Access All Areas: HarperImpulse Contemporary Fiction. Charlotte Phillips

shot and had missed her chance.

       Chapter 3

      Joe Marshall spread his hands.

      ‘Excuse me for a moment,’ he said to the room. ‘I’ll just take the opportunity to brief your housekeeping assistant on the security update for the day.’

      As Anna floundered, he took her by the elbow and escorted her from the suite with zero fuss or fanfare. For all Betsy and Kip knew, no one more threatening than a chambermaid had entered their perfect bubble of happiness. Her heart sank as he closed the door of the Purple Suite behind them. She might have been able to somehow pass herself off as a guest after their first encounter, but there would be no second chances this time. He stood over her as she pushed the stupid linen trolley until they reached the end of the corridor, well clear of the Purple Suite and anyone who might emerge from it.

      As she came to a standstill he met her eyes with his stern grey ones.

      ‘Bedding change?’ she attempted brightly.

      ‘Really?’ he snapped. ‘Are you taking the piss?’ He held out a hand, palm-up. ‘Where’s the camera?’

      This whole thing had been doomed to failure. Her shoulders sagged.

      ‘How did you know?’ she said.

      A grin touched the corner of his mouth, lighting up the gorgeous face and causing another ill-judged surge of squidginess in her stomach. She imagined just how perfect he would look if the grin hadn’t been laced with sarcasm.

      ‘You are joking?’ he said. ‘Could you be any more conspicuous? Laurel and Hardy would do a better stakeout than you.’

      ‘I fooled the concierge,’ she countered defiantly.

      ‘He’d probably pass his own mother on the street.’

      She gazed innocently up at the ceiling.

      ‘Where’s the camera?’ he repeated, not to be distracted.

      She shrugged.

      ‘Don’t play games with me. I don’t have time for this. I’ll ask you one more time – where’s the camera?’

      She made the mistake of glancing at the huge pile of towels on the linen trolley and saw the instant flash of comprehension on his face. Less than five seconds later, he’d uncovered the camera underneath the top layer of towels, primed and ready for action.

      Bugger it.

      She followed him meekly down the stairs to the ground floor with a heavy heart, the laundry trolley abandoned somewhere on the second floor, toying with making a run for it as they crossed the lobby. Who was she trying to kid? The nearest she’d got to fitness this past year had been nipping to the corner shop to pick up her father’s newspaper, whereas Joe Marshall looked like he chased down errant photographers every day of the week. She braced herself for being kicked out onto the pavement in full embarrassing view of the gawping public.

      Instead, he showed her into what was apparently his office, a tiny room behind the reception and not far from the staff quarters. Floor plans of the hotel adorned the walls, along with what looked like staff rotas.

      ‘What’s this about?’ she said, a brief stab of concern in her gut as she wondered if he was going to call the police. She hadn’t really broken any laws, had she? Seeing as she hadn’t actually managed to cop a photo. Groping for a way to smooth things over, she wondered if she might be able to charm him into letting her go. It was a long shot at best – he probably had glamorous women throwing themselves at him constantly; he was hardly about to be seduced by boring Anna Clark from the back of beyond. Then again, anything was worth a try.

      ‘Sit down.’ He nodded at a beige office chair next to the desk.

      ‘I’m fine,’ she said.

      ‘Suit yourself.’

      Joe sat down behind the dark wood desk and leaned back in his own, larger chair, trying to keep his expression professionally neutral when his libido was zipping hotly into action at the view before him. The pink and grey hotel uniform was definitely not meant to look that sexy. Clearly too small, it hugged her every curve. The A-line skirt was a good couple of inches too short.

      He needed to focus. The Betsy Warrender booking was clearly not the top secret that he’d demanded it be. In short, that meant there was a security leak at the hotel, and when he found out who it was, heads would roll.

      ‘What’s your name?’ he asked. He really couldn’t keep thinking of her as Miss 214.

      ‘Are you going to call the police?’ she countered.