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In theory, Brett and Michel were the same size. Only Michel was taller, broader, and way more muscular. And, apart from the current Speedo exception, exclusively wore suits. Brett grimaced at the closet of them, already pressed and hung in rows of subtly changing hues. He scowled down at his jeans and t-shirt. They would have been dirty but acceptable, torn from his fall down the stairs the day before but only at the knee. But then Michel had bled all over them while he was playing doctor, again. They’d have to go.
Then there was the problem of the arm. It hurt when he lifted it. It hurt when he didn’t. He could write a fucking rhyme about all the ways it hurt. There was no way he could get out of his shirt without assistance. Assistance Michel couldn’t provide while he was covering himself with Band-Aids. Brett didn’t like his other option. Not because he didn’t want her to see him naked; he did. But there were so many important, crucial things they had to deal with right now, and he didn’t think his libido could handle another booty call near-miss.
His eyes scanned the bedroom, hoping to find another solution or that another person would magically appear. The room, with its breezy resort furniture, remained shiny, spotless, and empty. Aren’t bellhops and valets supposed to magically appear when you need them? What kind of five-star establishment is this?
He sighed. At least he could change his pants on his own. No way in hell was he having Lucille zip up his fly unless there was some hanky panky involved first.
Hanky panky? Who even says that anymore?
He got the pants on, using his free hand to pull up one side and then the other, all the while trying not to get the blood from his shirt on them. By the time he was done, he was winded. From putting on pants. Things had really gone downhill lately.
He picked up the crisp, white button-down shirt—no way was he wearing a jacket in this heat—and headed down the hall to the room on the far side of Michel’s. The hallway was deserted, evacuated after the blast. In the space that had once been his suite, there was smoke and the sound of a fire crew putting out the last of the flames. He could see lumps of blackened furniture, now soggy and dilapidated nearly beyond recognition.
The bomb had taken out his entire suite, the sitting area wall of Michel’s suite, and the bedroom wall to the room on the other side. Brett wondered what the people in that room had thought or if maybe, horribly, they’d been hurt in the explosion. Who would do such a thing? Not only that, but who gets the room number wrong? Thank God they had or he wouldn’t be standing there, half alive in a bloody shirt. But seriously. First the stairs and now the hotel. The murderers were losing their game. And where the hell was Sylvia? Wouldn’t she want to be present when her fiancé-killing plot finally succeeded? Or maybe his earlier suspicion was wrong and Sylvia actually had been kidnapped.
Brett rubbed his head. Too many questions on not enough sleep, whiskey, or pain meds. He turned away from the wreckage and knocked on Lucille’s door instead.
She opened the door at once, as though expecting him. She’d changed, replacing her business suit get-up with a sleek white dress that wrapped around her neck at the top, pushing her breasts in and up. Her hair was pulled back in a messy sort of bun and she wore some excessively strappy sandals on her feet. She was applying sunscreen.
“You’re putting on sunscreen,” Brett said, standing in the hallway in his bloody t-shirt and suit pants.
Lucille shrugged. “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. I figure I’ll get more out of the guests if I blended in. As opposed to dressing like whatever you’re supposed to be.”
Brett winced. “Michel only brought suits.”
“And the Speedo.”
“Yeah.” He winced again and looked suspiciously at her. “And the Speedo.”
Yep, she’d noticed his ripped, swimsuit model friend. If she was expecting anything of the sort from him, his chances of getting laid would plummet to nothing. Damn Michel and his stupid Italian good looks and confidence in his sexuality.
“So, what do you want? We have to be down in the lobby in a few minutes.”
Brett shifted. This situation kept getting worse and worse. Now he wasn’t worried about them having sex right now, lost in the throes of passion brought on by his naked chest. No, now he was worried this would ruin their chances of banging at all. He wasn’t fat, but he didn’t have rippling muscles either. “Right. So. I can’t put on my shirt with this sling, and Michel is still Band-Aiding himself and hopefully getting dressed. Who knows how long that will take, so can you help me change my shirt?”
Lucille raised an eyebrow. He saw her swallow, and it made his heart leap a little. Something else twitched, too; something he was hoping would take no notice of the situation and stay where it was in his pants.
“Sure, come on in.” Lucille stepped aside. She spoke in a clipped tone, not seductive, but not unaffected either.
Brett walked into the hotel room, identical to Michel’s and what his used to look like. Lucille closed the door and turned to stand in front of him. She took the clean shirt out of his hand and laid it on the back of a chair.
