Page 14 of The Prince of Hidden Shadows
With the hotel’s umbrella and my coat, I powered through the thirty-minute walk without getting soaked. Once the job was done, I waited out the next downpour in the museum café.
Maybe it’s my Parisian heritage, but I’ve never owned a car. I have a license, yet I prefer walking or riding the subway rather than renting a vehicle.
I come prepared. And no, I’m not made of sugar.
My first visit was a success.
Room service can wait. My pulse still runs too high to eat. A strong drink sounds better.
My heart flip-flops inside my chest as I replay the scene for the umpteenth time. The painting. The theft. The prize. I’m itching to put my skills to work.
Despite the storm, the museum wasn’t as busy as I had assumed. My basic outfit enabled me to roam the premises unnoticed. My photographic memory registered every single camera, every missing detail in the blueprints I’d unearthed.
“You’ve got this,” I grunt to myself between clenched teeth. Not that I need convincing. Of course, I got this. I always do.
That’s why I don’t send regular updates to my client. The contract doesn’t require reports on my whereabouts and progress.
Runaway fairytale princes or not, I have yet again to hand it to Stanislas Volkoff—he picked a solid hotel. The staff is professional and attentive, and the hotel perks don’t disappoint. I’ve used the indoor pool. While relaxing there, I spotted the handsome, dark-skinned Asian man skimming the water—a welcome distraction, though I know better than to mess with the staff.
Beyond that, the location’s perfect, and they put me in this beautiful wing.
With that in mind, I grin and pry my eyes open. Slipping out of my coat, I shrug, shifting gears. I glance down. My boots are drenched. I click my tongue in annoyance.
“Good evening, sir.” A deep whisper greets me, wrenching me from my thoughts.
Behind the wrought-iron gate, there he stands—the guy I noticed by the reception the other day.
Not a guest, then.
My heart skips a beat when his light-honey gaze bores into mine through the wrought-iron gate. My throat turns even drier.
Holy shit!
People say that eyes are the mirror of the soul. His are impenetrable. I don’t care to decode whatever’s hidden there… It’s just that, if anything, my job trained me to read others effortlessly. This peculiar guy is a blank page.
Nah, strike that. He radiates a raw intensity that scrapes at my nerves. My chest tightens. I shut my eyes for a beat to collect my thoughts.
My uncooperative dick betrays me with a twitch as I take him in, slow and deliberate. Too much presence in too little space. I drop my gaze, relieved the physical barrier stands between us.
“Hello…” The word catches, scratching its way out of my throat. My lips part, nothing follows.
He swings the gate open. His mouth moves, but the sound doesn’t land. I shift my weight, trying to root myself. Before stepping inside, I swallow hard, then pull in a breath that does nothing.
As I pass him, the air thickens—humid, charged with something I can’t name. I brush close. Did I just do that on purpose? Then, I retreat to the back, spine snapping upright.
I keep my eyes off him, fixing on the ceiling light instead. It flickers, skittering shadows over the walls, warping the room’s edges.
Have I stepped out of time? He’s no echo of the previous elevator operator. No echo of anyone I’ve ever seen—and not just in form.
His gaze is hypnotic, his voice addictive—and everything about him is…
How can I put it? Larger than life?
His height; he’s way taller than my 6’1’’. His frame; he’s sturdier than a football player. His outfit; he’s dressed like it’s late spring rather than March. A white linen suit paired with a cement grey dress shirt, seriously? I guess uniforms for old-fashioned elevator operators are overrated. Why wear linen, and white at that? And yet, it oddly enhances his olive skin tone and his well-defined dark curls…
Who cares what he’s wearing? The man belongs on a magazine cover.
Distraught by his overall appearance, I flush and will myself to put on my poker face, to no avail. Taking deep breaths, I now focus my attention on his powerful hands. Heat flares, and I’m annoyed that even the dimly lit interior surely does nothing to hide my beet-red cheeks.
