Page 19 of Beautiful Secrets

My head is spinning. How could I let this happen? I am the one with the goddamn gun, but I guess the Scot never really gave a crap about that.

“Do not stop,” I tell him. “Just drive past and go back.”

“Trust me, I’m doing you a favor.” He stops. Looks down at the gun. “Might want to disguise that. Put it in your pouch or something.”

He turns in his seat, and we lock eyes for the first time as my hoody falls down to my shoulders. He is so close, I can smell him. And that scent does something strange to my guts.

Cole drags his gaze over my face, and his lips quirk into a tiny smile. “There she is,” he murmurs. “Pretty little thing, aren’t you?”

6

Mika

My heart is hammering so hard against my chest, I know Cole can hear it. I am sure even the bellhop can hear it.

The gun is in the hoody’s pouch, still aimed at Cole. At least, I think it is. I am holding onto his arm, our sides close together as he leads us through the hotel lobby.

I keep trying to figure out a way to take control, to lead us back to the car, but I am truly panicking now. All it will take is someone noticing the shape in my pouch, perhaps the sweat by my hairline, to realize what is happening here.

And then what? They call the police?

What will happen if I get arrested? When the police find out who I am? I mean, I am the daughter of a notorious criminal for fuck’s sake.

Why couldn’t he just have taken me to the airport? Why is he trying to help me, or make it seem like he is?

My frantic thoughts refuse to stay still long enough for me to try and puzzle this out. I am running on automatic—a stiff doll moved by invisible threads.

Cole might as well be the one holding the gun.

“You doing okay?” he asks.

“Stop talking.”

“You look nervous. That’s gonna draw attention. Try reciting a nursery rhyme in your head.”

I almost stop walking. “A…rhyme?”

“You have those in Russia?”

I huff out a bitter laugh. “Yes, we have those in Russia, zjelob.”

Cole chuckles. “No offense, Miss Vasiliev.”

“Do not call me that.”

“I’d use your name but—”

“Where are we going?” I cut in when Cole angles toward an elevator separate from the main three with an ornate fretwork gate in front of its gleaming golden door.

The entire hotel is furnished in black and gold. The floors are dull golden tiles that reflect only a blur of the people walking over them.

And boy, are there a lot of people here. Couples mill about, most arm in arm, dressed like they’re going to a fancy dinner. It is surreal, and exciting, and absolutely nerve-racking.

“Penthouse,” Cole says. “I hope that meets with your approval.”

The word sounds familiar, but I cannot think of the meaning. Cole takes a black card out of his pocket and taps it against a panel beside the gate. A green glow lights up before the metal doors slide open. He pulls the gate to the side, and it closes in on itself like a concertina to allow us through.

The chamber is just wide enough that I think Cole could stretch out his arms and brush the opposite walls. But it is still a box—if a gleaming, golden one—and I do not like being inside it.