Fallen Angels 04 - Rapture (17 page)

“Did you …” She cleared her throat. “Is your memory coming back?”

“Bits and pieces.”

“What happened? I mean, if it’s not too personal.”

Thinking back to Jim Heron, he answered with the other man’s words. “I didn’t like who I was.”

“And who were you?”

Dark as night, cold as winter, cruel as a blade. But he kept that to himself. “You’re tenacious, you know that.”

She touched her sternum. “Reporter. It’s part of the job description.”

“I’m learning.”

Matthias closed his eyes again and listened to the rise and fall of the engine. When something warm and soft covered his wrist, he jumped. It was her hand, her elegant hand.

On some level, he couldn’t believe she wanted to touch him.

Swallowing hard, he gave her a squeeze and then retracted from the contact.

They came up to the Marriott about ten minutes later. The hotel was your typical big-city shindig, looming high over trimmed hedges and a shallow lawn, smack in the center of the business district. Entering the porte cochere, they got tangled in a mess of porters
and cars and people with luggage. Then again, it was after three o’clock, which was rush hour for travelers.

“Will you come up?” he heard himself ask, as he wondered who might have followed them—and exactly what kind of relationship he had with Jim Heron.

The word
help
had been tossed around by the guy, except you had to wonder what the motivations were, and it wasn’t smart to take anything for granted.

“I’ll see you get settled—how about that.”

“That’s … good.” He would still have preferred a clean break, but that was no longer possible.

Thanks to Heron.

Although … it was no hardship to have an opportunity to be with her a little longer.

Mels idled past all the rolling brass trolleys and the uniformed guys who were humping suitcases out of trunks, and headed down into the parking garage. Through the Toyota’s vents, the smell of exhaust bubbled into the car interior, and he cracked a window—but how stupid was that. The air they had entered was the source of the bad smell.

They gave her buddy’s car over to a valet, who didn’t look too excited to park the POS, and shuffled through a revolving door into a lower-level lobby that was decorated with bloodred carpeting and gold walls. Unfortunately, and in spite of all the flocking—or maybe because of it—the decorations were more bordello than business-class, a grasp for the luxury of a Four Seasons that didn’t quite make it.

“I’ve always thought this place tried to be like the Waldorf,” Mels said as she punched the button for the elevator. “But this is Caldwell, not Manhattan.”

“Funny, I was just thinking that.”

“’Scuse any bitterness, by the way,” she said. “I’m a transplant.”

“From New York?”

“Well, I was born here, but I belong there. I’m just waiting to go back.”

“What’s keeping you in Caldwell?”

“Everything. Nothing.” She glanced over. “In a weird way, I envy you your amnesia.”

“I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

Yeah, he really didn’t want that for her, and not because he was being a gentleman. Standing beside her, he would have killed to know about her, her family, where she grew up, everything that had brought her to this quiet, fragile moment in time.

“Mels …”

Before he could start asking, a family joined them in the wait for the elevator, the daughters running around, the parents looking like they were stuck in a version of hell that smelled like bubble gum, and was populated by short demons in matching fairy princess outfits that asked for ice cream every three minutes.

Ding!

As the doors opened, he put his hand on the small of Mels’s back and led her into the elevator. He didn’t want to stop touching her, but he dropped his arm, and endured the stares of the children.

Up at the main level’s lobby, the hustle and bustle of the porte cochere had invaded the reception area, a line of people snaking out from a bell captain who stood guard at a set of velvet ropes.

“This is a nightmare,” Matthias muttered dryly.

“It could be worse. You ever heard of Motel 6?”

“Good point.”

When they finally got up to the front desk, he gave his name, and wasn’t sure how it was going to work. Typically, you had to present the credit card you made the reservation with to get a room—

“Oh, yes, Mr. Hault, you’re already checked in.” The woman typed fast on the computer. “I just need your driver’s license, please.”

Matthias glanced around the lobby. How the hell had Heron managed to get here with his credit card and do the deed? Traffic had been bad, but not that bad on the route he and Mels had come in on—unless of course the guy had pulled a helicopter out of his ass.

And about the credit card, had it been Heron’s own? The SOB was supposed to be dead, so you had to wonder how the company was going to send the bill to Pine Grove. Then again, CC numbers were as easy to get as library cards if you knew the right people—and given the look of Heron’s roommate, black market access was no doubt a no-brainer.

“Sir? Your license?”

“Yeah, sorry.”

As he handed the thing over, the receptionist smiled at him professionally, her expression the equivalent of a facial welcome mat. “Okay, here are your room cards. Just take the elevators over there to the sixth floor. You’re in room—”

Not six sixty-six, he thought for no apparent reason.

“—six forty-two. Would you like someone to help you with your bags?”

“No, I’m good. Thanks.”

“Enjoy your stay, sir.”

As he and Mels headed to the other elevators, he scanned the lobby without moving his head. The people striding around were nothing special … just normals dragging their suitcases behind them, or talking on their cell phones, or arguing with their wives/husbands/boyfriends. No one was paying him any attention, and that was why public venues were sometimes the safest places you could be if you were in hiding.

