Chapter 1 - The Only Room Left
Claire Bennett grabbed her suitcase and whispered, “Then I’ll sleep somewhere else.”
Nicholas Romano stepped between her and the hotel-room door and picked up the brass key card lying beside her purse.
A black number had been written across its back.
Nicholas stopped smiling.
Someone already knew their room number.
Claire stared at him.
“What does that mean?”
Nicholas didn’t answer immediately.
That frightened her more than anything he could have said.
Ten minutes earlier, her greatest problem had been the king-size bed.
Now Nicholas Romano was standing beside the locked door of room 417 with his head tilted slightly, listening to the hallway like a man who had spent half his life expecting danger to arrive quietly.
Claire tightened both hands around the handle of her suitcase.
“Nicholas.”
His eyes moved toward her.
“Stay there.”
“That isn’t an explanation.”
“No.”
“I want one.”
“You’ll get one.”
“When?”
“When I know enough to give you the right one.”
Claire almost laughed.
That was Nicholas Romano in one sentence.
Calm.
Controlled.
Infuriating.
He had been that way since she had met him six months earlier while working as an independent financial compliance consultant for Bellmore Hospitality Group.
Nicholas was technically only an investor in one of Bellmore’s redevelopment projects.
Technically.
Nobody who entered a room with him believed technical definitions mattered much.
He had a legitimate portfolio of restaurants, construction companies, transportation contracts, and commercial properties throughout Tennessee, Kentucky, and Illinois.
He also had a family name that caused conversations to become quieter.
Romano.
Claire had heard the rumors.
Everyone had.
She had never asked which ones were true.
Until tonight, she had believed she was better off not knowing.
They had both been attending Bellmore’s annual development conference in Nashville when an electrical fire forced guests from their original hotel shortly before ten.
Three conventions, a country music awards rehearsal, and a college football weekend had swallowed almost every available room downtown.
After forty minutes of phone calls, arguments, and increasingly desperate searches, a desk clerk at the Ashford Grand had delivered the news.
One room.
One bed.
Claire had immediately refused.
Nicholas had simply slid his credit card across the counter.
That had started the argument.
The bed had continued it.
“You can take the bed,” Nicholas had said when they entered the suite.
“I’m not making you sleep on the floor.”
“I’ve slept in worse places.”
“Good for you.”
He had removed his jacket.
Claire had looked at the couch.
It was decorative, narrow, and approximately the length of a golden retriever.
Then she had spotted an upholstered chair beside the window.
“I’ll sleep there.”
Nicholas had looked at the chair.
Then at her.
“You’re not sleeping anywhere else.”
The words had come with the faint smirk Claire hated because it made him look like he already knew how every argument ended.
She had interpreted it exactly as any reasonable woman would.
Arrogance.
Possessiveness.
A man accustomed to obedience.
Then she had grabbed her suitcase.
And Nicholas had found the number on the back of the room key.
Now the smirk was gone.
Claire crossed her arms.
“You’re scaring me.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“Then start explaining.”
Nicholas moved away from the door.
He took out his phone and typed one message.
Claire watched him.
“To whom?”
“Security.”
“Hotel security?”
“No.”
Of course not.
Nicholas walked toward the window and moved the curtain barely an inch.
The skyline glittered below them.
Broadway glowed in the distance, neon signs spilling color across the streets.
From forty stories up, Nashville looked cheerful.
Safe.
Claire suddenly wished she were anywhere else.
Nicholas let the curtain fall.
“When did you last have the key?”
“At the front desk.”
“After that?”
“I put it in my purse.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Did anyone bump into you?”
Claire frowned.
People had crowded the lobby.
Displaced hotel guests.
Tourists.
Conference attendees.
A family arguing over luggage.
A man in a gray cap.
A woman carrying a crying toddler.
A Bellmore executive named Eric Harlan.
Claire’s stomach tightened.
“Eric.”
Nicholas looked at her.
“What about him?”
“He came over while you were arguing with the manager.”
“What did he want?”
“He asked whether I had found a room.”
“And?”
“I said yes.”
“You told him the number?”
“No.”
“Did he touch your purse?”
“I don’t know.”
Nicholas’s jaw hardened.
Claire noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing yet.”
“That expression is not nothing.”
Nicholas walked to the bedside table.
He removed his watch, placed it down, then rolled his shirt cuffs once.
It was an ordinary gesture.
Somehow it made Claire more nervous.
“You’ve been working on Bellmore’s vendor audit,” he said.
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Seven weeks.”
“What did you find?”
Claire hesitated.
“That’s confidential.”
Nicholas gave her a look.
She almost snapped back.
Then someone touched the door handle.
Both of them froze.
It moved slowly.
Down.
Up.
Once.
Claire’s breath stopped.
Nicholas crossed the room before she could process it.
He caught her wrist and pulled her behind him.
The handle moved again.
No knock.
No voice.
Just pressure.
Then silence.
Claire felt Nicholas’s hand tighten.
Not painfully.
Protectively.
Thirty seconds passed.
A full minute.
Nothing.
Nicholas released her.
“Stay away from the door.”
“What are you doing?”
“Checking something.”
He called someone.
“Marco. Hallway. Forty-one. Now.”
He ended the call.
Claire stared at him.
“You have people in the hotel?”
“I have people everywhere.”
“That was not reassuring.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be.”
Three minutes later, Nicholas’s phone buzzed.
He read the message.
Opened the door.
Claire followed before he could stop her.
“Nicholas—”
He raised one hand.
Two men stood at the far end of the corridor.
One was broad-shouldered and bald.
The other wore a dark suit.
Neither looked like hotel employees.
