Revelation (17 page)

"Oh, well, I had a free night, and since I wasn't doing anything. . . ." The sentence dangles, falling casually between us.

He slides into the seat across from me. "I assumed you something of an insomniac, asking me to coffee at nine in the evening."

The smile fades. He's right. Who would go out for coffee this late? I clear my throat, smoothing my tone. "It's a bad habit of mine. From high school. A lot of late nights studying."

Lie
.

"And how long ago was high school, Ms. Fleming?"

"You can call me Genesis," I say, adding that I graduated a few months prior, omitting the fact that this, in itself, is a miracle beyond miracles.

His green eyes sparkle, lighting with amusement. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Genesis. Luke." He reaches across the table, and I take his hand in mine, studying him carefully—his eyebrows, dark features, the five-o'clock shadow. . . .

"Luke," I repeat, feeling his name on my lips. "Well, don't worry. I only drink decaf after nine."

"Quite the rebel," he teases.

When the waitress returns, Luke asks for a Scotch and orders my coffee. He insists I try the cheesecake, and adds two slices of that, as well.

As soon as we're alone, he nods toward my arm. "May I?"

I glance to where he's staring and realize my sleeve has shifted, exposing the tattoo. My pulse ratchets higher as I gaze at it, wary. "Um, sure." I hesitate, but extend my arm across the table. He takes my hand in his. It's cooler than mine.

"This is beautiful," he says, running his fingers across my skin.

"Thank you."

"Very intricate. It must have taken a while to complete."

I shrug, indifferent, pulling my arm away, not comfortable until it's hidden—just as it should be. "Not really."

Not at all. It was over before I could blink.

He tugs at the top buttons of his shirt, pulls the collar aside, revealing the tip of a tattoo on his chest. It's not colorful, like mine. It's dark. Black ink.

"What is it?"

"A dragon. It took four sittings to complete. My first and only. It seems I'm something of a coward when it comes to self-inflicted pain."

I reach for my glass of water. "So . . . what, exactly, do you do, Luke?" I ask.

"I'm an investor," he answers. "I invest in companies—in people, really—turn them around, then reap the rewards."

"Since you're staying in the penthouse, I'm guessing you're pretty good at it."

"The best." He lifts his glass to me, drinks. "Now it's my turn," he announces. "What do you do, Genesis?"

"That's classified, remember?"

An easy laugh. "I was hoping your invitation meant we could move past vague formalities."

I hesitate, knowing I have to throw something at him eventually or he'll never be satisfied. "I'm . . . in transition. Waiting for the next great opportunity."

Lie.

I'm trapped in a battle between good and evil, and the only way I can get back the Guardian I love is if I kill you
. Another sip of water, ice jingling against glass.

"All right. I'll accept that. Where are you from?"

The waitress returns with our drinks and cheesecake.

"Everywhere and nowhere," I reply. "I mean, my mom moved us around a lot," I explain, slicing my fork into the dessert, spearing a bite. "We were never in any one place long enough to get comfortable, you know? Until last year. We moved to a little town on the coast. She's gone—I mean, she left—but it's home to me now."

"South Marshall?" he asks.

I glance at him, surprised. "Yeah. You know it?"

"I know that's where Jack lives. I'm assuming you married his son?"

"You assume correct."

"May I also assume it didn't work out?"

A careless shrug. "That depends on your definition of 'not working out.'"

"You're separated, then?"

"No," I answer, cheeks burning. "Carter went missing. Several weeks ago. A boating accident."

Luke's spine seems to stiffen. He sits straighter, taller. Eyes narrowing, disturbed. "I'm so sorry," he says. "I didn't realize. . . ."

"I know."

"I noticed you were still wearing your ring, but I try not to speculate."

"They haven't found him," I say. "They found the boat. But not the . . ." It physically hurts to think the words. "Not Carter."

"You're holding out hope, then?"

I study the ring, my blue diamond, spinning it around my finger. "I'm a realist," I say. "It is what it is."

"And what is that?"

"An accident. A tragedy. An unfortunate mishap. Depending on the news source." A tiny laugh. "But then, my past is littered with those." I blow against my coffee, sit back, feel my forehead with my palm, face simmering with embarrassment. "God, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't be telling you this."
 

"I believe all our pasts are riddled with unfortunate mishaps," Luke says.

"Yeah, you're probably right. Anyway, I had some ideas. About your candidate, I mean," I go on, changing the subject.

