Scarlett Red: A Billionaire SEAL Story, Part 2 (In the Shadows) (4 page)

Delia, along with a few others, ran my fan club, and since I had a looming deadline, I drew her name as the winner of my weekend. When I didn’t hear from her after the getaway weekend had passed, I just assumed she’d gotten busy with life and hadn’t had a chance to email me.

Mr. Hawthorne ushers me away from the desk to stand beside a tall fern, his tone turning to a low hush. “I assure you, Miss Lone, we take every precaution here at the Hawthorne resort for guests with special food requirements, but there’s no way we can control what they eat while out exploring the town.”

I nod my understanding. “I’m sure you did. No one’s to blame. It’s just so sad. I had no idea.”

Nodding his obvious relief, he pats my shoulder. “We sent flowers to her family, but please, next time just make sure to let us know in advance whenever you send any more guests our way. We’d like to give them extra special treatment if we can.”

I tilt my head, confused. “But I did let you know Delia was coming. I spoke to your wife about her.”

“Oh, yes.” He nods. “I wasn’t referring to Mrs. Chambers. I’m referring to Mr. Sheehan.”

The name Sheehan only sounds slightly familiar. Was he new to my fan club? I didn’t have another weekend at the Hawthorne to give away, so I’m not sure what exactly the owner is talking about. Is he mixing me up with some other author? “Mr. Sheehan? When was this?”

“Yes, Bradley Sheehan. He was here five months ago. He brought in a voucher for a one-night stay, saying you’d sent him. That night he ate dinner here, but the maid said his room looked like it’d never been slept in. That’s why I remember. It was so odd that he didn’t take advantage of our wonderful beds.”

Worry clouds my thoughts, but I don’t want to alarm the owner. Not yet at least. Maybe the guy used the name Sheehan once, then switched to an on-line persona later. I have a picture of a fan club meet up that Delia sent me last year in my email. Maybe he’s in it. “Do you remember what Mr. Sheehan looked like? Maybe his description will ring a bell. I’ve given out several prizes this year, so it’s hard to keep track.”
None of the prizes I gave was another trip to Hawthorne. That was a one-time, unusual circumstance.

“Donald might remember. He was helping out behind the desk that night.” As soon as Mr. Hawthorne waves to a young, floppy-haired bellhop, calling him over, his phone rings. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he says to me, “He’ll be right over. If you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course. Thank you. And I promise to always keep you in the loop in the future.”

“Wonderful!” Smiling, he walks away, putting his phone to his ear.

While I wait for the bellhop to finish helping three women, each with two pieces of luggage, I check my phone for a text message from Cass. Sure enough, she’d sent one.

Cass: Mr. Sexy-Voiced Pilot must be hot as hell for you to hang up on me like you did.

Me: You’ll never know since you’re NOT here. Traitor! You’re the only reason I came.

Once I hit send, someone lifts the handle on my suitcase. Turning to address the bellhop, I stiffen. “Where’s Donald?”

Bash tilts his chin toward the closing elevator doors with Donald and six pieces of luggage squished inside. “He’s going to be busy for a bit. I’ll help you with your luggage. You’re in the Executive suite, right?”

I push my shoulders back. “Thanks, but I’ll just wait for him.”

He acts like I haven’t spoken, walking across the lobby with my suitcase in tow as he heads toward a long hallway leading to the West wing.

“Hey!” I call out, striding after him when it becomes obvious he’s not stopping. “I can take my luggage to my room myself.”

“Then why did you need Donald?” he says over his shoulder without breaking his stride.

The hall is too narrow for me to pull up beside him and the suitcase, so I just follow behind, fuming. “Because I want to talk to him about a guest who stayed here before.”

He glances over his shoulder, blue eyes flashing at me before he opens a door at the end of the hall. “Who was it? I might know the answer.”

What floor is the Executive suite on? I wonder, following him into the stairwell. “You said you’re only here to fill in for Trevor while he’s on vacation, so no, you won’t know since this pre-dates your time here.”

