Just in the nick of time, too, because Mr. Z is apparently tucked away at the Stark Century Hotel, one of the ritziest hotels in the city. Lionel pulls in front of the valet stand, and a uniformed bellman opens the door for me and I step out of the car. I'm not entirely sure what I'm supposed to do now, but then I remember the envelope and slide a finger under the flap. I pull out a small notecard, on which is written: Z - 2848.
And absolutely nothing else.
I use my amazing powers of deduction and conclude that 2848 is Mr. Z's suite number. I use the revolving door to enter, then pause in the tastefully elegant lobby. There's a concierge desk nearby, and a woman glances at me, her smile clearly offering help. I just smile back and head toward the elevator bank, as if I'm just one of the regular guests. Nothing to see here. Nothing at all.
The elevator is fast. Too fast. I was hoping for a slow crawl as I gathered my wits, but that's not what I get. Instead, when the doors open on twenty-eight, I'm still trying to calm my crazy-rapid pulse, which kicked into overdrive the moment I stepped out of the car.
I pause in the elevator bank to collect myself. There are four elevators, two on one side of the rectangular area, and two on the other. The hallway is to my left. A floor to ceiling window is to my right, an upholstered bench sitting right in front of it. A man with curly blond hair and a goatee sits on the bench, scowling at his phone and tapping at the keypad. He's wearing jeans, a sports jacket, and a baseball cap, and I'm guessing that his date is either late or has stood him up.
He lifts his head to glance at me, and I immediately fumble in my purse for the breath spray so that I won't look like a terrified little girl off to meet the big, bad wolf. Instead, I'll look like a girl primping for a hot date.
After I spritz, I redo my lipstick. And then, of course, I'm all out of excuses. With a sigh, I move toward the hall, check the placard so I know which way to turn, and head for Mr. Z's suite.
It's to the right at the end of the hall, and I'm guessing it's one of the larger suites. Probably the kind with a kitchen, a living room, and at least one bedroom. In other words, the kind I've only seen in the movies.
So, that's another perk, right? Cold, hard cash and a really cool hotel room.
Way to keep up the optimism. Because, really, tonight is all about the room.
I close my eyes, trying to shut down the conversation running through my head, then knock firmly on the door. Although why I bother, I don't know. My heart is pounding so hard, I'm sure he can hear it on the other side.
Then the door opens, and my heart picks up tempo again. This time not out of fear but out of--what?
Lust? Surprise? Anticipation?
Because I know this guy. Hell, everyone knows this guy. He's plastered on the side of a freaking building on Sunset Boulevard. He's on the cover of at least two different entertainment magazines. And I saw him this morning on a local talk show.
He's Lyle Tarpin, and he's reaching for me.
He's taking my hand and pulling me inside.
He's pressing me against the foyer wall, one hand at my waist, the other tangled in my hair.
His mouth is closing over mine, hard and hot and wild and desperate, and I'm melting.
I'm just freaking melting.
And the only thing I can think when he finally pulls back, his mouth quirked up in his trademark lazy grin, is that I really, really, really won't need that lube.
4
My blood pounds through my body, my heart beating so hard that I can feel the pressure not only against my ribs, but against the wall behind me. My lips are parted, my breath coming in shaky gasps.
He's only inches away, so close I could reach out and touch that famous, gorgeous face. His eyes, as deep and blue as the summer sky, roam over me. He eases closer, moving slowly, his face reflecting a hunger that sends shivers through
me.
Once again, my mind conjures the image of a hungry wolf. Only now I'm thinking that maybe getting eaten wouldn't be so bad after all.
Besides, I'm here. Might as well enjoy it.
Then, of course, I remember exactly what it is.
Oh, God.
His fingertip brushes my forehead, and I almost jump out of my skin. I meet his eyes, see something that looks like irritation, and want to kick myself. I need to focus, dammit.
"You were somewhere else." He speaks flatly, as if he's working to keep all emotion out.