Page 50 of Maneater
She nods again. “According to Annette and my research, September of last year. Four resorts since, no rhyme or reason to where, though I’m assuming there’s someone higher up giving her intel on who is going to be where.” She gives me a look, a question I can interpret without words, and I shake my head in answer.
“No, no. I don’t think it could be Rowan.”
She gives me a look, not disbelieving but asking for more information so I can explain. We never judge one another’s gut feelings, but we expect each other to explain them.
“I told you, I got him to open up at breakfast. He’s stressed about the leaks and not in a tell-me-to-make-me-feel-bad-for-him kind of way. He seemed shocked that he let the leaked info slip at all.” My gut tells me that slip of his is why I haven’t seen him since breakfast. Not because he’s exceptionally busy, but because he realized he was far too comfortable around me.
“I agree,” she says, surprising me a bit. “I just need to make sure we’re always on the same page.”
I nod, understanding, before changing the subject, not wanting to talk about Rowan.
“Okay, so what next? Jeff is off the list for the foreseeable future,” I say of the excursion employee with a broken leg. If he were our guy,I doubt he would have purposely injured himself in a way that, from what I’ve heard, will need surgery.
“Next, I want to try to get some information from employees. I think our guy works for the resort. Horace would be the easiest, most obvious suspect, but my gut says it’s not him.” We both know that having an innate connection to your gut is half the battle in this career. “He doesn’t seem the type to want to put that much work into something. But I’d also like to confidently cross him out, so engaging with him more would be good.”
I nod, agreeing. “Knocking him out for good early would clear our list up. He’s going to be at the cocktail party tonight.”
“How do you know that?”
“I may or may not have bumped into him at breakfast yesterday. He was very disappointed to see you weren’t with me, but I told him we’d try to make an appearance tonight.”
I smile and nod.
“Well, I wouldn’t want to disappoint him,” I say, spraying a healthy dose of perfume into the air and walking through the cloud before sliding into my shoes to head down to the party.
“I’m going to get a drink and talk to the bartender,” Rory says as we move into the ballroom where the cocktail hour is being held, and I nod. Bartenders see all, so if you can get one on your side, it’s always beneficial.
I look around, trying to find a target, and my eyes narrow on the incoming hallway as I spot Horace and Regina.
I turn back to Rory, who is in a gorgeous short, light green dress that flares at her hips and stops at mid-thigh, her blonde hair moving down her back in a straight curtain. My dress is strapless, tight all over, and a pretty burnt-orange color that looks amazing with my hair,which is blown out into loose waves, my makeup is all smoky eyes, and a red lip. Essentially, I’m in full-blown man-eater mode.
“I’m going to stick around up here, I think. Then wander around, see if I can catch anything.” She gives me a perplexed look for a moment before nodding, never questioning my methods the way I never question hers, and we part ways.
I mingle a bit at the entryway, smiling and nodding to a few other guests I’ve seen around before.
That’s when I catch Regina waving for Horace to go ahead of her into the party, putting up a one-minute finger and tipping her head toward the ladies’ room. He nods, then moves toward the main room.
Regina doesn’t head into the bathroom as implied. Instead, she steps back and moves through her bag in a way I’ve done myself a million times. She’s not looking for anything, not really. As she digs, her head moves up, observing, looking down the hall and into the party, then toward the lobby. It’s a move I’ve done a million times, discreetly trying to take in your surroundings and find something worth noting without drawing attention to yourself.
I smile at Horace as he walks past, who nods before getting pulled away by Daniel, who clearly wants to show the high roller around. Regina’s eyes look like they could be locked on her date, but I know better. From where I’m standing, I can see her eyes are locked on Gene and his new girl, Jenny, as they approach the party, and I realize there’s a good chance Regina knew they were coming in behind her and she wanted an excuse to catch an extra glance at them. Jenny gives the attendant a wide smile and thanks him, rejecting a drink before she walks into the cocktail party.
My stomach churns as Regina reaches into her bright blue clutch purse, which matches her dress, pulling out a phone and tapping the screen before slipping it back into the bag and making her way to the entrance of the party, her shoulders back and her smile wide. Not the fake kind of wide, like she needs to put her carefully curated face back on, but the kind that saysjob well done.Mission accomplished.
I don’t like it.
Not at all. And, unfortunately, it has nothing to do with her invading someone else’s privacy or breaking the rules of this establishment.
To my absolute horror and utter denial, it has everything to do with the conversation yesterday with Rowan and the look of concern on his face when he confessed it was weighing on him. Everything to do with how exhaustion clung to him almost visibly, how his shoulders slumped when he told me about the press leaks, and how, despite his best efforts, he couldn’t solve the problem. And most of all, I’m horrified at my sudden urge to try and alleviate it.
Maybe I could help in this small way. It wouldn’t help our mission, and it wouldn’t stop whoever is causing trouble around the resort, but I’ve begun to convince myself that it will help clear the air—one less thing muddying the waters of our investigations.
I watch as Regina moves casually, grabbing a drink off a tray that’s being graciously walked around in the lobby. Finally, she reaches the entrance to the main room.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but there are no bags at the cocktail mixer,” the employee at the door says, tipping her head toward a gilded sign that reads, “No phones or bags, please!”
“Excuse me?” Regina asks scathingly. The attendant gives her a soft, apologetic smile, clearly used to this reaction and totally unfazed.
“To create a better experience, we insist that no one bring any personal items into the ballroom.”