“Are you right handed?” Her fingers closed around the hem of his t-shirt and tugged upwards.
Brett swallowed, his throat blocked by his pounding heart. “Yes,” he croaked. “Why?”
Lucille’s eyes were on the shirt she was pushing up over his stomach, slowly and purposefully revealing skin. When he replied, she looked pained, but her eyes didn’t leave their hungry pursuit. “I was just wondering about whether you could write, and I guess you can’t.”
Brett’s breath sped up.
Lucille reached up and unbuckled the sling from around his neck, holding one hand under his arm while she detached it from its white cloth casing.
“Good thing I’ve got terrible writer’s block.” Brett meant to say it in a light, joking tone, but he wasn’t capable of jocularity at the moment. That he was able to speak at all proved miracles exist.
Lucille didn’t react to his comment. She slid his arms out of the t-shirt, first his good one and then, even more gently than she’d removed the sling, his injured side. T-shirt freed, she folded it and placed it on the back of the chair, picking up the white shirt as she did so. This time she started with the bad arm, easing it through the sleeve, guiding his fingers through with hers. She moved behind him to pull the shirt around and put the left sleeve on. Shifting to stand in front of him again, she buttoned the shirt, top to bottom, her fingers resting on his hot skin as they pulled the sides of fabric together. Last, she replaced the sling, adjusting it so it went around the collar and not into his neck. When it was done, she stood back and eyed him up and down, a smirk on her lips.
Brett exhaled, releasing the air he’d been holding for the past minute. There hadn’t been any gropage; no untoward touching of any kind. So why did he feel like they’d just had sex when all she’d done was put on a shirt?
If he had two good arms, he would push her up against the wall right then and take her there, standing up. If she wanted to, of course.
“You guys are not the same size,” Lucille said. She turned away, picked up her purse from the side table, and swaggered out of the room, the smirk still dancing on her lips.
Brett crumbled where he stood. The control that woman had was unbelievably sexy. She knew he was in the palm of her hand, knew she’d left him on the edge and walked away, knew she could take what she wanted from him but didn’t. He revised his earlier fantasy. If he had two good arms, he’d let her tie them to the bed and ride him all day long.
Had he really thought that? He wasn’t into bondage. It must be the ocean breeze fucking with his brain. That or the pain and sobriety.
“Lucille Anton, you temptress, you minx, you siren.” No, if he had two good arms, he knew what would happen. He’d be up all night writing horrible love poetry while she was off fucking Michel.
The thought had the cold-shower effect. Brett shook himself and caught up with Lucille and Michel at the elevator. They headed down to the main floor, where the rest of the hotel had also gone.
The tiled floor of the lobby was littered with irate guests, half-packed luggage, and stressed hotel staff. Brett and Lucille scanned the area for Sylvia or suspicious-looking people who could be kidnappers. It was tough. Everyone looked suspicious, half-clothed and scared, demanding increased security, early checkouts, transportation to the airport, or a new room away from the bombed floor. There was no sign of his cousin and no one who fit his stereotypical image of a kidnapper, bomber, or attempted murderer: a big man with an eye patch and a creepy leer.
Michel left and returned, dragging behind him the harried manager who was still shouting orders to his staff and encouragement to his clientele. When they reached Lucille and Brett, the man gave a long-suffering sigh and motioned them through the employee-only entrance.
Once they were in the man’s spotless, windowless office, he offered them seats in the smooth, hard plastic chairs and insisted on bringing them coffee. He pulled his chair around the desk and, with another longer-suffering look, sat down before them.
No one spoke during this exchange. Brett shot a glance at his fellow recon party members. Michel looked annoyed. Lucille like she was trying not to laugh.
“Forgive my rudeness earlier. I found myself quite out of my depth. Let me assure you, please, that this...incident will be looked into most thoroughly. If I find that one or more of my staff were involved in such an atrocious act, they will be arrested at once,” the manager said, his face contrite.
“Never mind that. We think we know who did it,” Michel said with exasperation. The explosion or all the blood loss must have snapped something to attention in his brain, because he was all business.
“You do?” the man squeaked. He was sweating, his receding hairline glittering in the overhead lights.
Michel dismissed the question. “Is Sylvia Stanton staying here at the moment?”
The man sat back. “I’m sorry, sir. I cannot give out the names of our guests.”
