense. And she didn’t want to stand in the lobby arguing about it. A couple of the registration representatives were already craning their necks, hoping to get a better view. The grapevine was alive and blooming and the story would grow exponentially by morning, until the truth was unrecognizable. Meg Montoya had a fight with a guest. She pushed him, he fell backward, hit his head and now the hotel is getting sued. Or some version of that.

“Oh, fine. But don’t expect me to give in this easy every time.”

Chapter Three

Outside Meg’s room, Cruz took her key card and unlocked the door. He pushed it open with his foot and scanned the room. Larger than he expected but then again, it appeared she was a big deal. Sr. Vice President. She’d been a director in Chicago.

Obviously, Slater had offered more than just a warm bed.

The room had blond wood floors, lots of blues and greens, and a king-size bed. One step down there was a sitting area with a couch and a big flat-screen television. The sliding glass door at the far end was closed but the vertical blinds