Page 53 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
I don’t bother asking the couple if they saw the direction she ran. I simply withdraw into the bathroom, untie the knot from the foot of the tub, toss the sheet out the window, and pull the window shut. Then I go into the other room and turn on the TV.
She said she had the room for the night, after all. Pity to waste it. Besides, I need to give her a head start.
What’s that old saying about giving someone just enough rope to hang himself?
I call room service and order a cheeseburger and a beer. Then I pull my cell phone from the pocket inside my jacket and navigate to the
tracking app synced with the tiny GPS I stuck on the back of Mariana’s ugly sweater.
The screen glows with a red dot, moving steadily south of the Ritz.
Smiling, I settle into the big armchair in front of the TV and wait for my food.
* * *
Standing across the street from Mallory & Sons Heritage Auctions in the morning fog, I think it could be a different century for how old-fashioned the place looks. Even the street feels like something out of a period movie, with its gas lamps and cobblestones. Only the taxi trundling by ruins the illusion. I almost expected a horse and carriage to turn the corner instead.
A cheerful bell rings when I push through the front door. The place smells like incense and old books. Jazz plays softly in the background. A man looks up from a big oak counter carved with a weird battle scene involving dragons and meets my gaze with a level one of his own.
We size each other up.
He’s somewhere north of fifty, neither young or old, neither handsome or ugly, dressed in an average dark-blue suit. Joe Average.
I get the sense his average appearance is carefully crafted.
I also get the sense he’s been expecting me.
Strolling in his direction, I take in everything about the room, including the security cameras masquerading as speakers on the walls. When I get to the counter, I lean my elbow on it and give him a corn-fed, backcountry dumbass smile meant to convey I’m not a threat, and might even be a little slow on the uptake.
He stares at me. His left eyebrow slowly lifts into a condescending arch. In a tone so dry it’s practically dust, he says, “Is that what they’re teaching in the American military now? How subtle. I’ve seen bulldozers with more finesse.”
I instantly decide I like him. “Haven’t been in the military for a long time, pal,” I reply. “I’m just a smiler.”
His tone grows even more disapproving. “The smiling American. How cliché.”
“I’m anything but a cliché, friend,” I say softly. “Where is she?”
His lips purse. He exhales a small, annoyed breath. If he rolls his eyes, I might have to punch him in the face.
“She?” he repeats, a little cattily, I think.
“Mariana.”
He blinks, taken aback, but quickly recovers, smoothing a hand over his tie as his face shifts into a neutral expression.
“You’re surprised she told me her real name.” I’m feeling all kinds of macho and self-satisfied. I resist the urge to puff out my chest and calmly gaze at him instead.
He folds his hands on the counter and drills me with a look. “If you knew her the way I know her, you’d be surprised, too.” His gaze drifts over my leather bomber jacket to my jeans, then flicks up to my hair, which I combed by dragging my fingers through it. His mouth takes on the shriveled appearance of a prune. “You’d be very surprised indeed.”
I dig that he’s not trying to pretend he doesn’t know who I’m talking about. And I don’t take it personally that he obviously thinks Mariana’s too good for me. We’re pretty much on the same page there.
Even if she is an international jewel thief wanted by all the police.
I straighten, fold my arms across my chest, and smile wider.
He closes his eyes and shakes his head.
“Listen, buddy—”
