Scarlett Red: A Billionaire SEAL Story, Part 2 (In the Shadows) (22 page)

When a knock sounds at the door, he sighs and kisses my forehead. “That’s room service. Hold that thought.”

I’m surprised when I hear him shut the main door behind him. Curious, I walk into the empty room and notice the TV’s sound seems louder. The investigator in me pushes my feet over to the door.

“—thought I’d deliver it in person,” a woman’s voice floats through the thin wood.

“You didn’t have to,” he says.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in, Sebastian?”

“Now’s not a good time, Regan.”

A quick feminine laugh sounds, full of smugness. “Really? I thought you were always up for a good time. If your quasi-cousin, or should I say your
half-sister—
yes, the rumors are flying all over the local news now—had any idea how kinky you are, I wonder if she’d put you on such a high pedestal.”

“You enjoyed every second of it,” he says curtly, his tone turning cool.

“Once I got used to you, yeah. Couldn’t sit for a week after you left though.” Her voice moves closer, dropping to a sexy purr. “I’ve never forgotten you. I still have that riding crop and collar you bought me. Just looking at them makes me wet.”

“I don’t do relationships, Regan.”

“What was that month then, hmmm?”

“You, coming back for more.”

She lets out an annoyed huff. “And here I thought the cocky bastard role was just an act. In light of recent news, you fit it to a T.”

“Is that why you’re really here? I’ll let you in on a little something the tabloids don’t know. The moment I took my family name, I lost any claim to the Blake billions.”

“That’s a shame…” she pouts, disappointment coming through loud and clear. “But regardless of your financial status, it doesn’t change how I feel about you. That tells me we had something.”

“I was making up for two years of celibacy, Regan. Don’t make it more than it was.”

“Fine,” she snaps, then her tone softens. “For you, I’m willing to let it be just that.”

“I’m not interested in renewing our arrangement,” he says in a final tone.

Arrangement?
I tune out Regan’s response. He sounds so disconnected in his responses, I can’t help the knot starting in my stomach.
Will that be me one day, begging him to keep me?
Nausea roils in my stomach.

As soon as the doorknob starts to turn, I bolt away, quickly returning to the bathroom. Shutting the door quietly behind me, I blink away the unshed tears and try to shrug off the suffocating ache in my chest. My gaze lands on the necklace, and I push the beads off the counter and into the basin of cold water.
It represents us, my ass!

Even though I know it’s unfair of me to think he wouldn’t have had other relationships the past three years, I can’t help but feel sick to my stomach that I read so much more into his bullshit lines about us. Should I count myself lucky that a pearl necklace is a step up from a riding crop and a collar? When Sebastian calls my name on the other side of the door, I swish the necklace around in the water and say in a light tone, “Be out in a minute,” at the same time I lean over and flush the toilet.

Pulling the sink’s plunger to drain the water, I lay the necklace on a hand towel to dry before I walk out of the bathroom. “That wasn’t room service?” I glance around, eyebrows raised, my face perfectly composed.

He lifts the shoebox-sized package in his hand. “Just a package from my sister. Room service should be here soon.”

“Actually, I thought I’d head back to my room.”

Sebastian frowns and starts toward me when the phone on the desk rings. Setting the box down, he grabs the handset, suddenly all business. “Bash.”

His dark eyebrows pull down briefly. “Yeah, my new cell phone should be here today. Thanks for the info, Simon. I’ll be sure to convey it. There’s no need for that. Miss Lone is fine.”

“What?” I mouth, but he holds his hand up.

“She’s here with me,” he continues, his blue eyes holding mine. “Yes, all night. I’ll call you later.”

My face is flaming hot by the time he hangs up. “What the hell, Sebastian? Why’d you tell the head of security where I was last night?”

He scowls as he moves to tower over me. “Why is spending the night with me so embarrassing to you?”

I stiffen. “I just don’t want to advertise my sex life to the whole world.”

