Midnight Betrayal (Midnight #3)(64)
He released her wrists and backed off of her. Louisa didn’t move for a few seconds. Conor reached a hand toward her face. He wanted to touch her, to comfort her, to help heal whatever was broken inside of her. But how?
She bolted upright. Standing next to the desk, she straightened her sweater and smoothed her hair, futilely trying to put her appearance in order when everything was in wild disarray.
“I’m sorry.” She walked out of the office and went into the ladies’ room. Water rushed through the pipes while he paced the worn oak floorboards just outside.
Five minutes later, she emerged. Her head was high, her face pale, her eyes wet and shining with unshed tears. “I have to go.”
“Please don’t.” Panic filled his chest at the thought of her tossing him aside.
She snatched her purse from the floor where she’d dropped it. “It’s all my fault. I should have known better. I should have known I couldn’t have it all. I’m sorry if I hurt you, but what I feel for you is too much. I can’t handle it.”
Was she talking to him or herself? With a stiff, mechanical gait, she strode toward the door.
“Wait!” He grabbed his shirt off the floor and pulled it over his head as he followed her. “Let me take you home.”
“I called for a car. It should be here in a minute.” She bolted through the door, her rejection leaving him stranded.
The warmth inside his gut went cold. His skin went clammy, sweating like a glass of icy liquid on a hot day.
What just happened? Conor shook off his stunned paralysis and followed her out the back door. His booted feet hit the pavement just as she disappeared out of the alley. He jogged to the corner, emerging just as the hotel’s car pulled up to the curb. Louisa didn’t wait for the driver to open the door. She got in, and the car sped away.
Conor ran back to the bar and snatched his cell phone from the desk. He had to see Louisa. If she wanted to end their relationship, there wasn’t anything he could do to prevent it. He couldn’t make her talk to him. But he wasn’t going to let it end like this. After all they’d been through, she owed him an explanation.
He couldn’t let her run away from what had just happened between them. If he did, he’d have to live with being tossed away like garbage one more time. Barbara had done a number on him, and what he’d felt for her seemed like nothing compared to the staggering connection he’d just shared with Louisa.
He couldn’t lose her. If she rejected him, it would take his heart down like a sweep to the ankles, and discarding the precious, fragile bond they’d formed felt like a sacrilege.
He climbed into his car and started the engine. Conor stopped for a few red lights, but Broad Street was quiet on a Sunday night. Ten minutes and three turns later, he pulled up to the Rittenhouse Hotel and tossed his keys to the valet.
Fear roiled in his gut as the elevator carried him toward Louisa’s floor and the coming confrontation.
24
Double-crossing should be an Olympic sport. I’d thought murder took planning and intelligence, but turning the tables on criminals was twice the work. The guilty were naturally wary, constantly suspecting others of doing the illegal and immoral deeds blooming to life in their own minds.
Guilty is as guilty does.
I watched Isa cross the library parking lot. The bitch. She wore her backpack by one strap. The glow from her cell phone illumined her features with an odd uplight, adding sinister shadows to her pretty face. I’d parked my nondescript sedan ten feet away from her car. Just out of range of the overhead light. I adjusted my hood, got out of the car, and slumped my way toward the entrance. I tilted my chin down. The university hoodie was excellent camouflage. At least 25 percent of the male student population was wearing a logo hoodie at any given time. Not that I had to worry about being seen. Not by Isa. Her head was down, and she was so entranced by her phone screen she saw nothing of her surroundings.
I slowed my steps. The library parking lot was backed by a small stand of trees, and the air smelled of a combination of molding leaves and exhaust. Over it all, the scent of burnt grease wafted from the McDonald’s across the street. I wanted to take her near my car. There was no sense creating extra work for myself, and right now the lot was empty. Who knew how long it would stay that way? Plus, if I went too much closer to the building, the security camera mounted high on the light post would catch my next move. Tonight’s venture was my riskiest feat yet. If this were a chess game, I would be putting my queen in jeopardy. Timing was everything. I tuned in to the faint sound of rumbling traffic. The only close-sounding noise was the clear, incessant chirp of a cricket in a nearby shrub.
It was time.
Shoving both hands in my kangaroo pocket, I pushed the button on the disposable camera.
We passed within a few feet of one another. Whipping out the camera, I struck. The two protruding wires zapped her in the ass. She went down fast, a confused jumble of limbs flopping to the ground. Her phone skittered across the pavement. I grabbed her ankles and dragged her across the blacktop to the rear of my car. Getting her into the trunk was a bit trickier. She was skinny, but 100 percent deadweight. The alternating twitching and stiffness in her limbs didn’t make the job any easier. I hoisted her shoulders up and over. The sedan’s trunk had a low clearance, something I’d checked before I’d stolen it. Her legs followed. A quick glance around ensured me that I hadn’t been seen. I took an extra ten seconds to zip-tie her hands and feet, and slap a piece of duct tape over her mouth. The trunk closed with a solid thud. The electrical shock should keep her quiet for the next ten minutes, but it was nice to know I didn’t have to worry about releasing a banshee when I opened the trunk. I tossed her backpack in the back seat, then retrieved her phone, removed the battery, and put it in my pocket.