Page 47 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
When the knock comes, I go to the door and glance through the peephole.
A guy in a black-and-white uniform stands behind a cart draped in white linen. He’s looking down, fussing over a place setting, so I can’t see his face.
My fingers curl around the folding blade in my pocket. “Yes?” I call through the door.
He looks up, smiling. “Room service, madam.”
He’s no one. Just a hotel employee.
Or is he?
“One moment, please. Just getting dressed.” I go to the phone and dial room service. They pick up on the first ring.
“Good evening, in-room dining, this is Gwendolyn,” says a friendly female voice. “How may I be of service?”
“Hi, I’m calling from room two-oh-five. The gentleman who delivered my food…” I pretend to think, then mutter, “Shoot. What did he say his name was?”
“Christopher was sent up with your order, Ms. Lane.”
Penny Lane is the name I used to check in. And Christopher is the name inscribed on the gold tag on the chest of the man standing outside my door.
“Oh, yes, that’s it. I just wanted to tell you he was wonderful.”
I hang up before the woman on the other end of the line can respond.
I go to the door, unlock the dead bolt, remove the security chain, and stand aside to let Christopher in. “Sorry about the wait.”
“It’s no problem at all. Shall I set the food out on the table for you, madam?”
“No, don’t bother. You can just leave it the cart by the desk. I’ll call down when I’m finished.”
“Very good.” He rolls the cart to where I’m pointing, then produces a receipt for me to sign. On his way out the door, he wishes me a good night.
An hour later, I’ve got a full stomach and a nice buzz. I recheck the bolt on the door, then turn off the lights and crawl into bed. I’m asleep within minutes.
I awaken sometime near dawn, my skin prickling with a sixth sense that something is terribly wrong.
Reaching for the knife I’d stashed under my pillow as soon as I checked in, I quickly glance around the shadowed room.
Everything looks normal. There are no strange sounds, no odd scents in the air. The security chain is still latched on the door.
My nervous system isn’t convinced.
I ease the knife out. It catches a moonbeam spilling through a gap in the curtains and throws a silver flash along the wall.
“Careful with that. You could cut yourself.”
The voice, deep and male, comes from the bed beside me.
I leap from the mattress like it’s on fire. I’m caught midair by a pair of big arms that cinch around me and drag me backward on my heels. I fight, trying to stab my attacker in the thigh, but I can’t get enough leverage because my arms are pinned. I jerk my head back in an attempt to break his nose, but he’s too fast. He dodges my move with an expert countermove and a chuckle.
“Aw, you don’t seem happy to see me, Angel. My feelin’s are hurt.”
I freeze. “You!”
“The one and only, darlin’.” He puts his nose into my hair, inhales, and whispers in a husky voice. “Don’t stab me. I look better without holes.”
The relief that washes over me is almost as powerful and unexpected as the surge of joy. I drop the knife, spin around, throw my arms around Ryan’s shoulders, and bury my face into his neck.
