Page 33 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
Connor sighs again. Darcy says, “Lawd.” No one else makes a peep, except for one of the swarthy bodyguards, who mutters something in Arabic under his breath.
I don’t speak the language, but my life has been threatened enough times by dangerous men speaking foreign tongues that I get the gist.
But I don’t mind. The sooner I discover how Angeline is connected to these men, the sooner I can start working on a way to find her.
* * *
By the time I’m dressed and emerge from the bathroom, the police officers are busy sniffing around my room. They’ve dismissed the crowd with the exception of Connor, who stands to one side of the bed with his legs spread and his bulky arms crossed over his chest. He’s biting the inside of his cheek, trying not to smile.
“Okay, brother,” I snap. “Here’s the part where you tell me what you think is so damn funny!”
His dark eyes dance with laughter. “You sure can pick ’em, my friend. This is even better than the time you hooked up with that Mafia don’s wife.”
“She said she was divorced!”
“Nobody divorces the mob, dummy. Remind me, how many goombahs did he send to kick your ass?”
He’s having way too much fun with this. I make an impatient motion with my hand that basically translates to get to the fucking point.
“When you didn’t come down for breakfast, I figured you were still…occupied…with your new friend. But an hour later when you didn’t pick up your cell or the room phone, I knew something was wrong. The police were just about to have the hotel manager open your door when we got here.”
“And the suits who’d like to separate my head from my body? Who’re they?”
“Personal security for one Ahmed Akbar Khan Khalid,” Connor says drily.
“Saudi?”
“Yep. Super rich. Oil money, of course. And a bona fide prince, to boot.” He jerks his chin at the ceiling. “Honeymooning in the suite right above this very room.”
We stare at each other for a beat as I process what he’s told me. After a few seconds, it clicks. I feel like the biggest idiot on the planet.
“Aw, shit. What’d she take?”
From outside on the balcony, the head officer answers. “A Burmese pigeon’s blood ruby necklace once owned by Queen Ingrid of Denmark. It’s worth fifteen million dollars.”
I look over at him. He’s craning his neck to peer at something on the side of the building that’s fluttering in the gentle morning breeze. He looks at me and points in the direction of the flutter. “You want to explain this?”
Connor and I join him outside. Hanging down from the railing of the balcony above mine is a makeshift rope composed of white bedsheets. We lean over and discover three more tied to the first, dangling down the side of the building, all the way to the ground.
My brain switches into Special Ops mode. “Four king-size sheets tied together with square knots. Readily available, easy to work with, anonymous…”
Connor and I glance at each other. “And excellent weight support,” he says. “Especially at a high thread count like these.”
I look down again, assessing the distance to the lawn below. “Building stories are about ten feet tall. Each king-size sheet would provide about twelve feet of length.”
“And we’re probably what, fifty feet up?”
Exactly what I’d calculated. I remind myself to unclench my jaw. “I gotta admit it. That’s pretty smart.” I look at the officer. “They’re from Khalid’s room. She wouldn’t have burdened herself with the climb up from here to there carrying a stack of sheets.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “How do you know she climbed up?”
I smack myself on the forehead. “You’re right. She took the invisible jet.”
Connor warns, “Ryan.”
Ignoring him, I cross my arms over my chest and level the officer with a hard stare. “Okay. Here’s every fuckin’ thing you need to know in a nutshell. I met the woman who calls herself Angeline Lemaire yesterday at the pool bar at approximately fifteen hundred hours. No, I didn’t know her before that. No, I’m not an accomplice. No, I didn’t know anything
about her plans. We went to dinner with my friends, including this big ape here, and then came back to my room.