Shrugging his agreement, he lifts my suitcase and starts up the stairs. I climb behind him, silently counting to a hundred to keep my temper in check as we clear several flights. So far we’ve climbed past the forth floor. Normally I wouldn’t mind, but I’m in heels and I’m pretty sure he’s taken the stairs on purpose to pay me back for calling him an ass.

Finally he stops at the fifth floor door. I bite my tongue to keep from making a snarky remark about bypassing a whole bank of elevators earlier.

We emerge in a quiet alcove and then walk all the way to the end of the plush, carpeted hall.

“I need to check if your room’s ready, Miss Lone.”

When he holds his hand out for my keycard, I hesitate. “Isn’t that the maid’s job?” I say, but hand him my key anyway.

“Stay here.”

After he shuts the door in my face, I stand outside, getting more annoyed by the second.

A minute later, he opens the door wide and pulls my suitcase inside, handing me the card back. “You’re all good.”

“Okaaaaay then.” When he doesn’t say anything, it hits me why he’s still standing there. “Oh, sorry. Just a sec.” I lift my purse and pull out my wallet to give him a tip.

Bash ignores the cash I try to hand him, his mouth tightening. “Listen, I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

I slide the money back into my wallet. “No, you were pretty loud and clear in your assumptions about me. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a bellhop to track down.”

He glances at the clock on the wall next to the door. “Donald has already clocked out and left by now. He’s a waiter over at the Bayside Bar & Grill during his off hours. Your questions will have to wait until tomorrow.”

Like hell they will. I’ll track the kid down myself. My thoughts must’ve shown in my expression because he folds his arms. “If you can wait a couple hours, I’ll take you.”

“I’m perfectly capable of taking a cab.”

He frowns. “Some of the bars and pubs near the Bayside restaurant attract a rough crowd. It’s better if you don’t go alone.”

When I start to argue, his expression shuts down, stubborn written all over it. I sigh and shrug. It’s not like I’m likely to rope anyone else into going with me within the next hour or two. “Fine, if you insist.”

Bash holds my gaze for several seconds, like he wants to say something else. My heart thumps fast, and I work hard to keep my face from revealing just how tense I am. The way this man looks at me, his bold stare reminds me so much of Sebastian, it’s uncanny.

I exhale a sigh of relief when he nods and leaves without another word.

After I quickly change into a tank top, a lightweight, wide-weave sweater, a flowery skirt and sandals, I brush my teeth, run my fingers through my hair, then shove a pen and notepad into my purse. It’s just five o’clock. If I go now, it’s too early for rebel-rousers to be out drinking and already drunk enough to cause me issue. If not, the stun gun in my purse will take care of the rest.

I open my door and startle at the sight of someone just outside. Bash is leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his broad chest.

“What are you still doing here?” I ask, my tone sharper than I intend.

“Waiting for you to do something stupid.”

Irritated that he’d pegged me so well, I lie. “How is going downstairs to participate in Hawthorne’s activities stupid? I’m just doing what’s
expected
of me.” Without waiting for his answer, I blow past him and head straight for the stairs. At least then I can get out of his line of sight quickly. Waiting for the elevator would allow him too much time to stare at me. The man’s just too unnerving.

Why did I ever think he was laidback? Oh yeah, the scruff on his jaw lulled me into thinking he actually relaxes from time to time. Maybe part of the reason he’s getting under my skin is because he brings back memories of Sebastian, but the other half is that he seems to see right through me. How
did
he know that I wasn’t going to wait for him to take me to Bayside? Do I have stubborn stamped on my forehead?

Regardless, I don’t like that he makes my heart race, even when he’s being an overbearing ass. That’s the last thing I need right now. As soon as I reach the main floor and step into the lobby, a tall, blonde woman close to my age jumps up from a lobby chair, event pamphlet in hand.

“Hi, please tell me you’re going to the Oaken bar. I really want to hit the wine tasting in there. We can walk in there together.” Dressed in an expensive pantsuit and designer flats, she waves manicured nails in the direction of the bar, a waft of expensive perfume floating my way while her confident expression fades somewhat. “This might be singles stuff, but after ending an eight-year relationship, I’m a little rusty at all of this.”

