Page 13 of Under Arthur’s Protection

Instead, I stood motionless and listened.

Nothing. No sound. No movement. No breathing except mine.

Maybe I had left the light on. Maybe housekeeping had been through here. Maybe I’d accidentally bumped the desk, and my laptop was on the floor? Maybe I was overreacting.

I slipped out of my high heels and tiptoed toward the desk. The laptop wasn’t on the floor. The charger wasn’t there, either. I lifted the telephone receiver off its base on the desk, gripping it tight in one hand. With the other, I pulled the cord free of the phone so I had a weapon or something close enough to one.

My pulse was beating so hard I felt it in my neck.

Slowly, I pushed the bathroom door open. Nobody behind it. I yanked the shower curtain back, the rings screeching against the rod, as my whole body braced for someone to be standing there.

Empty.

The closet? I crossed the room, receiver raised, and pulled the closet door open.

Empty. Just my clothes and my suitcase.

I dropped the receiver onto the desk, pulled my phone from my purse, and dialed Lance.

“Gwen?” he answered.

“Um…” Why was I calling him? I should have called the police. But he’d been a SEAL. He’d worked in personal security long before we’d met. Some part of me, deep inside, knew that Lance Collins was a man who would protect me. And give me a hug. I probably needed a hug more than anything.

“Gwen? Are you there?”

I blurted out, “Someone broke into my hotel room.”

“Are you in your room now?”

“I am. There’s no one here. I checked. But⁠—”

“Don’t touch anything. Where are you staying?”

“Brenton Arms.” I let out a slow, shaky breath. “Room 215.”

“Hold on.” His voice grew muffled. He was talking to someone, but I couldn’t make out the words. He was giving directions. To a cab driver? With his GPS? “I’m five minutes away. Stay on the line with me.”

“Okay.” I sank onto the bed and crossed my legs, trying to stop them from shaking.

My notebook lay on the floor beside the bed, face down and splayed open. It had been on the bed when I left. Someone had knocked it off, or picked it up, or moved it while they were going through the room. Or maybe I’d knocked it off while I was getting ready. Maybe?

My chin trembled, and tears pricked at the backs of my eyes.

Don’t cry. Not while you’re on the phone.

The good night was gone. The wine, the laughter, the amazing food and even better company—stolen, right along with my laptop. I was in a city I didn’t live in, in a hotel room someone else had been inside, and my body just kept shaking.

Why was it always my research? Why was that the thing people took from me?

Lionel’s face flashed through my memory. My post-doc mentor had thought he deserved to take my research, too. I was suddenly three years in the past, reading the paper he’d slapped his own name on. He’d stolen everything from me—my position, every ounce of credibility, and every relationship I’d built in my field.

This is not the same thing, Gwen. This is a break-in.

It was only a crime, not a betrayal.

So why did it feel the same?

Because someone was in your bedroom, went through your things, and they took your research.