Page 51 of Tide of Treason
“As delightful as amateur pirate smut is, I have an early morning.”
Marilyn stirred her drink with a silver spoon. “Such a shame. I was going to offer you my famous baked ziti recipe. A man who takes care of a little girl like that must have a terribly lonely kitchen.”
Kayla blinked, her eyes flicking to mine, then right through me.
I stood. “Keep your ziti.”
Marilyn’s lashes fluttered. “But sweetheart, I’ve already sent it.”
I muttered a curse, grabbed my jacket, and stalked out. I tried to leave Kayla behind, but fate and hotel layout conspired against me. We fell into step side by side down the corridor, our arms almost touching, both pretending not to notice how tight she carried herself.
My gaze snagged on a delicate gold keycard peeking out of her clutch.
An insidious thought uncoiled in my skull, slithering through the cracks of my understanding.
The high-end real estate agent who hadn’t so much as blinked at my name on the paperwork. The absurdly smooth purchase, no questions, no red tape, no bullshit. The way thesecurity detail here felt less like a formality and more like a personal army. And her. Always lingering, always watching, always a little too comfortable in a place she supposedly had no attachment to.
The part of me that had spent a decade memorizing the difference between a decoy and a detonator flared to life, ran its tongue across the teeth of logic, and bit down.
I slowed my steps.
“You knew,” I said, voice low.
Her lashes flickered. “Knew what?”
“That this was your hotel.”
“If it makes you feel any better, it wasn’t intentional.”
I clicked my tongue. “That’s funny.”
“What is?”
“The way you lie.”
Her gaze narrowed. “I don’t lie, darling. I just don’t waste my breath telling you things you should have figured out on your own.”
“I don’t lie.” I mocked her tone. “I just choose to omit important details, to manipulate information in a way that suits my agenda without technically telling a falsehood. You don’t lie, you just bend the truth into a pretty fucking pretzel and shove it down my throat.”
Kayla’s lips tipped up. “If it fits.”
I was silent for a long moment, trying to pinpoint the exact point in my life when I’d been given a one way ticket to batshitville. I broke the stalemate by changing the subject.
“How’d you get this place zoned?”
“The correct permits were acquired.”
“What’d you have to bribe?”
“The appropriate department heads.”
“Which ones agreed to take a cut?”
“The ones with gambling debts.”
“Right,” I muttered. “Well, your hospitality has been outstanding, and you’ve truly made me want to keep staying here, but my lease is going to need to be terminated.”
She shook her head, a cynical gleam in her eye. “I’m afraid you signed a contract, and you can’t back out just because you don’t approve of the owner.”
