I frown and let him tug me into the station.
What’s in Santa Monica?
Chapter 8
Brody
Getting there takes fucking ages, but I finally lead Trinity into the lavish lobby of the Cypress Hotel.
I’d never tell Declan, but the place shines even brighter now that he no longer has a stake. Without his influence to ruin things, Maeve really gussied up the establishment.
As we cross the open lobby, our steps echo on the creamy Italian marble. Columns break up the cavernous space, creating multiple seating areas. Potted plants surround the room and provide pops of color.
While I beeline for the reception desk, Trinity drinks in the lobby like we’re on vacation.
The front desk staff, dressed in black collared shirts, know exactly who I am. The majority of them have worked here since before the hostile takeover, back when this hotel still mostly belonged to my father. I stride straight to the VIP check-in counter and wordlessly hold my hand out.
The blond guy behind the computer whips a key card out of somewhere and passes it over with well-manicured hands. “Here you are, sir. Your usual suite.”
With our accommodations secured, I draw Trinity toward the elevator bank. My arms ache from squeezing her delicatepalm tightly enough to prevent escape and from obscuring the handcuffs on our wrists.
Given half a chance, Trinity would have tried to ditch me in the subway crowd or dive through traffic to put four lanes of vehicular chaos between us.
Doing things this way kept her in check.
I’m surprised she didn’t attempt to scream or grab someone’s attention, but I guess maybe she does possess some street smarts under all that thick copper hair.
Still, the past hour has been a bitch and a half. All I want to do is haul her ass upstairs, secure her to the first object I find that’s nailed to the floor, and go for a damn smoke.
I’m disgusting and exhausted. I didn’t want to resort tothis, but I’m out of options.
As much as it pains me to admit, I need my big sister’s help.
I jab my thumb at the call button so hard that I may have bruised the tip, and then we wait in silence thick enough to drown a puppy as tinkling, classy jazz music washes over us from above.
When the elevator arrives, the car’s empty—thank fuck—and Trinity and I slip inside.
For the first time since I handcuffed us, we’re fully and completely alone, with no witnesses. I can’t stop my chest from deflating and releasing the air that’s been trapped in my lungs.
“Aren’t you supposed to buy me a drink before taking me up to your room?”
The tenor of Trinity’s voice trips me up. She sounds cheerful, almost like she’s a stranger in an elevator and not the person I kidnapped and had to save from death more than once already.
Surprise and irritation braid together in my chest, forming a knot that tightens my shoulders all over again. I’m not amused by her little joke. The little brat is scheming. I just don’t know how.
I subject her to the full arctic blast of my glare. A move my father perfected years before I came along.
I don’t expect her reaction.
Her soft eyes widen, and her lush lips part in a little pout. When her tongue darts out and wets them, fire zips down my spine, like someone dropped a molten rock down the back of my shirt. Tension tightens my muscles.
The elevator lurches to a stop, sparing me from doing something stupid.
We glide through the hallway quickly to my usual suite, Room 614, striding the length of this blue-carpeted corridor with brisk steps. In the west facing walls, large windows bathe us in bright afternoon light, offering primetime views of Santa Monica Beach and the pier beyond.
Once the windows stop, only cream-painted walls, tasteful artwork, and warm lighting remain. Eventually, we reach the suite door and enter. Once we’re inside, I unlink our wrists.
Fuckingfinally.