Michel leaned forward, his face dangerous. “It is, and I mean this quite literally, and I’m certain you’ll believe me considering one bomb has already gone off today, a matter of life or death. So I think you will find you can.”
The man cowered in his chair. Michel didn’t even have to touch a hair on his head. It must have been why he got so many offers. He was alarmingly good at persuasion when he wasn’t out of his mind.
“Miss Stanton was here, but she checked out this morning,” the man squeaked.
Brett wasn’t surprised by the news. The bomb meant she or her kidnappers—the existence of whom remained questionable—knew they were going to be there. So it made perfect sense the perps hadn’t waited around to be caught. Michel, judging by his reaction, didn’t agree.
“She was here? She was here and you let her leave?”
The manager looked confused. “It is not our policy, sir, to detain guests who wish to leave. Particularly the owner’s family members.”
“But she didn’t leave! She’s been kidnapped!”
“Oh. Oh I see.” The man repeated that a few more times.
Lucille stepped in. “Was there anyone with Miss Stanton?”
The man shook his head. “No.”
“Anyone seen going in or out of her room? Anyone with her at any point in her stay?” Lucille’s voice was calm. She’d even laid a hand on Michel’s knee. To comfort him? Hold him back? Tell him she’d be there for him even if Sylvia ran off with another man or died or lost her looks?
Brett felt something. The only word he could think of was ‘icky.’ He felt icky, and it wasn’t going away.
“Well...but no. It’s only housekeeper gossip.”
“Tell us anyway,” Lucille said.
The manager looked more uncomfortable than he had before, if that were possible. He fidgeted in his chair, and his eyes circled the room, looking for an escape. “One of the housekeepers saw a couple of gentlemen going into Miss Stanton’s room last night. A few minutes later they were joined by a third gentleman.”
Michel leaned forward and asked menacingly, “And did the housekeeper see them leave?”
“We do not spy on our hotel guests.” At this point the man was going to have a heart attack before the conversation was over.
“Really?” Brett cut in. “Then what about those security cameras all over the lobby and hallways?”
He was full of shit. He hadn’t seen any security cameras, just assumed there were some. Luckily, he turned out to be right.
The man turned an even deeper red. “Yes, well, I suppose I could have the security team check those.”
“We would be forever grateful,” Lucille said with a little seductive smile.
Was she really flirting with the manager right now? With Michel, not to mention himself, right there in the same room?
“And, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, while you’re at it, would you see if the person who blew up Mr. Jacobs’s room was also caught on tape?”
The manager smiled back, nervous and twitching. “Of course.”
“Thank you so much. It’s a relief to find a man who’s committed to the safety and needs of his guests.”
The man blushed more. He was almost purple at this point, all from Lucille’s flirting. Brett wanted to hurl. He stood up.
“If there’s nothing else to do right now, I’m going to go lie down,” he announced with more fortitude than he felt. What he really wanted to do was punch someone, the hotel manager if possible. “And I will need a new room, since mine has been blown up.”
The manager blinked a few times as he was released from Lucille’s spell. He jumped to his feet. “Right away. There are a, ahem, number of rooms that opened up on your floor after the...incident. Let me find one for you.”
They followed the man back out to the lobby, got Brett’s new keys to the room on the other side of Lucille’s, and headed back up to their floor. Michel trailed behind, lost in thoughts that no one cared to ask him about.
Away from the crowd, Lucille spoke. “That was a waste, apart from confirming that Sylvia was actually was here. Let’s hope those security tapes turn up something useful.”
Brett couldn’t stop himself from saying, “You were laying it on a bit thick, don’t you think?”
She turned to him, her eyebrows raised. “It worked, didn’t it?”
“Hmph.”
She narrowed her eyes and smiled a little. “Are you jealous, Brett?”
He scowled. “No. But you can’t just...change a guy’s shirt and then go flirt with another man in front of him.”
“Can’t I?”
The elevator reached their floor. Lucille walked out first, leaving Brett to think of something, anything, to come back with. He grabbed Michel, followed her out into the hall, and stopped.
Lucille stood a few steps away from the elevator doors, frozen. Her face was stony and expressionless, her hands in fists at her sides. She had her eyes fixed on something. Or someone.
A man stood in the demolished doorway of Brett’s former room, also frozen. A tallish man with styled blond hair and thick-rimmed black glasses. A man in a gray suit with a pink shirt and gray tie. A man who looked sort of but not exactly like Lucille.