what our club has to offer.”
A shapely hostess breezed by Sam, and he could have sworn she patted his butt. “I think I can keep myself entertained,” he said.
They exited the lounge, and Aragon led the way to the waiting elevator. “This is Monique,” Aragon said, indicating the unsmiling woman Sam had seen on his way in. “She controls access to the lower level, but there’s just one more requirement.”
“Something else?” Sam had hoped to see the lower level tonight.
Monique gestured for him to enter, and then she instructed him to place his hand in a luminous dark green square next to the control panel. “Palm flat,” she said.
It was a palm scanner.
“Once we have your biometrics logged into the computer,” Monique said, “you’ll be allowed to come and go as you please. It shouldn’t take more than twenty-four hours.”
Sam wasn’t pleased, nor was he buying her biometrics gobbledygook. They were probably going to run a fingerprint check on him, too, which rarely took more than a few minutes, if you had no criminal record. For some reason he was being stalled; still there wasn’t much he could do about it now.
With one bright flash of the scanner, Sam was done. He stepped out of the elevator, and Aragon stepped in, probably intending to visit his office, said to be on the lower level. “We’ll continue our chat when I return,” he said. “Until then, enjoy. Any special requests, ask Angelic.”
As the doors closed on Jason Aragon, Sam nodded a warm and friendly farewell, all the while thinking, it won’t be long now, you arrogant bastard.
ALLY HESITATED in the lobby of the Hotel Lafayette, wishing she could turn and leave as swiftly and silently as she’d entered. She’d come to search a man’s room, yet that wasn’t what had stopped her. It was her memories of this place. She’d been here just the day before to set up this mission, but she’d been able to keep the past at bay until now.
The lobby buzzed with elegant guests. Its marble pillars and domed ceiling had always reminded her of the rotunda of a state building. However, today its grandeur made her feel disheveled and dirty. Her skirt was off-kilter, and she’d just noticed a smear of red clay ground into the hip.
She took cover near a potted palm and brushed at the fabric, trying not to be too obvious. Her best suit! She’d ruined it. The emotions flooding her had little to do with her clothing. This was the hotel where her mother and father had stayed when they’d come to New Orleans to save her from a fate worse than death—ruining the family name.
“Miss, is there something wrong? Can I help you?” a perturbed young man in red livery asked her. Although he had enough brass on his uniform to command an army, he was likely just a hotel clerk.
“No, I’m fine,” she said, hoping her nerves didn’t show. “I have a spot on my skirt. Is there a ladies’room nearby?”
He looked as if he wanted to hustle her out the back door. He obviously thought she was an interloper, maybe even a hooker. She’d love to tell him who she really was and blow his mind, but he’d never believe her. She was wearing a dirty suit with a miniskirt and a plunging neckline—of course, he wouldn’t believe her.
“Down that hallway to your right, miss.”
“Thank you.” Ally squared her shoulders, proceeding with as much dignity as she could muster, which should have been considerable. Grace under fire had been drilled into her as child. In her parents’ eyes, decorum was everything, as important as breathing.
She knew the clerk was watching her, and fortunately, the ladies’ lounge was out of his eyeshot. Unfortunately, there was an attendant on duty in the lounge, and the woman’s reaction was even more disapproving than the clerk’s. Her grimace made Ally cringe.
Ally had planned to clean herself up at one of the sinks, but instead she locked herself in the nearest stall and used water from the toilet. Not one of her finer moments. As she dabbed the clay specks from her skirt, she almost wished the clerk had tried to throw her out. Maybe then she would have told him that her parents had once been guests in the presidential suite, and if pedigree mattered so much, he might like to know she was actually a princess.
Of course, he might not be so impressed with a royal family who’d been exiled and had their holdings seized by a cabal of despots. If Ally’s parents hadn’t had Swiss accounts, they would have been destitute. As it was, they’d been able to live a comfortable life and set up trusts for both their daughters.
The attendant knocked sharply on the stall door. “What are you doing in there?”
“What do you think I’m doing?” Ally bent over and flushed the toilet to make her point. The attendant retreated, and Ally did the best she could with her outfit. Moments later, armed with a haughty look, she came out of the stall, gave the woman a five-dollar bill and told her to keep the change. She swung through the lounge door and strode across the lobby, making sure the clerk saw her leave. She didn’t stop walking until she was out of the hotel and in the parking lot, safe from prying eyes.
Okay. Now what, genius?
She was trembling by the time she got to her car. She couldn’t very well have gone up to Sinclair’s room after drawing so much unwanted attention. And if she’d had a choice, she would have been on a plane back to her apartment in Georgetown that night. The hotel brought back the all-night ordeal with her parents, every heartrending moment of it. They’d begged her not to tarnish the family name by getting involved with someone as notorious as Aragon. Their real mission, however, had been to persuade her to return to London and marry the man they’d chosen for her, a wealthy industrialist who could restore the Danner riches and their position in society.
The pressure on Ally had been intense, and it had started when she was seventeen and about to graduate from Alderwood. Her father had called, insisting she leave school and come to London to plan her own wedding. The prospect had struck horror in her heart, but she’d promised to return if he would let her graduate. He’d agreed, and she’d returned, prepared to do her duty, but she hadn’t expected her betrothed to be an overbearing man in his midfifties, whose ideas about marriage were even more antiquated than her parents, and who would furtively grope and paw her under the table on their first dinner date. The bastard had wanted some return on his investment before the deal was done.
Ally pleaded with her father to call off the wedding, but couldn’t make him understand that such an arrangement would never work for her. Desperate, she ran away, back to the States, where she worked her way through college by waitressing, and then, to ensure that she could never be forced into marriage, she devised a plan to “ruin” herself and become unacceptable to anyone else her father might choose. Jason Aragon had proved to be the perfect choice. She’d met him in New Orleans during spring break, never suspecting that he would become an even more dangerous trap than the one she’d escaped.
And now he had her sister.
Vix was paying the price for Ally’s mistakes, and Ally had to get her back safely. She couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t, but how could she get up to Sinclair’s room? She remembered a back elevator to the presidential suite that might open up on the other floors as well. The staff used it to deliver room service or whatever was needed to the suite. Now, if she could just find it without being spotted.
3
ALLY COULD SEE the headline now: Jail time for princess nabbed for breaking and entering. Glancing down at the stain on her skirt, she saw that she’d rubbed bits of white toilet paper into the red clay. Charming. All she needed was an ankle tattoo. Maybe a coiled snake or some lovely barbed wire.
Was she really going to do this?
She’d entered the hotel through a back entrance and found the staff elevator without being noticed. As she rode up to Sinclair’s room on the fifth floor, doubts assailed her. She hadn’t broken any laws yet. It wasn’t a crime to