"You know, I'd rather not discuss politics," Luke confesses, tossing his napkin to the table. "That's not why I accepted your invitation. It's not even why I approached you last evening." He glances sideways, distracted. "The truth is I was desperate for a reason to speak to you."

The confession affects me in the most unexpected ways. In my pulse as it flutters, my breath as it shallows. 

"Besides," he continues. "Youth vote or not, he'll win."

"Really. You're that confident," I reply, unconvinced, but grateful for the preserver in this conversation—something to hold on to. This anchor to keep me grounded.

"Absolutely. My candidates never lose." His eyes twinkle, knowing. Behind them, a closet of secrets.

The topic shifts again, the waitress removes our empty dessert plates, and I lose count of the number of drinks Luke consumes. It's not until I realize we're the only ones left in the dining room that I think to check the time and apologize for keeping him so long.

Luke leans back in his seat, eyes glassy, without an edge, all hollow green—sparkling and beautiful. "Don't apologize. I had a wonderful time."

  "Me too. It was nice, you know, to talk to someone." And it's not until the words are spoken that I recognize the truth in them.

"The pleasure's entirely mine. I appreciate your inviting me."

I wave toward the bar, collecting our waitress's attention. "I can't believe I lost track of time like that. I'm surprised they didn't kick us out earlier, to be honest."

"Trust me," Luke says, polishing off the remaining drink. "We're the last people in this hotel they want to offend."

"It's just that . . . I used to wait tables," I explain. "And I hated when people hung around after closing. Here I am, sweeping the floors and flipping chairs over. . . . It's like, take a hint, you know?"

He laughs. "Nothing a little extra tip money wouldn't take care of, I'm sure."

"Yeah. Unfortunately, real life doesn't work that way."

"Your check?" I take the leather folio from the waitress before Luke has a chance, open it, eyes scanning the bill, staggering when I reach the total. 

Shit.

I fight to sustain composure, even as my hand shakes filling in the number for a generous tip, easing the sting of having to wait. "Please bill this to my room," I say, handing it back to her. When I glance at Luke, he's eyeing me curiously. "My idea, my treat," I explain, flashing a confident smile.

He calls the waitress by name, who quickly returns. "Please put that on
my
tab," he corrects.

"Absolutely, Mr.
Castellani
."

She vanishes, disappearing before I find words to argue, because when Luke
Castellani
speaks,
everyone
listens.  

T
WENTY-THREE

We say goodnight at the lobby elevator, though Luke offers to walk me to my room. At some point between pushing the chair beneath the table and pressing the arrow pointing up, it's dawned on me that we just spent hours together and I still know nothing about him. I have no clues. No insight as to who he is. What I do know is that I won't get away with killing him in this hotel. Not with so many people around, curious and watching. What I need is to build trust. A relationship.  

He waits by the penthouse elevator, key in hand.

"We should do this again," I suggest.

"I'd like that."

He's still smiling when the elevator doors close between us.

"Enjoy your evening?"

I jump, fear prickling my skin. "Jesus!" I hiss.

"Jesus can't help you now, sweetheart," Viola says.

I study her through the reflection in platinum doors. Same furious red hair. Same tattoos snaking up her arm. As if she never disappeared. This night the same as all the others—the fire at Ernie's, the fire at the warehouse. She's still bashing my head against mirrors. Still shoving my head below water.

"I thought I asked you to stay close by," she continues.

The elevator lifts. "As if you're not watching. Like you don't know where I am every
second
of every day."

A sinister smile. "Point taken. Travelling without your
husband
?" The word rolls from her lips like some kind of poison. I face her, eyes narrowing, take both hands and shove her hard against the shoulders. She falls back, stumbling, surprised, smashing the side of the elevator as we rise. I lift the hem of my skirt, reach for the gun.

"There are cameras," she reminds me, tucked in the corner. "And you don't know if they can see me or not. Besides, you already tried that once. It didn't end well."

I freeze, remembering; fix my dress, standing taller.

The elevator dings.

"Where is Seth? What did you do to him?"

"Let's focus on the present for a moment." The doors open. We step into the hallway—alone—walk toward my room. "What are you doing with Lucien
Castellani
?" she asks, voice low.

"His name is Luke."

A sharp laugh. "So that's what he's going by now? His real name is Lucien."

"I know his real name," I say, rooting around my bag, searching for my key. I'd probably go by Luke, too, if I were him."

"He used to wear the name proudly."

I slip the key into the lock. The light flashes green. Viola follows me inside.