Despite my nod being tentative, it’s apparently good enough for Wyatt. After standing, he helps me to my feet, and then grabs my suitcase. That he lifts it as if it weighs nothing reinforces my earlier impression that he’s strong.
“Come on, there’s a place you can stay where you’ll be safe from him, and still make the shoot tomorrow.”
When he looks through the peephole before opening the door, it gives me reassurance that he’s got my safety in mind.
After exiting my room, we cross the hallway, and he swipes us into a service stairwell. As I take in the unadorned concrete walls and stairs, and the no-nonsense steel balustrade, I balk.
“Where on earth are you taking me?”
Already on his way down the steps, Wyatt stops. “Just trust me, okay? The sooner we get you out of the main building, the safer you’ll be.”
Despite his assurances, I still dither. Caught between heading who knew where with this hottie, or retracing my steps and coming face-to-face with Ralph. It’s a straightforward decision, really.
As I follow Wyatt down the stairs, our footfalls echo around us, loud to my ears, and easy to follow. Then I remember Wyatt having to use a swipe card to access the stairs.
As we descend, I can’t stop from holding my breath every time we pass one of those doors with their skinny glass panels. This and being on edge—make that freaking out—sees me breathless when we eventually run out of stairs.
I’m also glad I was wearing sneakers when Wyatt suggested I move rooms. At least I think I’m staying in a room, because on entering a sub-level carpark, I’m having doubts.
Meanwhile, Wyatt is laser-focused. Alert to any movement in the cavernous space, although it appears we’re alone. The one thing that is clear is his strength. Not once during our trip has he needed to change my suitcase from one hand to the other. I’d have been dragging it by now.
I’ve even relaxed somewhat when we reach the very back of the carpark. Faced with an unforgiving, gunmetal gray door, a close match to the concrete walls, my anxiety reasserts itself.
There’s no lock, only an old-school alpha-numeric punch code. Without bothering to put my suitcase down, Wyatt punches in what proves to be a 12-digit code.
As someone who has trouble remembering the CSV code on their credit card, I’m impressed. I’m less impressed when he opens the door.
THREE
WYATT
So much for thinking I’d never bring a woman to this place. And yet it’s the perfect spot to keep Phoebe safe from that creep. At least until I can have achatwith him.
While the police can’t do anything until he actually hurts her, that won’t hold me back. I’ll do for Phoebe what I was too young to do for my mom.
On opening the metal door, as per my last visit, I’m assailed by scents of the past, of trysts and convert get-togethers.
“Come on in and don’t let first impressions put you off. Once we’re through the tunnel, the place itself is okay.”
“Tunnel?” comes the squeaky response from behind me.
Rather than answer her immediately, I reach inside and flick on the lights. This goes a long way toward making the place less daunting.
To further lighten the mood, I turn and make a wide gesture. “It’s not much, but it is safe.” I follow this up with a wide grin, and one she automatically responds to.
Oh hell, if I thought she was stunning before, it’s nothing to when a bright smile transforms her face. It’s then I realize what it was about her that seemed familiar.
My mom often wore that haunted expression, despite her valiant attempts to act like everything was okay. There’s not a chance I’ll stand by and let that creep ruin Phoebe’s life.
Once she steps through the gap, I reach out and grab the handle on the inside of the metal door. I’m pulling it shut when I see a flash of bright purple on the other side of the carpark. I pause only long enough to see that it’s an old lady before I shut the door with a clang.
Strange that this simple act changes the atmosphere in the tunnel. It’s no longer dark and foreboding, rather it’s intimate, no doubt as the original architects intended.
Despite my calling it a tunnel, there’s nothing subterranean about it. The carpet underfoot is opulent, with the walls and ceilings padded in dark red velvet. The place screams bordello, which is close to its original purpose.
Far from the prying eyes of the Hollywood paparazzi, the old hotel had been a favorite haunt of 1930s’ movers and shakers. Along with people they shouldn’t associate with. Mostly, it had been starlets desperate to give their careers a boost, although there were rumors of mobsters visiting.
As we start toward the villa, Phoebe’s strangely quiet. This has me reaching out and taking her hand. On remembering what’s up next, I give it a reassuring squeeze. Her hand tightening on mine tells she’s seen the first piece of art.
