Page 34 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
“What happened after that is none of your damn business, except that she doped me with something she put in a bottle of orange juice.” I jerk my head toward the bed. “The empty’s on the nightstand. You can test for residue. My guess is Rohypnol, modified with somethin’ to make it work faster. Took me down in thirty seconds. When I woke up, you were outside my door.”
Though it hurts my ego something fierce to admit it, I continue. “She obviously targeted me because I was stayin’ in this particular room. If it were next week, you’d be talkin’ to some other dude. End of story.”
The officer is busy trying to think of something to say next when one of his compadres lifts a high-heeled red shoe from the floor. The platform sole is broken off. Examining it, he turns to me. “You two have a fight?”
Connor speaks before I can. “He doesn’t fight with broads, only the husbands he didn’t know they had. But that’s a nice little hidey-hole carved in there. Perfect size for some cash.”
“Or a flash drive,” I say, grudgingly impressed. “Or a compass, an ID—”
“A map,” he finishes, looking at me. His sharp gaze flicks to the bedsheets, then to the view of the verdant hills. He turns to the head cop. “Lemme guess. She didn’t check out of the hotel. She hasn’t been seen since she left dinner with Ryan. You don’t have any video feed of her leaving the property.”
The cop looks uncomfortable. “Correct. The hotel doesn’t have security cameras pointing up at the outside of the building—”
“Hotels never do,” I interrupt. “Security cameras are always trained down, toward doors and hallways. Any thief worth his salt would know that.” Though I’m still mad as fuck, I can’t help but smile. “Her salt.”
I can tell by the cop’s expression that he’d really like to throw my ass in jail, but he must’ve already decided I’m just some dumb lackey Angeline used to make her play.
A lightbulb goes on over my head. “Wait. You know who she is, don’t you?”
He takes off his cap and scratches his head. “I can’t comment on that,” he says, sounding weary.
Connor scoffs. “Oh come on! You wouldn’t have even let me in this room if this was a real interrogation.”
He scowls. “No one ever said anything about an interrogation!”
An odd combination of elation and anger electrifies my skin. “She’s hit this hotel before?”
He looks back and forth between Connor and me, then obviously decides he might as well tell us, because he sighs heavily and starts spilling his guts.
“No. But I’ve got a friend in Interpol. Called him as soon as I was notified by Prince Khalid that his safe had been broken into while he was asleep. I knew it had to be a pro if he—she—could get past the armed security personnel posted outside the door and the biometric thumbprint scanner on the safe, and also be quiet enough not to awaken the prince or his bride for however long it took to finish the job.”
He makes a face. “Though admittedly the prince is known to imbibe more than what could be considered a reasonable amount, and his wife said she fell asleep to a white noise app because of all his snoring.” He turns to Connor. “Have you heard of Brain.fm? The princess claims it’s very relaxing—”
“Cut to the fuckin’ chase, man!” I shout.
He stares at me for a moment. “Let’s just say this woman is on pretty much everyone’s most wanted list.”
“What’s her name?” I demand.
He lifts a shoulder. “Who knows? She’s got fifteen known aliases, probably plenty more that aren’t known. Been doing big jobs for a long time. Jewels, mainly. The occasional piece of art. Never been caught.”
I scoff. “How could a thief who looks like a supermodel never be caught? She stands out like a fuckin’ neon sign!”
“If you saw the Interpol file, you might think differently.”
“Disguises?” Connor sounds doubtful.
“Up the wazoo. Eyewitnesses describe her as anywhere from twenty to fifty years old. Five foot four to five foot ten. Blonde, redhead, short black hair, dreadlocks. Blue eyes, brown eyes, green eyes. Walks with a limp. Walks with no limp. Has a lisp. Has an Irish accent. French. Italian. Spanish. You name it. She’s no one. She’s everyone. She’s impossible to pin down. Apparently she’s known in criminal circles as The Golden Hand. But my Interpol friend says law enforcement calls her the Dragonfly.”
Thinking of her gorgeous naked body trembling under my touch, I murmur, “Because of the tattoo.”
The officer looks at me sharply. “Tattoo?”
“The dragonfly on her left hip.”
His brows slowly rise.
I realize too late that this is new information to him. In spite of my gaffe, a flush of something like pride heats my neck.
