She clicked on the text. Her pulse jumped.
She read aloud.
“ ‘I was his girlfriend, the one he named in the video that was postedonline by theCurtain. We need to talk. The Ruins Club. Tonight. Midnight. Come alone.’ ”
“Now that,” Owen said, his voice dangerously soft, “is interesting.”
“How should I respond?”
“You sure as green hell will not be leaving the Amber Palace to meet someone at a nightclub in the middle of the night.”
“You said we needed information. She must have some.”
“Information that she wants to sell, assuming she’s who she claims to be, which is a very big question. But we’re the buyers. That gives us leverage. We choose the location. Tell her you’ll meet her here at the Amber Palace. The mezzanine coffee shop at eleven o’clock this morning.”
“She won’t go for it. That coffee shop overlooks the lobby. It’s a very public space. She’s obviously nervous about being seen with me.”
“Tell her that you can’t leave the Amber Palace and the coffee shop is the only option. If she is for real, she’ll agree.”
“And if she doesn’t agree?”
“Trust me, she’ll go for it.”
“You sound like you’ve done this kind of negotiating before.”
“Yes,” he said.
He did not offer any more context.
Focus, Alice.
She went back to her phone and made her counteroffer. She held her breath, certain that whoever had sent the text message was scared—maybe too frightened to meet in public.
It seemed like a very long time before she got a response. When it came it was short.
“ ‘Meet you at the coffee shop. Eleven. Look for blond hair and sunglasses. I will be carrying a copy of theCurtain.’ ”
“That description will probably cover half of the women in the coffee shop,” Owen said.
“It’s not like we gave her much time to plan.” She hesitated. “This feels a little desperate.”
“Everyone involved in this thing is probably desperate by now.”
“Last night you were sure that Kelbrook’s fixer would be the first one to make contact.”
“I said Twitchell would be the first one to contactme. You got a surprise text from a player who wasn’t even on the board until the video went wide. That changes the dynamic.”
“How?” she asked.
“We’ll find out if the mystery woman shows up at eleven.”
A series of crisp knocks sounded on the door.
“Room service.”
Owen started across the suite. She suddenly remembered that she was in bed, dressed in a pair of pajamas. Alarmed, she jumped to her feet and fled toward the sanctuary of the bathroom.
Halfway across the room she noticed that the sofa bed Owen had used was still open. The rumpled sheets and blanket provided visual evidence that the Deranged Bride and her new husband had slept in separate beds.
