32

Holly could barely wait to see the pictures. Maybe she could take a quick look at them, for one second, here in the hotel corridor? No, no, no, I need privacy. She found her blue key card in the pocket of her purse, just where she’d put it, and clicked open her hotel room door. She’d left the lights on, of course. Her heart was beating so fast! Almost like when … She felt herself blushing, remembering. A kiss in the hallway, a promise made.

She practically fell against the door as it closed behind her. Her knees felt almost weak. She had touched him, he had touched her, they had … had connected.

And Jane Ryland! Actually there! In person! Taking the actual pictures, which was so unexpectedly perfect. She would be so happy when she got the photos. What a perfect, perfect night.

The silly lights had gone out at the rally and the alarm was scary for a second, of course. But even that was so funny. Owen Lassiter, with her, in the dark. She could smell him still. So funny. Owen Lassiter in the dark.

And she had pictures.

She pushed the oval silver button on the camera. Pushed it again.

No. No.

The stupid camera was taking too long to power up. Broken? Jane Ryland broke her camera? No. No. Maybe it was out of batteries. Out of batteries? Holly hit the silver button again, praying. The camera made a little sound, like a mean whisper, like, No, I’m not showing you the pictures. You were bad.

No, she wasn’t bad! She was good and she was right and it was just a stupid camera and it couldn’t talk and it was a stupid battery and all she needed was the charger.

Had she brought the charger? Oh, no no no. She didn’t have the charger.

Maybe I do. She yanked open her black wheelie bag, unzipped all the pockets, one at a time, jamming her hands inside, exploring every space where maybe she had been smart enough, good enough, to put the charger. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

The charger was at home in Boston. Hours away. Maybe I just have to—

She pressed her lips together, very hard, trying not to cry. She needed the pictures. She had to see the pictures. Had. To. See. Them.

Tonight.

*   *   *

It doesn’t matter if I missed the rally. He didn’t need to hear some speech. Matt felt one fist clench, and that muscle in his neck twitch again. He simply needed to see if Holly was there. This was about stopping her. And protecting Governor Lassiter from whatever the hell she was planning.

The campaign probably didn’t even know anything was wrong. Yet.

He eased his car into the New Englander parking lot, scanning for a spot. Still pretty crowded. A good sign.

If Holly was following the campaign, which is exactly what she would do, she’d still be here as long as Lassiter was here. Would they stay overnight, this far from Boston? He should have asked that Denise girl, but she was already spooked. He was here; he could find out. Not a problem. It is what it is.

If Holly was following the campaign, she’d be on it like—like she was on him back then. Started out signing up for the same classes. At first, he’d thought it a coincidence, and she was pretty cute anyway. He’d been nice to her, why not? His first mistake. It took him a while to get the real picture. They’d studied together, gone out a couple of times. No big deal. She was so damn hot. So willing. So what was he supposed to do, say no, go away? He’d kissed her, so what? It was grad school, for godsake.

Then, she’d be in the hallway every time he turned the friggin’ corner. Cookies left at his apartment door. Flowers. Showed up with a whole dinner that time, all jazzed, saying it was their anniversary. I mean, anniversary of what?

And he was just too—too what? His mother had taught him to be polite, to treat women with respect. She’d drilled that into him every day. And to watch out for the bad ones. He simply hadn’t realized Holly was a bad one. He couldn’t let her hurt the governor.

Matt turned off the ignition, grabbed his overnight bag, pushed through the revolving door, made a beeline for the registration desk. A little after nine o’clock, the lobby was still crowded, and the bar, too. Maybe campaign stuff was still going on upstairs. Maybe Holly was still up there. Maybe she was in the bar. If the governor was there, she’d be there.

Some wimp in a navy blazer, name tag, and plastered-on smile waved him over to the end of the counter. Matt took a hotel brochure and a red apple from a big glass bowl. Why not. He’d be a paying guest soon enough.

“Reservation, sir?”

Matt took a bite of the apple, held up his hand, wait a sec. He swallowed, then said, “Nope. Just want a room for the night. A single. One night.”

The guy looked pained or something. Shaking his head. “Oh, I’m so sorry, sir, we’re fully booked this evening.” He waved a hand across the lobby. “Convention. And the Lassiter campaign. As you can see.”

Matt scowled. Hotels always had another room. This asshole just didn’t want to give it to him. He put on his nice guy look and reached into his pocket.

“Oh, gee, well, that’s too bad. I really do need to stay here tonight.” Matt opened his wallet, folded two twenties, and put them on the desk, his palm not quite hiding them. “I’ve stayed in your hotel chain lots of times. I’m a gold card holder. Isn’t there any way you could … check again?”

The clerk looked even more pained. And looked at Matt’s hand like it held a winning lottery ticket. “Yes—no, sir, we truly are full up. I’m so sorry. There’s just nothing—”

Matt tossed the apple over the counter. It splatted on the wall behind the clerk, landing on a deep bluish swirl in the ugly patterned carpet. “I doubt that, asshole.”

“Sir! I—”

Matt stuffed the two bills back into his wallet. Gave the clerk a look like, You’re lucky it wasn’t you I threw against the wall. Not that it would have helped. Plus, the guy had already darted behind the office door. Wimp.

Out the door, into the freezing night. He slammed on the ignition, cranked the heat. There was another way to handle this. He yanked out that brochure, then his cell phone, and dialed the hotel.

“I’m looking for a guest, a Holly Neff?” He disguised his voice a little, in case wimp clerk answered.

“One moment, please, sir.” A woman’s voice, so no prob.

“Sir?”

“Yes?” He’d get the operator to put the call through, hear her voice—he’d know it—then say, Wrong number. He’d come back at the crack of dawn, stake her out. Or hell, sleep in his car. Done it before. It’d be worth it.

“She’s checked out, sir.”

Checked out? “Checked out?” He tried to keep his voice calm, but he couldn’t believe this. She had been here. And he’d missed her.

A rock sank in his chest. The clerk had unknowingly answered another question. The woman he’d seen was Holly Neff. She was in that photo. She was back in his life. And maybe, as a result, back in Lassiter’s. They were all in trouble. Big, big trouble.

“Yes, sir. I’m so sorry.”

Not half as sorry as I am. Shit. Shit on a freakin’ …

“Can you tell me … when?” He put a smile into his voice, hoping it would work as well here as it did with his sales calls. “It would be so helpful if you could tell me—when did she check out?”

There was a pause. Come on, honey.

“Well, actually, just a few minutes ago.”

Matt needed to think.

“Sir?” The voice on the phone.

“Yeah, thanks.” Matt tried to control his breathing. It was fine. If she was with the campaign, he had a handle on this. He didn’t need to find her tonight. He was cool. He just needed to confirm it.

He squinted through the rental’s dirt-streaked windshield toward the hotel’s glass-fronted doorway. “She was part of the governor’s campaign, right? She’s with the—”

And there she was.

Holly Neff. His worst nightmare. Shiny as a bad penny. Standing in the hotel’s front doorway, walking out the doorway, nodding to the bellman. Walking into the parking lot. Walking his way.

Matt slammed off the phone.

His turn.