Page 21 of Beautiful Secrets

7

Cole

The private elevator stops on the top floor of Edinburgh’s most prestigious hotel and opens up to the immaculately furnished penthouse suite.

It’s all gold-veined black marble, luxurious cream-colored wallpaper, and gold faucets in here. The furniture and most furnishings are white—from the fur rugs to the multitude of throw pillows on the boxy, ultra-contemporary sofas. I’ve never been a fan of the decor, but they do a grilled cheese with sweet potato fries that’s more addictive than crack.

And I would know.

Then there’s the view.

Edinburgh at night is breathtaking and, I dare say, almost as captivating as the little rabbit I’m holding by the scruff of her neck.

She’s trembling under my hand. Her feet hesitant as I push her deeper into the suite’s lounge—a massive open-plan area that includes an eight-seater gold-and-glass dining table, a black and gold kitchen, and the entertainment area with its hidden television, day beds, and pool table.

Mika.

A diminutive name for a scrap of a girl with more fight in her than I’d have thought possible.

God, what acraic. I thought I was being hijacked by a teenage boy when she was pulling that deep, throaty voice.

But the gun she had in her hand was no joke. And she looked like she knew how to use it which is why I didn’t try and disarm her the second she pointed it at the back of my head.

Her clothes threw me off, too.

With her back to me, I can finally take in every inch of her.

Baggy gray sweat pants. A light-colored hoody with sweat stains at the pits. Platinum blond hair sways around her head as she turns to take in the room.

As if sensing my eyes on her, she reluctantly glances at me over her shoulder.

And then there are her eyes. Prettiest I’ve ever seen. Pale blue irises with a dark blue ring around the edge. Wide and uneasy, but not filled with the same terror I saw in the elevator.

For now, at least.

“Want a drink?”

She follows me, turning in a circle as I head for the kitchen. I put my 9mm on the marble countertop and turn my back on it as I head for the black mirrored fridge.

Her eyes go to the gun, then back to me. Then to her own reflection in the fridge.

Mika’s hands fist at her side.

“Lessee what we got.” I open the fridge door. “Orange juice. Soda. Milk.” When I close the door, she’s running for the gun.

A smile pulls at my mouth as she snatches up the piece and aims it at me. “Give me your car keys!” she snaps, holding out her hand.

“Is that a no for the milk?” I ask, holding out the bottle. “Goes great with some cookies. Think there’s some oat and raisin around here—”

“Shut up, and give me keys!” She comes a little closer, her arm slowly stopping its erratic trembling.

Someone’s definitely trained her, and whoever it was, they trained her well. When she comes to a stop, she slides into a good stance, and her grip is solid.

But it’s obvious she’s never pointed a gun at a real person before, let alone shot someone.

I’m not about to be her first.

“Think no one will hear the shot?” I ask, stepping closer.