Sebastian cups the back of my neck, his expression shifting to a less intense one. “Simon is the only one who knows why I’m really here. I told him to keep me informed of any out-of-the-norm activity in relation to you. The fact that someone has been in your room definitely qualifies.”

My eyes widen. “Did someone break into my room last night? Wait, and
why
are you really here?”

He shakes his head. “No, the day before. The maid insists she made your bed yesterday, Talia.”

I blink at him. “But nothing else in my room was touched. I have a laptop out on the desk. Is it possible she’s covering her own hide so she doesn’t get fired?”

His mouth thins in a stubborn line as he clasps my hand. “Maybe it’s nothing, but in answer as to why I’m here, I’d like you to help me with something.” Leading me over to the table, he pulls a chair out. “Have a seat.”

I’m not sure where he’s going with this, but I do as he asks while he opens his briefcase and sets a stack of labeled beige folders in front of me.

“A couple months ago, I was hired to help the NYPD with their investigation into a string of serial killings. Five redheaded females in and around the New York area have been killed over the course of three years. The murders stopped for two years, then started back up ten months ago when two more women were killed five months apart.”

My heart pounds double-time at the disturbing news, but I try to remain calm. “Other than the fact I’m a redhead, what does this have to do with me? We’re in Massachusetts, not New York.”

He points to the folders in front of me. “When the serial killer’s trail went cold, I did some investigating on my own. One thing the latest two victims had in common was that they’d spent time here at Hawthorne. So I asked Trevor to do some work for my business, while I took his place here to investigate employees who might fit the killer’s profile. Nothing told me for sure that the killer worked here. It was just a gut instinct. A lead I wanted to run down.”

“For two months?” I ask as I quickly flip open each of the folders to see nine headshots of Hawthorne’s male employees: Two tennis instructors, three bartenders, a valet, a waiter, a masseuse, and a personal trainer. Each suspect’s picture is paper-clipped to an extensive three-page background check. The extra page of handwritten notes has to be Sebastian’s. “That’s a long investigation.”

“It’s a thorough one. I planned to continue until I found the bastard, or if another murder happened elsewhere which would clear the suspects I’d come up with here.”

“That’s why you didn’t want me going anywhere without you,” I mutter as I skim the folders.

He runs his finger down my cheek, then hooks it under my chin, turning my face toward him. “Not the only reason, Talia.”

I tell myself the warm look in his eyes doesn’t mean anything, but I can’t help the flutter in my stomach. “Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”

“I didn’t mention it because I was beginning to believe I’d been wrong in my assumption that the serial killer might work here.” Releasing me, he drops his gaze to the folders. “Even though these men fit the basic profile of a single white male who lived in New York in the past, who currently lives alone and is between the ages of twenty-two to thirty-five, none of these employees raised any of the typical red flags I’ve come across in serial murder cases. Since I arrived, a couple of redheads have stayed here with no life-threatening situations happening to them. And, other than someone drugging your drink at an establishment away from Hawthorne where stuff like that can happen, there’ve been no other threats against you. That just left you and me, Talia. I didn’t want anything screwing that up. Not this time around.”

I furrow my brow. “Then why are you showing me these folders now?”

“Because I don’t believe in coincidences. The fact that a redhead bought a voucher for a man who ended up killed in a car accident—”

“Mr. Sheehan died?” I ask as my stomach bottoms out.

He nods. “Simon’s police contact came through. I had Simon contact him after I learned that Sheehan’s rental car went off a bridge a couple miles from here. Even though there weren’t any tire marks indicating he never hit his brakes, the police had been at a standstill with his case. They couldn’t trace the days leading up to his death back to the resort, since his stay here didn’t show up on his credit card.

“But with Sheehan’s death and that of your other fan earlier this year, that’s four deaths that tie back to Hawthorne; two supposed accidents and two murders involving redheads.”

“Don’t forget the unknown redhead who purchased the hotel voucher,” I remind him.

