Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
I shoot the man a withering glare, but he’s unmoved. With a sigh, I make my way to the elevator. Another man in a hotel uniform hurries after me, catching the door before it closes behind me.
“Ma’am,” the man says. “Someone asked me to give you this.”
I take the folded note and stuff it into my purse along with Megan’s picture. It’s probably a stupid threat from the security guy. I mash the button to my floor and then impatiently wait to get to my room. Once I’ve reached the sanctity of my room, I strip out of the dress and get back into my jeans and T-shirt.
“What a waste of time,” I grumble as I plop down on the edge of the bed.
I open the flap on my purse and pull out the note to read it.
Meet me at the Irish pub on the corner at midnight. I might have information on your friend.
My heart skips a beat.
Holy crap.
What if I find Megan after all?
Romy
Present Time
I’m not dreaming.
This is real.
Last night I went to meet the person who wrote me the note and now I’m in a freaking hole in the floor of only God knows where.
Think.
How do I get out of here? Who put me here?
Despite the dark, confusing, terrifying state I’m in, the small act of the man opening the door and pointing a gun in my face is exactly what I needed to find clarity. The smell of my own pee soaking my jeans helps put things in perspective too.
His small moment of intimidation was a gift.
I’m not crazy.
This is not all in my head.
At midnight, I’d walked into the Irish pub down the street from my hotel in anticipation of meeting the person who’d written me a note. While waiting, a handsome man sidled up at the bar next to me and struck up a conversation. There was something familiar about him.
Think.
Since I have nothing else to do but rack my brain, I begin trying to place the man—Theo—to see where I knew him from. Was he a celebrity? Someone from LA I’d met? An associate of Dad’s from New York?
Brown hair.
Tuxedo.
Wait. He was wearing a tuxedo, which is an odd choice of clothing for a casual bar. That means he was at the event.
I replay each step, conversation, and face from the CUP even last night. My thoughts linger on Isla and her sleazy husband. Rewind. Me and Isla discussing the Crowne family.
One man had his back to us.
The younger one.
Same hair. Same build.
Holy crap!
Theo is a Crowne. And somehow, he managed to get me here. How? I try to piece together our conversation, but it’s messy. Finally, after minutes or hours of stewing, it begins to form clearly.
“This seat taken?” a deep voice with a playful lilt asks.
When I turn to see the guy standing near me, heat floods my cheeks. He’s hot. Hotter than the barista near Megan’s dorm. Green eyes that practically glow devour me like I’m something savory he’d like to eat. Normally, that’d creep me out, but when the guy is drop-dead gorgeous, all intelligence flies out the window.
“Sure,” I say, annoyed with the fact I changed back into my regular clothes. This guy is dressed impeccably and I’m wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and a USC hoodie. “I’m meeting someone, though.”
The beautiful man juts out his bottom lip in mock sadness. It brings an instant smile to my face. Jeez, he even smells good too. His cologne cuts through the heavy tobacco scent that permeates the air. Because I like it, I lean slightly toward him to have a little sniff.
“Your boyfriend?” the guy asks. “Lucky guy.”
Again, my cheeks blaze hot. It’s not that I’m not used to getting hit on. It’s just that typically I have no interest in whomever is flirting. This guy, however, is exactly my type—tall, playful, boyish good looks, lovely green eyes, and a killer smile.
“I don’t have a boyfriend,” I say too quickly. “Just waiting on a contact.”
“You’re a journalist?”
“No.” I let out a small laugh. “Just looking for a friend.”
“Is she lost?”
Before I can answer, he waves to the bartender and then holds up two fingers. The bartender gives him a small nod before he starts making drinks. I’m curious as to how the bartender even knew what to make this guy.
“Your friend,” the guy says. “Is she lost?”
“Someone kidnapped her,” I blurt out. “At least that’s my theory.”
His eyebrows lift. “Why aren’t the police looking for her then?”
“Because they don’t care,” I declare with a huff. “No one cares. I’m Romy, by the way.”
The man takes my outstretched hand and gives it a warm, firm shake. “Theo. Nice to meet you. And why don’t they care?”
The bartender sets down two shots in front of us. Theo nudges one my way and grins. “For you.”