Crushed Ice by Eric Pete Page B

hotel, I presented Sophia with the key to her room.
    â€œYou’re in four-oh-five.”
    â€œI’m not staying with you?”
    â€œNo. Trying to keep this professional.”
    â€œTrying? I thought you flew me out here to try to seduce me.”
    â€œYou think too highly of yourself.”
    â€œSometimes. That has been a weakness of mine.”
    â€œAny other weaknesses you’d care to share?”
    â€œMen. Sometimes.”
    We looked at one another in the lobby. “The spa’s really good. Feel free to get a massage or something on me.” I left her with her bags, sticking to my guns. I heard the roll of her luggage wheels across the carpet then onto the marble floors as she followed me to the elevator.
    â€œWhy am I here, Chris?” she asked before I’d taken a few good steps inside the lift. I held the door for her then pushed the button to her floor.
    â€œBecause I need you to help me,” I replied.
    â€œOh, yeah. This research you mentioned. Why are we at the Westin anyway? You couldn’t get a room for me at the MGM Grand or Bellagio?” she asked, reminding me of Collette’s remarks about her cousin’s high-end tastes. In reality, I could’ve afforded a suite in any of the hotels this town had to offer. But I operated safe. Off the radar. I shone only by design—and when I chose to.
    â€œWhat can I say? I’m an author on a budget.” I sighed, watching the illuminated numbers on the plate above the door as we ascended.
    â€œBullshit. You’re not an author.”
    â€œHave you ever met one?”
    â€œNo, but I’ve met plenty of schemers. What do you want from me, Chris?”
    â€œYou want it plain, Sophia?”
    â€œI’d prefer.”
    â€œI need you to do what I say, without a bunch of questions, and I will pay you. Can you handle that?”
    â€œI’m here,” she taunted.
    â€œThat you are,” I said as the doors opened on the fourth floor. “Meet me in the lobby once you get settled in. Then we’ll get to work.”

Chapter 13
    â€œHow did you know my size?” she said softly as we walked past the very valet attendant who’d assisted me. If he recognized me, he gave no indication. His thoughts were on all five-foot-eight of Sophia’s body that lay barely concealed by the silk in which his eyes were burning a hole.
    â€œYou’re a model. I guessed.”
    â€œYou’re lying. You must’ve been checking me out.”
    The way she wore her hair up was nice.
    â€œGet over yourself,” I grunted, not daring to admit she was right. The camera I’d placed in her room didn’t hurt in “guessing” what would befit a sensual shape like hers.
    She gave me a stiff jab with her elbow. I pretended to be annoyed.
    â€œDo you like it?” I asked of the chic silver Donna Ricco bubble dress she wore as if made solely for her. The bow at the back of the strapless number gave the impression of a splendid gift waiting to be opened by the right person, if he were lucky. I guessed right with the size 8 sandals.
    â€œI love it,” Sophia squealed, tightening her grip on my hand. Mere days ago, she was broke and desperate. For what I required, I hoped the desperation remained.
    Along with throngs of arriving guests, gamblers, and simple partygoers such as us, Stratus welcomed all to its grand foyer. On time, an acrobat swooped just over our heads in a choreographed dance meant to impress and draw our attention to the domed atrium above. In the center of the ceiling was the see-through floor belonging to Stratus’s signature night club, Soar.
    Oooh s and aah s came from the uninitiated. From the eccentric and equally eclectic super producer SmithSonian, who was there to check in, came his typical, “No flying while intoxicated, honey!” to the acrobat as she returned on scarves on high to her overheard perch.
    Penny Antnee and his entourage