He nods. “Exactly. Our two cases might not be related, but we can’t ignore how their paths cross. You have an investigative mind, Talia. Maybe a fresh set of eyes will see something I missed in these folders. My skills are more tactical and in-the-moment. While everything is in chaos or perfectly still, I see things others don’t.” He gestures to the paperwork. “After a while, this kind of stuff all blurs together. Would you be willing to look it over while I’m in the shower?”

Combing through this paperwork will be a welcome distraction to keep me from obsessing about the kinky things he did with Mina’s friend. “I don’t know how much help I’ll be, but I can try.”

Nodding his thanks, Sebastian heads into the bathroom. A few seconds later, he walks out holding the damp pearl necklace, his voice curt. “Why did you wash it?”

“Sometimes a clean slate is best,” I say, holding his intense stare.

Understanding dawns in his expression and he curls his fingers around the necklace. “You heard, didn’t you?”

I shrug and look back down at the paperwork.

“I’m not the only one still holding my cards close,” he says softly.

Now’s a good time to tell him about the watch, Talia. Tell him why you kept it and why you gave it back.
I lift my head, intending to speak, but he’s already shutting the door to the bathroom. I sigh and whisper, “I’ll tell you when you get out.”

I flip through each of the beige folders quickly once. The second go round, I put them in order of things that stuck out at me before I settle down to read over each man’s background in more detail. When I fill the hotel sticky notes with at least two questions per suspect, I end up with three employees I want to follow up on. As I stare at my notes, I realize that a sheet of lined paper would be best to help organize my thoughts.

Standing, I rifle through more surveillance pictures in Sebastian’s briefcase, seeking a legal-sized notepad. When I don’t find what I’m looking for, I move to the folder slot section in the top of the briefcase and pull everything out, expecting to find a pad of paper in the stack. He had to have taken those notes on something similar. Instead of paper, I find two more folders.

The first one is blue and labeled Jocelyn Quinn.
Is this Sebastian’s mother?
You can’t read it, Talia. He didn’t give it to you.
After I answer the door for room service, curiosity gets the best of me. I open the blue folder, hoping to see a picture and discover if Sebastian favors his mother or his father more. But my heart jumps in my throat and I flop down into the seat, unprepared for the bloody crime scene pictures. I quickly scan through the supporting police notes and paperwork. The investigating police officer suspected a robbery attempt gone bad, but the seventeen-year-old son, Sebastian Quinn, insisted his mother was murdered. Suspects were interviewed but no one was arrested. His mother was murdered? Why?

I run my fingers over the “cold case” stamp on the back of the folder, my heart aching for Sebastian. What a horrible way to lose his mother. I’d always assumed she died of an illness. I start to set the folder down, then a hunch has me opening the folder back up, and I skim through the police officer’s notes once more.

Son reports his mother woke him a little after one a.m., telling him to get a phone from her nightstand. An intruder was trying to break in. Once he reached his mother, the intruder had broken the lock on the door and shot at Miss Quinn eight times. The mother fell on her son, her body shielding him from the bullets.

A little after one a.m.? One-eleven. Sebastian had said he set his watch’s alarm is a reminder to be diligent, aware, and ready.

Why does he have his mother’s file? Is he investigating her death? It makes sense that he would do so now that he has the skills and the connections to dig deeper than the original investigators.

I open the beige folder, interested to see Sebastian’s notes on his mother’s cold case so far.

The last thing I expect to see is a picture of me, taken a little over a year ago, paper clipped to the inside of the folder. My hair is still blonde and I’m holding Nathan’s hand and glancing up at him as we walk into a restaurant for a dinner party.

Sebastian lied! Why did he pretend not to know my name, when it’s clearly plastered all over the first couple of pages of this surveillance report? Why did he push me to tell him? My stomach knots with panic as I flip past the several photos taken during that same year to the detailed handwritten notes about my life. How far back did the guy go? I can tell it’s not Sebastian’s handwriting. The writing inside the Hawthorne employees’ folders is in bold, crisp print. Maybe it was someone in Sebastian’s security firm?