Page 31 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
Even passed out, he’s attractive.
I roll him onto to his back and check his pulse. Normal. His breathing is deep and even. His mouth is slack. Those beautiful lips beckon me to kiss them, so I do.
Gently brushing a lock of gold hair from his forehead, I whisper, “Lo siento, mi amor. Sleep well.”
It’s a relief to drop the fake French accent.
I tuck a pillow under his head because I don’t want him waking up with a crick in his neck to add to everything else he’ll be mad about. Then I stand and look down at him.
He looks boyish and masculine. Sweet. But with all those muscles and tattoos, and his manhood resting against his thigh, impressively large even when not erect, he looks…
Heartbreaking.
I press a hand over my chest, blink away the moisture in my eyes, and take a deep breath.
There’s no time for regret. For wondering about might-have-beens. It’s time to get to work.
From his drawers, I select a black T-shirt and a pair of his briefs and quickly dress. The gown I wore to dinner isn’t made for climbing balconies, but it does have its purposes. I retrieve it from the floor and rip out the section of hem where I sewed the micro compass. I place it carefully in my mouth, tucked between my cheek and teeth.
I don’t bother with the handcuff key or the razor blade sewn into different spots in the lining of the dress. Neither safeguard has become necessary. I do need the map with my bug-out route through the hills, however, so I find my heels and crack the left one sharply against the wall. The platform sole breaks off. The little folded map flutters out like piñata candy.
I tuck the map into the waistband at the small of my back. I
t’s not snug enough. I’m wearing men’s underwear, after all—they’re not exactly made for curves. The only other place the map can securely travel during a climb in my present garb is my mouth or my crotch.
I head to the minibar, open a small packet of nuts, dump out the nuts onto the counter, and wrap the plastic packaging around the map. Then I stick it between my legs.
I’m nothing if not resourceful.
In the closet, I pull out two pairs of Ryan’s dress shoes. I swiftly remove the laces and tie them into square knots. Wrapped around the drainpipe that runs the length of the building next to the balconies, they can then be tied into Prusik knots, the kind rock climbers use. They’ll slide up a line, but downward pressure will cause them to lock.
Perfect for scaling walls.
I look at Ryan’s laptop on the coffee table for a moment, but decide he’ll have too much security on the device to make it worth an attempt at snooping. I’d never get past the login screen. Besides, my curiosity about him is useless.
No matter what he said about finding me, this is the end of our road.
I leave my handbag behind. Like all the clothing, cosmetics, and fake IDs in my hotel room, there’s nothing in it of value to me anymore. I take one last look at Ryan, sleeping peacefully on the floor, and allow myself a final twinge of regret.
It’s surprisingly painful.
Adios, beautiful stranger. Maybe in another life.
Then I step out onto the balcony into the warm evening rain, and look up.
Nine
Ryan
A fist pounds on my hotel room door. Over and over, as relentless as the thudding inside my skull. The two are so perfectly in sync, in fact, that it’s entirely possible the pounding fist is in my imagination.
Until I hear the muffled shout.
“Ryan! Brother! Open the goddamn door before I kick it down!”
It’s Connor. He sounds pissed.
I open my eyes…and I’m looking at a smooth white ceiling. For some reason, I’m lying on my back on the floor. And Connor is pounding on the door, shouting like a maniac.
