can find a way to make you regret it if you do,” he said.
“Oh, I’m trembling. Big bad SAS. At least take one of the cuffs yourself. It’ll be more comfortable for me and, gosh, we can hold hands and no one will ever know it’s because there are handcuffs involved. It’s not like I can run off and leave you again. At least, not without killing you and rifling your body for the key. That’ll be hard to do in the lobby, even for me.”
He shook his head; she couldn’t decide if he was incredulous or just hiding a smile. She sat quietly and with quick, efficient moves he freed her left hand and snapped the cuff closed around his own. Taking her hand, he said, “What’s your name?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your name,” he repeated. “If I’m going to walk into the hotel holding hands with you, I need to know your name.”
“Ah. An old-fashioned kind of guy.” She hesitated, considering pseudonyms and considering the warm, gentle pressure of his fingers over hers. Finally she said, “You can call me Beth,” with all the implication that it wasn’t truly her name.
“All right, Beth,” he said evenly. “Here’s how it goes. We’ll walk through the public areas of the hotel quietly, and we’ll stay quiet all the way up to my room. Keep in mind that you’re wanted for murder; being with me isn’t the worst situation you face. If you make it hard on me, that could change.”
“I believe I’ve already made it hard on you,” Beth said, and widened her eyes in affected innocence.
Goodness, he blushed. Mr. Manly MI6 blushed. But he wasn’t going to admit it. He said shortly, “Let’s go.”
She dismounted the bike, walking alongside him withcasual ease. They took a short flight of stairs, automatically adjusting for the tight space and the rhythm of each other’s movement. When he pushed open the glass-fronted door to the lobby, Beth had to stop and gape a moment. The lavishly appointed lobby sparkled at them, worthy of any gala. In the center, a slab fountain rippled discreetly into a small pool filled with tossed coins, creating only enough water noise to be soothing without being disruptive. Brass shone and plush, spotless carpets led the way to a bank of elevators. At the far end of the lobby, a glass-sided staircase curved up to the balcony of the second floor, from which a murmur of conversation trickled. Conference and meeting rooms…no doubt a ballroom. No doubt all as posh and glittery as the lobby.
Between the door from which they’d just entered and the far staircase, the lobby offered overstuffed chairs and couches. It was to these that Beth marched, taking the initiative abruptly enough so Chandler followed along, his reluctance stiffening his grip on her hand.
“Relax,” she said, automatically spotting the main exits and the smaller bellboy exit off to the side; other exit signs beckoned beyond the elevators. She marked the interior management doors—the places from which people might unexpectedly appear—and she headed for a small couch that kept their backs to a large square pillar. Before the couch sat a low table, laden with brochures. Blue Crane Winery. Just off the N2 in Faure. Weekly evening reception…tonight. Bet there’ll be plenty of tables, she thought. And under one of those tables she might find Lyeta’s computer keycard. She turned her attention back to Chandler, not certain if he’d seen her distraction, and said, “I’m not causing any trouble. I’m giving you the opportunity to talk. Right here, right now.”
His fingers tightened painfully around hers. “Not what I had in mind.”
“Not in your rule book?” she said, letting scorn lace her words. “I learned long ago that everyone else’s notion of a rule book isn’t necessarily what’s best for me. There are only a few people in this world who can lay down rules for me, and you’re not one of them.”
“Good Lord,” he said, sitting next to her on the couch more bemused than anything. His
“Oh, I’m trembling. Big bad SAS. At least take one of the cuffs yourself. It’ll be more comfortable for me and, gosh, we can hold hands and no one will ever know it’s because there are handcuffs involved. It’s not like I can run off and leave you again. At least, not without killing you and rifling your body for the key. That’ll be hard to do in the lobby, even for me.”
He shook his head; she couldn’t decide if he was incredulous or just hiding a smile. She sat quietly and with quick, efficient moves he freed her left hand and snapped the cuff closed around his own. Taking her hand, he said, “What’s your name?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your name,” he repeated. “If I’m going to walk into the hotel holding hands with you, I need to know your name.”
“Ah. An old-fashioned kind of guy.” She hesitated, considering pseudonyms and considering the warm, gentle pressure of his fingers over hers. Finally she said, “You can call me Beth,” with all the implication that it wasn’t truly her name.
“All right, Beth,” he said evenly. “Here’s how it goes. We’ll walk through the public areas of the hotel quietly, and we’ll stay quiet all the way up to my room. Keep in mind that you’re wanted for murder; being with me isn’t the worst situation you face. If you make it hard on me, that could change.”
“I believe I’ve already made it hard on you,” Beth said, and widened her eyes in affected innocence.
Goodness, he blushed. Mr. Manly MI6 blushed. But he wasn’t going to admit it. He said shortly, “Let’s go.”
She dismounted the bike, walking alongside him withcasual ease. They took a short flight of stairs, automatically adjusting for the tight space and the rhythm of each other’s movement. When he pushed open the glass-fronted door to the lobby, Beth had to stop and gape a moment. The lavishly appointed lobby sparkled at them, worthy of any gala. In the center, a slab fountain rippled discreetly into a small pool filled with tossed coins, creating only enough water noise to be soothing without being disruptive. Brass shone and plush, spotless carpets led the way to a bank of elevators. At the far end of the lobby, a glass-sided staircase curved up to the balcony of the second floor, from which a murmur of conversation trickled. Conference and meeting rooms…no doubt a ballroom. No doubt all as posh and glittery as the lobby.
Between the door from which they’d just entered and the far staircase, the lobby offered overstuffed chairs and couches. It was to these that Beth marched, taking the initiative abruptly enough so Chandler followed along, his reluctance stiffening his grip on her hand.
“Relax,” she said, automatically spotting the main exits and the smaller bellboy exit off to the side; other exit signs beckoned beyond the elevators. She marked the interior management doors—the places from which people might unexpectedly appear—and she headed for a small couch that kept their backs to a large square pillar. Before the couch sat a low table, laden with brochures. Blue Crane Winery. Just off the N2 in Faure. Weekly evening reception…tonight. Bet there’ll be plenty of tables, she thought. And under one of those tables she might find Lyeta’s computer keycard. She turned her attention back to Chandler, not certain if he’d seen her distraction, and said, “I’m not causing any trouble. I’m giving you the opportunity to talk. Right here, right now.”
His fingers tightened painfully around hers. “Not what I had in mind.”
“Not in your rule book?” she said, letting scorn lace her words. “I learned long ago that everyone else’s notion of a rule book isn’t necessarily what’s best for me. There are only a few people in this world who can lay down rules for me, and you’re not one of them.”
“Good Lord,” he said, sitting next to her on the couch more bemused than anything. His
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