through the hotel but here, in Zeus’s lair, the colours were richer—deep amber, bronze and heavy gold, as if gilded by Midas’s touch. And that touch had embellished every scrolled door handle, fingerplate and urn.
Arched double doors, elaborately carved, encompassed the entire wall at one end of the floor, and as he drew closer faint murmurs slithered beneath the gap like wisps of smoke unfurling to reach his ears. Someone having unpleasant dreams, if he guessed right. Definitely female.
Mistress? Wife? The man was reclusive and malevolent enough to hoard a harem as far as he knew.
Gingerly Nic curled his hand around the gold handle and smirked when the lever gave way under the pressure of his palm. This was just too easy.
Door closed behind him, he stifled a whistle at the vast expanse of opulence.
Ochre walls were punctuated with arched lattice screens, allowing the shimmering light of the ornate candelabra to spin from one room to another and dance over every gilt-edged surface almost provocatively. But it was the heady scent of incense that gave the atmosphere a distinctly sultry feel, heating his blood another few degrees and coaxing his eyes towards the bed.
Mosaic steps led up to a raised dais, at least eight feet square. The entire structure was shrouded by a tented canopy made with the finest gold silk—the weighty drapes closed on all four sides, with only a small gap at the bottom edge. Clearly an invitation to take a peek as far as he was concerned.
Nic slipped off his shoes by the door and stepped closer on sock-clad feet, his pulse thrumming with the devilry of being somewhere he shouldn’t and half hoping, half anxious that he’d be caught.
The sudden bolt of lightning that flashed through the room, followed by a sonorous crack of thunder didn’t help. His heart leapt to his throat.
Sumptuous cushions and layers upon layers of super-fine silk in white and gold embraced the still mound of a woman veiled by the caliginous shadows.
He watched, waiting to ensure she slept on, frowning at the odd sizzle of electricity that ran beneath his skin. If he were the suspicious sort who believed in Brazilian claptrap he’d think his ancestors were trying to tell him to get the hell out of here. As if.
Nic shook himself from the bizarre trance and skulked round the rest of the palatial suite, prowling between overstuffed sofas in a rich shade of cocoa, towering fern trees that plumed from barrel-wide bronze urns and the ritzy copper-toned spa tub raised on another dais in the bathing room.
The entire effect was stunning, but it had a homely feel—as if the guest was in fact the owner and he’d decided to give the sheikhs of the Middle East a run for their money.
Finally, in the farthest room, was the answer to his prayers. A wide leather-topped desk strewn with business files and paperwork.
Hope unfurled and he sniffed at the air tentatively, while anxiety curled its wicked tail around his ribcage. Not fear of being caught—more fear of never finding the truth. Never finding what he was looking for. Never coming eye to eye with Zeus himself. Or should he say Antonio Merisi.
Ah, yes, Antonio Merisi—aka Zeus. A name that had evaded him for years—as if trying to connect the god-like sacrosanct prominence of Zeus with a flesh and blood human capable of being destroyed was impossible. But Nic had friends in places both high and low, and anything was procurable for a price.
It had been a torturous exercise in patience to discover any other Merisi business interests apart from Q Virtus. Not an easy feat, considering they’d been buried in aliases, but he’d struck gold within weeks and found one or two to set the wheels in motion. Make dents in the man’s bank balance. Contaminate his reputation. See how he liked his empire destroyed. As long as Nic got to watch it crumble. To see the very man responsible for his parents’ death languish in hell.
Standing behind the desk, he hauled himself up from his pit of rage and resentment and fingered the portfolio at the top of towering pile.
Merpia Inc.
Merpia? The largest commodities trading house in the world.
Eros International.
That one he’d guessed, from the abundance of Greek mythological connotations surrounding the club and a brief mention of the Merisi name in the company portfolio. Consequently he’d plagued the stockmarket with rumours two weeks earlier.
Score one Carvalho.
Ophion—Greek shipping.
Rockman Oil.
Dios...
Multi-billion-pound ventures. Every single one of them. This man wasn’t wealthy— he was likely one of the richest men in the world, with millions scattered across a vast financial plain.
The dents Nic had made would be a drop in the ocean.
He battled with an insurgence of disheartenment until another file snagged his eye.
Carvalho?
His hand shot out...then froze when a sharp voice splintered his rage.
‘I wouldn’t do that, if I were you. Hands up, back away from the table, then do not move a muscle or I’ll blow your brains out.’
Busted. Just when things were getting interesting. Still, his lips twisted ruefully at the sound of a husky, sultry feminine voice.
Nic flicked his hands in the air with a high school level of flippancy to lighten the mood and twisted his torso to spin around.
‘Now, now, querida, let’s not fight—’
The practised snick of the safety catch on a revolver made him rethink. Fast. It was a sound that resonated through his brain and threw him back thirteen years. Even his back stiffened, as if he were waiting for the echo of a bullet to penetrate his spine. Rob him of the dreams of his youth. End life as he knew it.
‘Stay right where you are. I did not give you permission to move.’
A shiver glanced over his flesh at the cool, dominant tone, as if he’d been physically frisked not just verbally spanked.
‘As you wish,’ he said, taking his voice down an octave or three and coating it in sin. ‘Though I’d much rather conduct this meeting face to face. More so if you are as beautiful as your voice.’
Maybe it was her barely audible huff or maybe it was the impatient tap of a stiletto heel on wood but Nic would swear she’d just rolled her eyes.
‘Who are you and how did you get into my suite?’
Suddenly the ridiculousness of the situation hit him. Was he actually being controlled by a woman?
Shifting on his feet, he made to swivel. ‘I’m turning around so we can have this conversation like two adul—’
A sharp sound like a whip cracking rent the air and Nic’s jaw dropped as he married the sound of a silenced bullet with the precise hole in the oil painting of a wolf about three feet from his head.
How ironic. Lobisomem. Portuguese for werewolf. His Q Virtus moniker.
Omen?
