Revelation (20 page)

T
WENTY-FIVE

My eyelids flutter. The room is dim, door closed. But it isn't my door. Or my room. This isn't my room and these aren't my things. I bolt upright, panicked, dress rustling beneath me.

The gun.

I feel for my thigh holster. Still there. The cool steel. Still there. I exhale relief. My mouth is parched, dry. It tastes like medicine.

How did I get here?

My mind spins, searching, grasping for the last thing I remember clearly. We were dancing. I left the ballroom—made it to the hallway before Luke stopped me. I must have fainted. After that. . . .

Entire hours are unaccounted for.

What the hell?
Anything
could have happened!

I slide off the bed, wavering as I stand, unsteady on my feet.

In the bathroom, I fill a glass with water. I look as wretched as I feel. Mascara-streaked cheeks. Hair spiked from sleep. The dress, which seemed a brilliant idea yesterday, reveals entirely too much today. I grab a towel from the rack, hiding my chest and shoulders.

Beyond the bedroom door is a large common room and dining area. A full kitchen. Stairs leading to another floor. An entire wall of windows parading dramatic views of city skyline. Vases of fresh flowers. Potted trees. A large, stone statue—a primitive kind of design carved into granite. I tip my head toward the ceiling. It's massive—like something out of a magazine.

"Good morning," a voice calls. "You must be Genesis." The man is on the shorter side. Bald, but young—as if he shaves his head on purpose. Not a wrinkle in sight. He clears his throat, continuing. "Mr.
Castellani
called room service. It just arrived, so your food should still be warm." He walks to the dining room table, removes stainless steel lids from several plates.

The penthouse.

I'm in the penthouse.

I sit down at the head of the table, study the view—beyond the buildings—hazy forests tucked into the distance. And somewhere, an ocean.

"He also wanted me to apologize for leaving early. He has meetings all day."

"Who are you?" I ask, reaching for a fork.

"Charles. I'm Mr.
Castellani's
personal assistant."

"What does a personal assistant do?"

He laughs. "Anything Mr.
Castellani
doesn't want to do himself."

I eye him carefully. It's impossible to tell. . . . They look so much like us.

Does he know what Luke
Castellani
is?

Is he one of them?

I spear a bite of scrambled eggs. They're lukewarm—not nearly as good as Stu's, and my mouth twists with disapproval.

"If I may be so bold, Ms. Fleming, may I ask: what interest do you have with Mr.
Castellani
?"

"You may be so bold," I reply, chewing. "But I'd imagine it's the same interest every woman in this hotel has." Charles's face flushes pink. I attempt another taste of eggs. "Now, if I may be so bold: what interest does Luke have with me?"

He smiles, intrigued by the game. "You're on a first name basis, then."

"Your words, not mine."

"I apologize. I don't discuss matters of this nature with Luke. How he spends his free time is none of my concern."

I stifle a laugh at this indirect blow, this strike against my character, at the impression that I am just one of many. "I suppose I'm not the first girl who's woken up in Mr.
Castellani's
penthouse surprised to find him missing."

"No," he confirms. A sly smile. "You are, however, the first to awaken in his
guest
bedroom."

"At least we know where I stand," I tease, ignoring the sting of what might be jealousy stabbing my skin. I toss my napkin aside, refusing another bite. "Look, Charlie, I'm not a big breakfast person. Please tell Luke thank you for me, but I should get back to my room." The chair slides behind me as I rise.

"Of course. I'll get your things." He bends at the waist, a bow, and disappears.

I use the chance moment alone to take a quick inventory, but everything—from magazines tossed haphazardly on end tables to pictures hanging on walls—appears hotel-issued. No definitive evidence of Lucien
Castellani
anywhere.

"Here you are. Your purse. Your inhaler. And. . . ." He fumbles around his coat pocket, removes a plastic card. "Your new room key."

"Where did you get this?" I ask, taking the inhaler from him, examining it.

"A gentleman brought it over last night. One of the hotel workers. They found it in your purse when you left the ballroom."

"I didn't take my inhaler," I mutter. "Or a purse." But they're mine.

How did my inhaler
and
my purse end up at last night's event? They were locked in my room.

"Wait!" I call to Charles, who's already approaching the elevator. "Did you say
new
room key?"

