Livia Lone (Livia Lone #1)(91)

She wandered around for a while, getting acclimated, developing a feel for the layout of the place, taking in the vibe. A lot of foreigners—farang, a word she still remembered. All well dressed and prosperous-looking, some on the chic side, others more conservative. Hushed acoustics and soft music muting the sounds of conversation. An impeccable bar, with accents both classic and contemporary. Overall, an atmosphere of privilege, power, and discretion, old money mingling synergistically with new. You’re on the inside now, the place seemed to whisper. Where everyone else wants to be.

She noticed a security man by the elevators, checking to ensure guests who passed him had room keys. Damn, she hadn’t thought of that. She could have just paid for a room, assuming one was available, but didn’t want a record of having been here, let alone having stayed. But she thought she knew a better way regardless.

She went to the lounge, sat at the bar, and ordered a white wine. It didn’t take long for one of the farang—an all-American guy with designer sideburns, a dark linen sport jacket, and a white shirt open at the collar—to sit next to her. She smiled. How many times had she done this very thing, trolling for the kind of sex she liked, or better yet for a rapist?

“Buy you a drink?” he said, offering her a smile of his own.

“Oh,” she said. “You’re nice. What’s your name?”

He held out his hand, the sleeve pulling back to reveal a duly fabulous watch. “Mike. And you?”

Americans. They were so confident. She took his hand and said, “Hi, Mike. I’m Betty.” She smiled and held on to his hand a beat longer than might be expected.

He glanced at her wineglass, which was still about half full. “So, how about that drink, Betty?”

She leaned against his shoulder. “The thing is, Mike, I’ve had three already, and . . .” She stopped, laughing.

He laughed, too. “And?”

She was still pressed against his shoulder. “And . . . oh, man, I’m already pretty wasted.” She laughed again.

“Well, that’s okay. I’m pretty wasted, too.”

“Are you really?”

“Yeah. Closed a big deal tonight. The client took everyone out to celebrate.”

Men, she thought. Always such little peacocks.

“Well, hey,” she said. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks. Thought I’d have one more by myself before turning in, just to savor the moment, you know? But I’m glad I ran into you.”

She looked at him appreciatively. It wasn’t hard; he wasn’t a bad-looking guy. “So, are you staying here?”

He nodded. “I am indeed. Suite with a nice minibar. You?”

“No, I’m at the Sukothai. With my boyfriend and another couple. But he’s being a jerk, and . . . I don’t know. I heard they had a nice bar here.”

“I’m sorry he’s being a jerk. But, you know, if you want to just chill here for a while, my suite is your suite.”

She gave him a long, lascivious smile. “You’re bad.”

He smiled back. “Only if you want me to be.”

She glanced around. “But . . . I don’t think I should be seen going up with you. I mean, I wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea or anything like that.”

“No, no, I totally get it. Why don’t I head up now, and you just follow me in a few minutes?”

She gave him the smile again. “That sounds nice.”

“Yeah. So, Room 217, okay?”

“Got it, 217.”

He glanced at her wineglass. “Can I at least buy you that one?”

“No, no, it’s paid for.” She stretched, giving him a look at her body. “But if you like, you can offer me something from the minibar.”

He stole a not terribly discreet glance at the scenery. “That’s a deal.”

He stood. It would have been better if he’d thought of it himself, but it didn’t look like he was going to, so she said, “Oh, I don’t need a key for the elevator or anything, do I?”

“Oh, right. Good point.” He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, fished out a chip-card key, and handed it to her. “I’ll go to the front desk, show them ID, and tell them I left mine in the room. They’ll give me another. So I’ll see you in a few minutes, okay? Room 217.”

Confident, she thought. And way too trusting.

She smiled. “See you soon.”

She waited ten minutes, then headed out. She flashed her room key to the security guy and took the elevator to the third floor. When the doors opened, she glanced left and right. The corridors in both directions were empty. Okay.

She stepped out of the elevator and turned right. Soft, blue-hued lighting. Recessed doors. The carpet soft and deep. As quiet as a recording studio. She checked the Gossamer. Lone’s phone was less than two hundred feet ahead. She followed the signal until she came to the end of the corridor. There were rooms to either side, and one right in front of her—the protrusion she had seen on the map, with the windows on three sides. But the phone was still fifty feet away. Too far for it to be one of the rooms on this floor.

She looked at the carpet, then the ceiling. Was he below, or above?

Above, she decided. He’d want to be on the fourth floor, the highest, above it all, looking down at people. If she was wrong, she’d just go down to the second floor.