Hotel Indigo (7 page)

Booth stabs a finger down on his desk like he’s snuffing out a cigarette, then points up and to the right — presumably in the general direction of the esteemed Miss Fucking White’s goddess suite.

“A guest needs a massage. You’re on deck, and you owe me on this.”
 

“Fine.” I grunt my way out of Booth’s chair. “Send her to my cabana.”
 

Booth shakes his head. “This is
Caspian White’s sister.
You’ll be going to her, in her room.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

L
UCY

T
HERE
’
S
A
KNOCK
ON
MY
door just five minutes later. I’m totally unprepared. I feel gross from my drive. I’m finally settling in now that my phone has been neutered, but I’ve been unable to summon the strength to rise from the plush couch after calling down to the front desk.
 

I figured I had time, that I could languish like a tree sloth for a few minutes, then drag my sorry ass to one of the two palace bathrooms, pee (because I’ve been holding it in as an alternative to the loathsome act of moving while I’m otherwise relaxed), and then freshen up.
 

I know the eager-to-please Kendall said, “Right away, Miss White,” but I figured that’s the sort of thing they say around here while kissing ass. Ten minutes to get myself together seemed like a given.
 

But then I relax, because I remember that when Kendall showed me the facility map downstairs, she put a manicured nail on some little circles drawn around the pool and explained that they were the massage cabanas. I need to go down, and that means I’m waiting for a notice to do so. This knock is either something unrelated or it’s Kendall, come to tell me in person when and where to go for my much-needed massage.

I go to the door and peek through the tiny hole, but I can’t see properly. There’s either something in the way or the front of the lens is messed up.
 

I open the door, my face set to receive Kendall. Now that I’m feeling better and more relaxed, I plan on telling her to settle down. I love great service, but I don’t need my hand held. The woman’s acting like I’ll have her fired if she looks at me the wrong way. But I’m easy. I’m definitely not my brother.
 

I open the door, but don’t see Kendall.
 

Instead, I’m looking at the giant, dark-haired man from downstairs. The one who kept shouting in his deep, booming voice. The one whose mere presence made me uneasy. The man who, I now realize, was part of the reason I was so high-strung when settling into my room. He’s half of why I need to relax in the first place.
 

I want to say,
Why are you here?
but I’m coherent enough to know that’s not remotely appropriate. I haven’t talked to the man or even exchanged a proper look with him, so speaking to him as if I’ve ordered him to stay away (and he’s therefore violating some request by being here now) will only make me look crazy.
 

“Um, yes?” I manage to say.
 

There’s a split second between my almost-question and the moment he speaks. Yet that fractional moment stretches into eternity. His eyes are pits of coal. I don’t feel like he’s looking
at
me so much as
through
me. Or
into
me — through my clothes and skin into the core of my being. I feel assessed, weighed, judged. His lips form a cruel little line — and looking at them, I’m sure he hates me, even without knowing me at all. Somehow this man is
against
me.
 

That’s when it hits me: he’s here because I saw his outburst. I’m a witness. I saw something he didn’t want me to see. And now that he has me alone, and I’ve foolishly opened the door without so much as a chain between us, he’s going to knock me back, pin me down, and perch above me like a beast of prey while I fight for breath.
 

Then he’ll end me, and I’ll be helpless to stop him.
 

“You requested a massage, Miss White?” He says it politely enough, but I feel certain that satire lurks behind his words — just the slightest lift of one side of his lips.
 

Miss White,
he said. Like it’s
Princess White
to him, and he’s not buying my fancy-girl posturing at all.
 

“Oh.”
 

“I’m Marco.” He doesn’t offer his hand.

“Nice to meet you, Marco,” I say without meaning it. I was hoping to avoid this man for the whole week, at all costs. “Is the masseuse ready? I know where the cabanas are. I’ll be down in five minutes.” Then I decide that’s not fast enough. He’s said all of six words to me, but those hard eyes have uttered hundreds more. I correct myself, to appease him:
“Two
minutes. I just need to …”
 

I trail off when he turns away from me mid-sentence, as if I’m boring him.

“So, two minutes,” I repeat, then start to close the door. He puts a hand out to stop it without looking over. This is all pedestrian to him, and he’s unable to hide the fact that I’m being an idiot and doing this —
whatever it is
— all wrong.
 

His other hand takes something big that I didn’t notice from out in the hallway. His door hand pushes a little and I get a look that makes me raise my hands and take a step back, not wanting to offend this man by being in his way. He slides the large object inside my room, and I understand.
 

It’s a massage table.
 

They’ve sent this big, strong lug up ahead of the masseuse, to do the grunt work of setting up for her. I guess I’m having my massage in my room instead of down by the pool.

“Oh. I’m sorry.” Apologizing is a stupid reaction. I try to laugh it off, but that comes off terribly, too. Why am I being such an idiot? I’m intimidated, I’m sorry, I’m a ditzy little schoolgirl apologizing for no reason.
 