Two floors from the penthouse, I follow him down a long, quiet hallway, barefoot, dress swishing about my legs. "Mr.
Castellani
was very concerned last night. He insisted your things be moved to one of the suites." He stops in front of a door, slips the card into the lock. When the light turns green, we enter.

"Holy shit," I whisper.

It's beautiful, huge, like my current room on steroids, one of the most amazing apartments I've ever seen—penthouse aside. Canopy bed, crystal chandeliers, white paneling. And every available surface covered in vases of sunflowers. A hundred or more stems of the happy, yellow blossom.

"Looks like he insisted on flowers, too."

When I glance at Charles, his eyes are wide, face etched with what might be concern. "So it would seem."

*          *          *

Dinner?

I toss the card on the bed, run fingers through my hair. A hot bath would be perfect right now. A hot bath and a toothbrush and . . .

"I just want to say: last night? That was
beautiful
. I mean,
look
at this!"

I jump, heart racing, lungs paralyzed. It will never matter the number of times someone leaps from the shadows and enters my world. I will never be prepared for it, will never get used to it. My pulse will always spike. Hairs on my neck will always lift. It will always piss me off to the nth degree—this reminder—what little control I have. "What are you doing here?"

Viola moves to one of the vases, breathes deeply, inhaling the scent of sunflower petals. "Checking on you. That was quite a show you put on. You actually had me worried."

"It wasn't a show."

"He's a sucker for damsels in distress, you know. Played right into the whole pathetic charade. The bastard."

"It wasn't me. And it wasn't a charade. He was—he was doing something to me. Screwing with my head. My emotions.
Something
. And I know you were there, Viola. Did you have
anything
to do with why I couldn't breathe?"

A giddy laugh. "You give me too much credit, sometimes."

"Then why were my purse and inhaler there?" I demand to know, temper sparking. "I didn't take a purse last night. It's like someone
knew
I would need it."

"It's irrelevant. What matters is that Lucien
Castellani
put you up in a suite, no questions asked. And you've only known him what, three days? I have to admit, this is happening much faster than I expected."

"You're spending time in the other realm, too, right?" I ask, ignoring her. "Am I guarded?"

"No. Not that I've seen."

"Then
who
brought Luke my purse and inhaler?"

"I didn't see anyone bring him anything."

I rationalize, retracing what I remember of the night in my head. "I didn't take my purse downstairs, and my inhaler stays in my makeup bag.
Someone
had to bring it to him. Someone who had access to my room."

"No one is guarding you. The Council made sure of that." She collapses on the king-size bed, red hair fanning around her.

"Does Luke . . . can he see that? That I'm not guarded?"

"Who
cares
? All you have to do is get rid of him and Seth is yours."

"You said he was really powerful," I remind her. "Is that why he's interested in me? I'm like a . . . a free agent or something? Fair game?"

She props herself up with her elbows, a defiant glare twisting her features. "Lucien doesn't pay attention to just anyone. If he wants you, no
Guardian
can stop him, trust me."

"What do you mean, if he
wants
me?"

Her eyes roll in exasperation. "Look around you, Genesis."

I take in the room. The suite. The flowers. Everything he's given me so far. "It doesn't matter. It's not like that. I love Seth. Luke
Castellani
will never change that."

She rises, eyes narrowing. "He
can
change that. And if he wants you badly enough, he
will
."

"You can't
make
someone fall in love with someone else. I have free will."

She moves toward me, inching closer until she's almost standing on top of me, hovering, looking down on me—though we're practically the same height. "You don't understand," she says. "Your free will means
nothing
. You'll forget everything you thought you knew. He'll tempt you until you can't say no. Until you choose him. The dinners? The room? The flowers? He'll offer you the entire world until you're his.
Everything
."

"I was already offered the world," I remind her. "I refused then. I'll refuse again."

She steps back. "Lucien
Castellani
is
never
refused. You have no idea what you're up against. The sooner he's gone, the better off you'll be."

I blink, and the room is empty.

T
WENTY-SIX

When I arrive at the restaurant the hostess greets me by name, smiling brightly. She grabs a menu and leads me to a booth in the back—a darker, more secluded corner. Luke, ever the gentleman, rises when he sees me, green eyes lighting.

"Genesis." He wraps an arm around my waist and kisses my cheek, day-old stubble grazing my skin.

My eyes drift shut as I breathe in his cologne, knees wobbling under my weight, spine tingling.

Don't let him get to you.