Still, sometimes Evelyn wished she could hide away in Lucian’s condo forever, safely sheltered from the rest of the world. She’d spent her entire life outside of walls. Now she wanted to be within them and stay there. But she knew that wasn’t healthy.
Being born on the streets, literally, addicted to the heroin that ran through her mother’s veins like water, she’d slept on benches, under bridges, in barrels, on playgrounds, and many more unsavory places that would scare the shit out of a normal girl. It was enough to last a lifetime. She’d be happy with never going out again now that she knew what inside felt like. She was a homebody to the extreme. Maybe she should talk to someone about that, her obsession with home sweet home.
Her concern that she might be developing some sort of unhealthy dependence on her home was distracted the moment the limo pulled up to Patras. Ah . . . home.
She reached for the latch on the door just as Dugan pulled it open. He held out a hand and helped her to the sidewalk.
As always, the Patras Hotel was bustling with life. The place had a pulse of its own. There truly was no need to ever leave.
The hotel was its own little metropolis, complete with clothing stores, restaurants, bars, salons, art galleries, and over one thousand guest rooms.
She stepped onto the gold-tasseled red runner that no longer intimidated her, and Dugan followed her to the glass doors held open by Philippe, who was dressed in Patras livery.
“Good evening, Mademoiselle Keats. Monsieur Patras left instructions for your packages to be left at the front desk and delivered to your suite later this evening. He also asked that you meet him at Vogue for supper at eight.” Vogue was the hotel’s main restaurant.
“Thank you, Philippe,” she said as she passed. Once they were a distance from the doorman, she turned to Dugan. “I only have the one bag. I can carry it. No need to bother the front desk.”
Dugan, who looked tired after an afternoon of following Toni Patras from store to store, cleared his throat. “Better do as Mr. Patras directed, Ms. Keats.”
She rolled her eyes. “No wonder you’re his favorite.”
The tiniest grunt of what could possibly be laughter sounded in his throat. “I believe the title of favorite has been given to someone else.”
She playfully batted his shoulder and sighed. “Oh, Dugan, you sweet talker, you. Fine. I’ll wait for it to be delivered.”
“Very good, Ms. Keats.”
She tipped her head at his unshakable formality. “One of these days I’m going to get you to laugh, like, really laugh. Pee-your-pants laugh.”
“I doubt that, Ms. Keats.”
She dug in her little clutch for her room key. “We’ll see. Take it easy, Big D.” Waving at him with her keycard, she turned toward the bank of elevators.
The sophisticated whispers of the lobby silenced as the elevator doors closed. She sighed and leaned against the bronze mirrored wall of the car as it rushed up thirty floors with a hushed hum. She loved the clean sent of the elevators, the way guests’ perfume sometimes lingered in the air over the scent of the smartly polished tiled floor.
At the quiet ping announcing her arrival, the doors parted. She exited the elevator and took the hall to the private bank of elevators that lead to the master suites. Sliding her room key through the slot, she entered the antiquated car that was more like a gilded cage than a means of transportation. Once she was on her way, she slipped off her kitten heels and moaned as the blood flowed back into her tired toes.
As she scooped up her shoes, fantasies of sliding out of her jeans and into her robe filled her mind. How long until Lucian would be home? If dinner was at eight she still had a few hours. Maybe she would nap. She hated when he wasn’t around. He made everything more fun.
The elevator slowed, eased to a stop and quietly opened. Stepping into the private entrance of their suite, she swiped her keycard again and entered the silent condo. The lights were off and the sun was fading, painting the gray shadows in a muted golden tone. By the door her shoes dropped with a muffled clunk to the plush carpet, and she removed her scarf.
Dropping her clutch to the table in the hall, she began unbuttoning her coat and heading toward their bedroom. As she focused on the buttons, a shadow passed by the blurred edge of her peripheral vision. Turning quickly, she screamed as hands suddenly grabbed her shoulders, forced her pivoting feet to reverse, and pressed her front firmly into the cool papered wall.
“Not a word,” a deep masculine voice whispered, soft lips pressing over her hair and into the shell of her ear. Panic gave way to relief as her ears recognized his voice at the same moment her nose registered his familiar scent.