The giant endures it, doing his job of delivering the massage supplies and ignoring the yammering dumbass. He sets the table down and reaches into the hallway for a smaller parcel — a small caddy with a handle in the middle, full of oils and implements.
 

“I didn’t realize the masseuse would be coming to me.”
 

“You’re right; this isn’t how it normally works.”
 

“Oh.” I get the feeling I’m supposed to say more. “Thanks.”
 

He looks up at me without raising his head. I get a flash of dark eyes rolling up from his downturned face, but no more.

I try to peek down the hallway, looking for my masseuse behind him. But even though I’m positive he sees me looking, Marco closes the door to cut off my view. Now he’s in my room. I don’t like that the door is closed with him this near me.
 

“So you’ll just set up,” I say. It’s not a question. Why is my heart beating so fast? I’m supposed to be relaxing.
 

“That’s right.”
 

“Anywhere is fine,” I say, even though he’s already chosen a spot uncomfortably close to my open suitcase. All my bras and underwear are in there, at the top, as if on display.
 

I get another look. I’m probably imagining things, but I’d swear that look says,
Goddamn right it’s fine. Just try and get me to move it, you bitch.
 

I look away and blink. I’m being so irrational. What’s with me today? It must be my mother. With my phone out of commission, I’m probably subconsciously certain she’s trying to call, or feeling guilty for all this alone time. Caspian’s business is probably falling apart while I’m out of town and he can’t reach me. Mom probably slipped and fell while holding her phone, but can’t call to tell me.
 

Marco locks the table’s legs into place, watching me through all of my neurotic second-guessing, obviously annoyed.

With the table set up, he reaches for a set of sheets to cover it, finding them in a small closet near my suitcase full of intimates. They’re hotel sheets in a hotel closet, but the way he just barges in bothers me. He’s acting like he owns this place, but right now it’s mine, even if I didn’t pay for the upgrade. He’s in my stuff, knows I feel that way, and doesn’t remotely care.

Once the sheets are in place, he just sort of looks at me, then reaches into the closet and hands me a robe. It’s placed in my hands, but with so much force that it’s more like shoving than handing.
 

“Um, thanks,” I say.
 

“Anytime.”

Marco stands in front of me with his arms crossed, making his torso look so much larger and more defined. His white tee looks painted on. I can see his abs through his shirt; either it’s that tight or his abs are that pronounced. His forearms have a thousand striations. He has hands the size of dinner plates.

“Any time,” he repeats, now with space between the syllables. He says it like I have a disability, speaking slow so I’ll understand.
 

And I realize he’s not saying “anytime,” as in, a response to my halfhearted thank-you. He’s telling me that any time I get my slow ass around to doing X, he can get to the business of doing Y. I don’t understand what X and Y are yet, but he’s clearly waiting on me, growing increasingly impatient by the second.
 

A tip.
He must want a tip.
 

I go for my wallet and start rummaging.
 

“You did want a massage, right?” His tone says either answer is fine.

“Yes?”

“Well.”
 

We stare at each other for a long time.
 

“Are you going to get it fully clothed?”
 

“I figured I’d change when the masseuse came up.”
 

Arms still crossed. “I am the masseuse.”

“But … I asked for a woman.”
 

“I was the only one available.”
 

I’m torn. I know it’s perfectly reasonable to insist on a woman. Even if it was
un
reasonable, I’d be well within my rights to raise a fuss. This is a posh spa, and they must be used to rich assholes throwing their weight around and demanding stupid things like peeled grapes. But for some reason, I can’t form words.
 

Marco still has his arms crossed, his foot practically tapping, stare on me. And I get this feeling like I’m facing a challenge with no way to win. Either I let him massage me, which he clearly doesn’t even want to do, or I tell him to go away and somehow fail my equality test as a human.
 

But that’s not fair. I asked for a woman. It’s not like I demanded a white masseuse and they sent me a black one. This is about gender. This is about a perfectly legitimate preference about the sex of the person who will be laying their hands all over my body for the next hour.
 

“Um, okay.”
 

“So?”
 

It’s hard to think with him staring right at me. So my fingers go to the top button of my blouse and I begin to unbutton it. I feel the cool kiss of air on my bare upper chest. I see his eyes on me as I begin to undress.
 

“Most people change in the bathroom.” Marco gestures down at the robe I’ve just set on the couch arm.

My fingers fall from my blouse as if the buttons are burning. Now I feel embarrassed on top of everything else. Was I really just going to strip down in front of him, as if I were giving him some sort of a peep show? The thought causes my body to betray me. My breasts feel tight and covered in gooseflesh. My sensitive nipples have hardened.
 

I pick up the robe, and walk toward the bathroom without a word. Before closing the door, I glance back at Marco. He’s still standing there, broad as a billboard, arms crossed over his thick chest, tan skin dark against the white tee. My suitcase is beside him, still open. I’m suddenly sure that while I’m in the bathroom, he’s going to rifle through all my unmentionables.
 

I shut the door, my heart hammering as if I’ve just escaped a murder.
 

There’s a house phone by the tub. I pick it up and, without thinking, I dial the front desk.