Still, he was glad he had that gun he’d taken from Jim’s.

The wait for their second round with an elevator was longer than the first, and when it arrived, Mels stepped forward as did another couple.

He touched her arm and eased her back. “We’ll take the next one.”

The doors closed as she glanced over at him. “Claustrophobic?”

“Yeah. That’s it.”

This time he let his hand linger a little. Standing behind her, he was much taller than she was, even though she wasn’t short by any stretch—and he wondered what she would feel like against him.

Odd thought to have for so many reasons.

But it led to an undeniable picture in his head—

“Here’s another one,” she said, stepping out of his hold. “And we’ll be alone this time.”

Man, when it came to Mels Carmichael, alone had a nice ring to it, it really did.

The trip up to his room was uneventful—assuming he left out the direction his thoughts had turned. And the other positive news-flash was that six forty-two was not far from an emergency exit. Perfect. Inside, the twenty by twenty stretch of bed-bureau-desk-chair was standard issue, although as the door shut itself behind them, he focused on the king-sized mattress.

Except she wasn’t looking for an affair with a stranger, and he couldn’t perform anyway.

As he walked over and closed the drapes, Mels turned on the bathroom light and leaned inside. “You’ve got a nice tub.”

Without meaning to, his eyes did an up-and-down on her, and yeah, he really liked the way she filled out those slacks of hers.

Shit. He wanted her—bad. Wanted her naked and underneath him, her legs spread wide, her sex taking him inside as he pounded, hard.

Clearing his throat, he said roughly, “Can I buy you dinner? I know it’s a little early, but I’m hungry.”

For her. Screw the food.

Straightening, she glanced at him, and he was glad he had those glasses of hers on. Nothing good could come out of what was no doubt in his eyes. Lust wasn’t appropriate, not in this circumstance—

Hey, check him out. He might be a casual killer, but at least he had some sense of decency.

“Yeah.” She smiled a little. “Sure. I could eat something.”

As Matthias went over to the built-in desk and rooted around for the room service menu, he told himself he was just doing what Jim Heron had suggested: As long as he was with her, he knew she was okay.

Because he might not know his past, but he was sure about one thing.

He would die to protect this smart, kind woman … and her perfect ass.

Mels finally got to finish an order of French fries.

They came with a hamburger that was done to a perfect medium, a sliver of a pickle with enough bite in it to make her sinuses hum, and an ice-cold Coke that was right out of a commercial, frosted glass and everything.

Over in the mahogany console, the television was on WCLD, the local NBC affiliate, the five o’clock news anchor just starting his reports.

“I have to say,” she murmured, picking up the last fry and dragging it through a smudge of ketchup, “these are much better than the ones at the Riverside.”

Over on the bed, Matthias was working on his club sandwich, but she could tell he was looking at her. Even through the sunglasses.

He did that a lot, his eyes staying on her as if he liked the way she moved, even when she was sitting down—and for some reason, that made him even sexier … to the point where she found herself
self wondering what it would be like to have that without any barriers.

The looking, that was.

Without the Ray-Bans, she meant—

Shoot, she was making herself flustered.

“You know, you can take those off,” she said softly. “The sunglasses.”

He froze. And then resumed chewing. After he swallowed, he said, “I’m more comfortable with them on.”

“Okay, suit yourself.”

He hadn’t said a thing about his search for Jim Heron, or how he’d found the address they’d met at. He’d just gotten in Tony’s car and let her drive him here.

She wasn’t about to argue with the change of heart.

“Don’t you have someone waiting at home for you,” he said casually.

“Ah, not really. Not much of a personal life, I’m afraid.”

“I know how that is—” He stopped himself. “Shit, I actually do … know that part.”

She waited for him to finish. Instead, he just sat there staring at his plate of half-eaten food like the thing was a TV set.

“Tell me,” she said.

He shrugged. “No wife. No kids. No one permanent. Which is why nobody’s looking for me—well, at least not in a family sense.”

“I’m sorry. What about your parents?”

Matthias winced and then seemed to catch himself.

“No?” she prompted.

“I have nothing on them.”

In the silence that followed, she made work out of picking up her tray and putting it out in the hall. Back inside, she knew that it was time to go.

Probably time to let go, too.

Jim Heron was dead—at least according to the not-so-distant archives of the
CCJ
, if not that damn headstone-on-a-grave routine. She’d found his home address through one of the sources that had commented on the story—but of course, he hadn’t been there—

A headache cramped her temples, but the pain didn’t last as she switched her thinking to Matthias Hault. He was safe here, and recovering well, and when it came to his memory, he was the only one who could get to the bottom of that. She’d done what she was able to in terms of getting him the basics; other than that … she could pay up if he sued her, although it didn’t look like that was in the cards.

Sure, there was something strange about that house that was supposedly “his,” and some things that didn’t add up, like who exactly had been at that garage, but if she wasn’t going to put it in the paper, those particulars really weren’t her business.

Mels approached the bed and sat on the foot of it. As he put his tray aside and looked at her, that shaft went through her again.