Taking a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of his shorts, Danny offers me one. I’ve never smoked in my life. I’ve heard it’s a relaxant, and I could do with relaxing a bit. I scoot over and pull one from the pack, twisting it between my fingers as he slips another between his full lips. He lights it, illuminating his face. His gorgeous face. Then he holds the flame toward me. Nervously, I slip the cigarette between my lips and suck.
And cough.
Fucking hell, I’m choking. The sound of me hacking all over the place drenches the air. And beyond it, I hear him laugh.
It’s a rich sound, full of lost happiness. My choking to death makes him happy. “Come here.” He turns me away from him and proceeds to smack my back lightly until I’ve gathered myself. And then it’s quiet. And we’re close. His hands rest on my hips. The cigarette falls from between my fingers, and I pull in air, trying to be discreet. Impossible when he can see the rise of my shoulders. I turn to face him, his hands sliding across my midriff as I go. I find him shielded by a cloud of smoke, the cigarette resting lightly between his lips. His eyes shine. His scar glows.
“Smoking’s bad for you,” he grunts, releasing me and taking a drag. “Get some sleep.” He flicks it off the terrace, turns, and leaves.
I stare at his back as he goes, a little . . . lost. I just saw another glimmer of softness. And then, as if he realized he was being nice and it’s forbidden, he switched. Or is he simply playing an asshole’s game?
I hardly slept a wink, my mind rolling with so many contradicting thoughts. He didn’t sleep with me. I don’t know why, but it bothered me. Almost as much as his swaying mood. He bounces from cold and aggressive, to showing small hints of a caring nature. I’m not sure which I dislike the most. The former, I know better how to handle. The latter instigates a whirl of emotions in me that aren’t familiar or welcome.
Lust being one of the most frustrating.
And even more frustrating . . . 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 . . .