The doors closed behind him. Those dark eyes narrowed, that same look she'd seen the day before at the tavern on the drive from Edinburgh. He followed her out of the elevator.
“Give me your key card.”
“It's late,” she replied. Then, “If you think...” That dark gaze shifted. She could have sworn she saw amusement there.
“The thought is interesting,” he had to admit.
It was even a little intriguing, then dismissed it. Too much work with a woman like her—complicated, cool on the outside, too many layers on the inside, analyzing everything, all business, emotions carefully hidden, and then there was the resentment.
He knew where it came from. She'd lost her brother in Afghanistan. Obviously they'd been close, but a lot of people had lost someone over in the sand box. He'd seen that at the airport and then again out at the Tavern. She had a wall around her emotions. He leaned in close.
“You're not my type.” Then he repeated, “Give me the key card.”
She thrust it into his hand at the same time she took a step back.
He inserted it into the lock on the door, and pushed it open. He swept a hand along the inside wall, and lights came on in the living area.
“Stay here.”
That dark gaze stopped her when she would have pushed past him. More than a little irritated, she waited just outside the entrance to the room.
It was automatic, the visual sweep, then back to the bedroom door. He crossed the room, instinctively moving along the edge of the room, then pushed open the door to the bedroom, another light switch, and he was moving through to the adjoining bathroom. When he returned, she was standing in the middle of the living room.
“They went that way,” she announced, jabbing the air with a thumb in the direction of the hallway. “You just missed them.”
Smart ass, he thought.
“Then you're safe,” he commented, dropping the key card on the entry table. “Unless they decide to come back. In that case you can just explain that you're from New York. That ought to scare them off.”
She could have sworn she saw a faint smile, or smirk might be more accurate.
“Thank you so much.”
“You're tired, get some sleep. And be sure to lock the door.”
“I think I can handle that,” she replied.
When he had gone, Kris poured herself a glass of Scotch from the courtesy bar. She skipped the ice and the usual splash of water as she pulled her cell phone from her shoulder bag. Cell coverage had been sketchy over the past few days, but she had a strong connection on the hotel wi-fi. David Ellison answered on the third ring.
She took a long drink of the single malt, the smoothness of it reminding her of other trips, sitting before a fire in the heat from the stone hearth at the Tavern, Cate sitting back in her chair, feet propped at the edge of a scarred table.
The call lasted over an hour. She explained everything that had happened over the past two days, including the break-in at the Tavern, and the fact that Anne was handling everything through Cate's solicitors and the insurance agency. And then the inevitable question.
“What about the manuscript?”
There was a long pause afterward. She heard the fatigue in his voice, along with the frustration, but she also knew that his thoughts were already past the fact that she hadn't been able to find the finished manuscript.
“There's nothing more you can do there,” David finally said. “I need you here. Get back as soon as possible.”
Back to New York, she thought frowning as the call ended. Meetings, the inevitable legal wrangling with Cate's attorneys, re-negotiation, new terms, and the inevitable question about who was to be brought in for a collaboration. Then more meetings.
They needed an author with good credentials, someone with a similar style who could take what they had in that partial draft and seamlessly work through the back half of the book. A couple of names came to mind. One was already one of their authors. The other had published with Ellison before moving on two years earlier—the better of the two, but probably harder to get, if he was even interested.
It was a tall order, stepping in to ghost-write a New York Times best-selling author. And then there was the whole issue of that author's own work and publishing obligations under contract. More complications, more delays, and not even the certainty that they could pull off a collaboration, she thought, her eyes narrowing as she came off the bed and crossed the room to the dressing table.
She was tired. The whisky had taken away the chill in her stomach. A hot shower was next, as she pulled the top drawer open, and then hesitated as she reached for the silk night shirt.
She had been in a hurry that morning and hadn't put everything away before leaving to meet with Innis at the café. But there was something about the way everything in the drawer had been pushed aside, as if someone was looking for something. She spun around, scanning the room for anything else that seemed out of place—drawers, the closet, her bag.