Between them, the hallway was empty.
Nicholas crouched beside the door.
Something white lay against the carpet.
An envelope.
Claire’s name was written across the front.
CLAIRE BENNETT.
Her stomach dropped.
Nicholas picked it up with a handkerchief from his pocket.
“Don’t touch it.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
He opened it carefully.
Inside was a photograph.
Claire saw herself walking into Bellmore’s Nashville office three days earlier.
Another photograph showed her leaving her apartment.
Another showed her sitting in a coffee shop.
Then Nicholas turned over the final picture.
A sentence had been written on the back.
STOP LOOKING AT THE ACCOUNTS.
Claire forgot how to breathe.
Nicholas looked at her.
“What accounts?”
Claire shook her head.
“No.”
“Claire.”
“You tell me who you are first.”
His expression changed almost imperceptibly.
“I think you already know.”
“I know rumors.”
“Some are true.”
The hallway suddenly felt colder.
Claire stepped backward.
Nicholas remained where he was.
He didn’t approach her.
That mattered.
“What do you want from Bellmore?” she asked.
“An investment.”
“That’s all?”
“No.”
Her pulse accelerated.
“Then what?”
Nicholas looked at the photographs.
“Someone has been moving money through Bellmore construction projects.”
“How much?”
“At least twenty-six million dollars.”
Claire went still.
Because she had found twenty-six million dollars.
Not exactly.
Twenty-six million, four hundred and eighty thousand.
Split across twelve vendors.
Most of them shell companies.
She had discovered the pattern two nights earlier.
She had told nobody.
Nobody except—
Claire’s face changed.
Nicholas saw it.
“Who?”
She looked toward her purse.
“My supervisor.”
“Name.”
“Martin Cole.”
Nicholas’s expression hardened.
“When did you tell him?”
“Yesterday morning.”
“What happened?”
“He told me I was reading the records wrong.”
“And?”
“He ordered me to close the review.”
“Did you?”
Claire met Nicholas’s eyes.
“No.”
A faint, humorless smile appeared.
“Of course you didn’t.”
“This is funny?”
“No.”
“Then why are you smiling?”
“Because you’re exactly as stubborn as I thought.”
Claire folded her arms.
“And you’re exactly as arrogant.”
“Good. We understand each other.”
She should have been furious.
Instead, for one ridiculous second, she nearly smiled.
Then his phone rang.
Nicholas answered.
Marco’s voice came faintly through the speaker.
Nicholas listened.
His expression went flat.
“How long ago?”
Pause.
“Find him.”
He hung up.
Claire waited.
“Well?”
“The man who touched the door left by the east stairwell.”
“Can your people find him?”
“They’re trying.”
She nodded toward the photographs.
“And these?”
“Means you don’t leave this room tonight.”
Claire stared at the single bed.
Despite everything, the absurdity struck her.
“You cannot be serious.”
“I’ve never been more serious.”
“You expect me to sleep beside you?”
“I expect you to stay where I can keep you alive.”
“And where exactly are you sleeping?”
Nicholas nodded toward the left side of the mattress.
Claire stared at him.
He stared back.
“You’re joking.”
“No.”
“The floor exists.”
“I need to hear the door.”
“The couch exists.”
“I need a clear line to the door.”
“The chair—”
“You’re not sleeping anywhere else.”
There it was again.
Only this time she heard what she had missed before.
Not control.
Fear.
Nicholas Romano was afraid something would happen to her.
Claire slowly sat on the far side of the bed.
“This is insane.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll stay on your side?”
“Yes.”
“You won’t touch me?”
“Not unless you’re in danger.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“That answer was dangerously well prepared.”
His mouth almost moved into another smirk.
Almost.
Claire crawled beneath the duvet fully dressed in her camisole and lounge pants.
Nicholas removed his shoes but stayed in his shirt and trousers.
He placed his phone beside him.
A second phone appeared from his jacket.
Claire stared.
“Do mafia bosses come with backup phones?”
Nicholas looked at her.
“So you’ve decided I’m a mafia boss now?”
“I’m gathering evidence.”
“Dangerous hobby.”
“Apparently.”
For the first time that night, tension loosened.
Barely.
Nicholas turned off the overhead light.
Only the bedside lamp remained.
Claire stared at the ceiling.
Ten minutes passed.
“Nicholas?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you involved?”
Silence.
She turned her head.
He was looking toward the door.
“Because whoever is stealing from Bellmore is stealing from me too.”
“Money?”
“Something more important.”
“What?”
He looked at her.
“My father built one legitimate company before he died. Romano Freight. Someone is using it to move whatever Bellmore is hiding.”
Claire swallowed.
“You think your own company is involved?”
“I know someone inside it is.”
“And you don’t know who?”
“No.”
Claire studied him.
She had expected Nicholas Romano’s world to be simple.
Power.
Money.
Fear.
Instead she saw something she understood.
Betrayal.
“You really don’t trust anyone, do you?”
His gaze remained on hers.
“Not easily.”
“Then why tell me this?”
“Because someone photographed you.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“No.”
He turned away.
Claire felt strangely disappointed.
Outside, somewhere down the corridor, an elevator chimed.
Nicholas sat upright instantly.
Claire did too.
Footsteps approached.
Slow.
Measured.
They stopped outside room 417.
A shadow blocked the thin strip of light beneath the door.
Then three quiet knocks came.
Nicholas reached inside his jacket.
Claire whispered, “Who is it?”
A man’s voice answered from the hallway.
“Martin Cole.”
Claire stopped breathing.
May you like
Her supervisor had found them.
And he had never been told where they were staying.
