Before I follow, I take my own bags, frowning when I see the smaller, lavender one. This is the bag my staff packed for her. They anticipated she was coming with me. My heart lurches.
I consider leaving it in the car, but I can’t bear to be separated from her things. My staff doesn’t know we broke up yet.
I take her bag with me.
I go up to the room and have a strange feeling that something’s off, but I'm so distracted that I haven’t paid attention. Have I been followed?
I look to my left and right, but the men are both familiar blokes. They follow me to my room and stand outside my door as I get dressed.
The next step of this plan needs to go off perfectly if my plan with Leith is going to happen.
I have to seal the deal with Mademoiselle Black. I need to do it in such a way that it excludes the Aitkens clan. If I arrange the deal correctly, Aitkens will be stonewalled.
I know what I have to do. And I know that if I do this correctly, if I seal the deal, then we don't have to worry about getting vengeance on the Aitkens with Bryn because this will do it instead. By then, I can prove to the Clan that Bryn isn’t out to hurt me.
I pace my hotel room, unable to settle. My clothes are tossed in a bag by the closet. I haven’t even taken my shoes or suit coat off. I’m preparing myself mentally for meeting with Mademoiselle Black.
It's too early to go and meet my contact, but I can't stay in this room any longer. I freshen up in the toilet. Throw cold water on my face and run my fingers through my hair. I stretch, try to limber up. I exit the room and punch the number on the elevator to take me downstairs.
But every thought is on Bryn. I can hear her voice, I can see her eyes, I can feel her in my arms.
I'm determined to seal this deal.
As I left the room, I had a sneaking suspicion again that I was being followed.
“Have you seen anything suspicious?” I ask my guards.
“No sir.” But I haven't been raised in the Cowen Clan without knowing things, and I know when I'm being followed. There's no question about it. Someone's after me.
Could it be Mademoiselle Black that’s come to see me?
Or someone else?
I take the elevator to the rooftop bar, where I’m to meet her.
I check my vest, I check my pockets. I know I have all my weapons if I need them.
I remember her soft voice, her head on my chest, the way I held her after I punished her and she cried.
The doors to the rooftop floor open.
I remember the way she laughs so easily, her witty sense of humor, the way she drinks her coffee, as if she relishes every drop.
My shoes click on the marble floor as I walk down the long hallway that takes me to the rooftop bar.
I remember my fingers in her hair, all tangled, when I give her a tug, the way her mouth parts and I capture her mouth with mine.
The doors to the bar slide open, and I enter, my guard at a safe distance behind me.
She’ll be at the bar. Wearing all black.
But the bar’s nearly vacant.
“Puis-je vous aider, Monsieur?"
I tell him I’m looking for someone in the rooftop bar.
God, the first night I held her, the first time we were together, we were on a rooftop. I remember every vivid detail of that night.
What she wore, her sweet, intoxicating scent, the way she responded to me when I pinned her wrists and made her come.
I shake my head, trying to snap myself out of my memory. I have to focus. I have to do it for my family. I have to do it for Bryn.
There are only four people at the bar. There’s only one wearing all black, clutching a silver bag.
I come to a halt. I stop and stare. It can’t be.
“Bryn?”
She turns to me, and it all hits me at once.
She’s wearing black. All black. She doesn’t look surprised to see me at all.
Bryn is Mademoiselle Black?
“What are you doing here?” I’m caught between the desire to run to her and kiss her, and to haul her over my knee for putting herself in so much fucking danger. “How did you get here?”
“I’ll tell you later, Mac,” she says quietly. “Have a seat, please.”
She wears a sad smile as she gestures at the barstool across from her.
“I’ve already ordered our drinks.”
I sit on the stool, eying her warily.
“What’s going on?” I cast a glance at the drinks beside me.
“You can trust me,” she says softly, and her voice wobbles a little. “Your drink is fine.” She jerks her chin at the bartender. “If you don’t trust me, have him pour another for you.”