and her own went dry.
“Tequila does crazy things,” she said.
“I’m beginning to believe that, yes.”
Suddenly there was a knock on the door, making Sophie jump, then freeze. Now what? Room service probably. Great. If whoever was delivering recognized her, and there was a better than average chance of that happening, she was well and truly screwed. Like you’re not already.
Then she noted that his entire demeanor had changed. No longer smiling, the muscles across his chest and shoulders tensed—and even more clearly defined—he grabbed the sheet and dragged it around his hips as he stood. “Don’t move.”
Sophie looked up—way up—to where he towered, Roman godlike, over her, and was pretty sure she couldn’t have moved even if she’d wanted to. He was quite intense and very serious, his amusement regarding her unexpected presence completely gone now.
The knock came again, quite loud and insistent, and Sophie automatically found herself thinking she’d have to speak to the room service manager about tempering the enthusiasm of the delivery staff. Or maybe—what if it was someone coming to see him who didn’t need to discover him with a woman in his room? A coworker, or worse, a girlfriend … or a wife!
Sophie watched him stride to the door, then she glanced frantically around the room, her gaze landing on the connecting door between rooms. She could use her key and be through that door in a flash. Or course, she risked rousing whoever was in the adjoining room, but a few quickly made apologies and a fast escape into the hall might still be a better strategy than staying in this room another minute longer and facing … whatever it was she was about to face.
Surely he wouldn’t give chase wrapped in a bedsheet.
Except, she hadn’t found the cell phone yet. Well, maybe it was for the best. Delia was simply going to have to face the consequences of her actions after all. Sophie winced as she tried to imagine the very public spectacle that consequence was likely to be, given the level of attention being paid to what everyone was calling the most romantic wedding of the year. The tycoon and the cocktail waitress. Despite Delia not having been one for years. Nightclub manager apparently didn’t make nearly as good a headline.
Sophie slid her hand from the cushion. Maybe they’d both luck out and the battery would have died and it wouldn’t ring. Then she could come back in here later after he checked out and do a more thorough search before housekeeping did their thing. But in order to do that, she had to get out of here. Right now. And pray like hell he didn’t complain to hotel security … and that he checked out while the day staff was still on duty.
She was just starting to inch her way across the floor, when he stepped back into the room.
“And where might you be going?”
“Really, I’ll get out of your hair. I don’t need my phone that badly. Just, if you find it, would you turn it off and leave it on the dresser? The cleaning staff will find it and turn it in and it will all be okay and—” She was babbling.
But that came to an abrupt stop when she finally turned and looked at him.
He was standing in the space where the hallway opened into the bedroom. The sheet was tucked low around his hips. In one hand, he held a white envelope that she recognized as hotel stationery.
In the other hand, he held a gun.
2
SIMON LASSITER HAD A NUMBER of concerns at the moment, each carefully accounted for, each with a plan of action in place. Every move he made while he was here in Chicago had to run like a perfectly crafted Swiss timepiece. There was no room for error. One mistake, and all would be lost.
He looked at the woman presently perched on the chair in his hotel room, and tried to tell himself she wasn’t that fatal mistake.
He certainly hadn’t accounted for her. And there was no plan in place to deal with something like this.
But Simon hadn’t gotten to this point in life by being a pessimist. According to the note he’d just received, one he’d paid handsomely to have delivered instantly, day or night, under any circumstances … Tolliver had checked in. His quarry was on the premises. Finally, it was all coming together. Not that getting his hands on the Shay Emerald was going to be easy, but he was a damn sight closer now than he’d been before. And it was a certainty that he’d never have a chance again.
Which had him thinking that, perhaps, the hotel key card currently dangling from his surprise guest’s lovely neck might be of great assistance in that endeavor.
“Mr. Templeton,” she blurted, her gaze fixed on the gun in his hand. “Really, I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“This?” He wiggled the barrel slightly, making her tense further. “I believe you broke into my room. I’m merely protecting myself.” He frowned, then. “Who’s Templeton?”
“Daniel Templeton?”
He slowly shook his head.
“Seriously?”
“Quite.”
Her chin dropped, along with her shoulders. She closed her eyes and swore quietly. “All this, and I snuck into the wrong damn room. This is 706, right?”
He nodded.
“If the Wingates don’t kill her, I’m going to kill her myself.”
Simon didn’t understand what she was muttering about, but whatever had pissed her off wasn’t his problem. Getting into Tolliver’s room and stealing—retrieving—the emerald before it went on display at the Art Institute Museum this weekend, that was his problem. “Have a seat,” he told her, motioning to the chair behind her with the gun barrel. “We need to have a little talk.”
“Do you really need to point that gun at me? I assure you, I’m not dangerous. Just let me go and we can pretend we never met.”
“Ah, but you did pretend we’d met. In fact, you wanted me to believe we’d had something of a fling. Under the influence of tequila, I believe you said.”
She didn’t respond to that, squirming a little in her seat instead. So, she was game to be bold—her presence in his room was evidence enough of that—but when pushed, she really wasn’t a very good liar. Good to know.
“Of course, you thought I was a certain Mr. Templeton. Just how many men’s rooms do you visit every night?” He motioned to the key card. “Perhaps in America, a five-star hotel provides a level of personal service we don’t typically experience in London hotels of the same caliber.”
“London?” Her brow furrowed. “You are British, then? Because you don’t really sound—”
“English? It’s home currently, but I’m native Kiwi. New Zealand,” he added, when her brow wrinkled even further. And why on earth was he telling her any of this? Was it those oh-so-wide gray eyes? Or perhaps it was the combination of the strawberry blond curls and milkmaid skin. Skin that hadn’t been baked or painted within an inch of its life, as most American women seemed to favor. Innocence. She projected it. And yet, here she