I glance down at my sandaled feet and mid-thigh skirt, feeling very underdressed next to her. “Um, well…I’m not exactly dressed for a wine tasting.”

Hooking her arm in mine, she smiles, her make-up creasing in a couple of places. “You’re fine, darling. I’m Cynthia Drummond by the way. Let’s go see what mischief we can get into.”

I like her exuberance. She’s a bit over the top with her heavy makeup and bright pink lipstick but she seems fun. “You can call me T.”

She blinks at me. “As in the wooden thingy a golf ball sits on?”

Laughing, I let her pull me along. “Close enough.”

When we enter the bar, a group of eight men and women from their mid-twenties up to mid-thirties are seated around one of the pub’s big wooden tables. A handsome blond guy dressed like a Manhattan lawyer is holding court with an empty bottle of vodka.

“Apparently they’ve decided that vodka was to their taste,” Cynthia murmurs with a giggle before she draws me forward to hear what the guy is saying.

“Ladies, welcome! You make us an even ten. Okay, I sent the staff on a wild goose chase for a specific wine, so we could have our own party instead of a stuffy tasting. Everyone grab a shot of vodka,” he begins, gesturing to the twenty or so shots sitting on the table. Once we all have one, he says, “For fun,” then takes a shot.

“For whatever the hell,” I say and drink my shot while Cynthia downs hers in a fast gulp.

Once everyone has taken a shot, he continues, “Now that liquid fire is dancing in your belly, everyone grab another shot and find a seat around the table. Don’t drink it yet, just sit it in front of you.”

This could get interesting, I think as Cynthia sits down and pulls me into an empty chair beside her.

Mr. Manhattan lays the empty vodka bottle in the center of the wooden table. Grinning, he flashes perfect teeth to go with his neatly gelled hair. “The rules are simple. Spin the bottle. If it lands on someone you’d like to kiss, lay one on them. If you prefer to pass, take the shot in front of you.” He lifts a full bottle of vodka. “We’ll make sure you never run out.”

Hmm, an adult version of Spin-the-Bottle. Okay, I could deal with this. Most of the guys aren’t bad looking. Not that I plan to kiss any of them.

Manhattan goes first, giving the bottle a hefty spin. We all wait to see where it’ll land. My heart races as it slows down. When it bypasses Cynthia and me to land on a dark-haired Wall Street banker guy, I snicker at Cynthia’s audible sigh of frustration.

Manhattan grunts and takes a shot.

Wall Street smirks. “You’d better have, Grant!”

Grant grunts and sets his empty glass down. While he’s refilling it, he nods to the petite brunette sitting next to him. “You’re turn, Adeline.”

Laughing, she spins the bottle. When it lands on an Upper East Side guy, she giggles then walks over to kiss him. It’s clear she intended to just give him a quick peck on his perfectly trimmed goatee, but the dude grabs her around the waist and pulls her into his lap for a proper kiss. She lets him, then smacks his shoulder when he finally pulls back. “Not fair, Jacob.”

He shrugs, unrepentant as she makes her way back to her chair. It’s interesting to me that all of them seem to have learned each other’s first names. How many events have they already attended before I got here?

A lanky guy gets lucky when his bottle points to a well-endowed woman with silky black hair. She lets out a low laugh and curls her finger in a come-hither motion. He eagerly complies, collecting his kiss with bent over, swooping gusto.

The turn shifts to a well-dressed surfer-type with longish, light-brown hair beside Cynthia. Mr. California waggles his eyebrows before spinning the bottle. The moment the bottle slows to a stop in my direction, Bash’s voice sounds behind me.

“Mr. Phillips, the front desk requests your presence.”

The man stands, his gaze never leaving mine. Flipping his hand, he dismisses Bash. “I’ll stop by after this event.”

Just as he takes a step toward me, Bash moves in front of him, his arms folded over his chest. “They mentioned something about your credit card not functioning. Immediate response is required.”

The man’s face turns bright red against his hair. He cuts Bash an annoyed look before stalking out of the bar.