The Darkest Midnight. R. A. Finley

anyone come to mind?”

      Curiouser and curiouser. “Abby—no, I didn’t mean it like that,” she said at his delighted grin. “Abby, in the elevator. She called Cassie a bitch.”

      “Did she?”

      He knew very well that she had. Devious man, telling her things without telling her things...and thus keeping himself out of trouble with the hotel and whatever other arrangements he had going.

      Looking smug, he leaned back in his chair. “Although, come to think of it, I’ve heard that the lady near the head of the Brigantium can be a right terror as well.”

      “Beatrice is here?”

      “Not to my knowledge, no.” He raised his hands in disavowal. His shirt cuffs slid, exposing the leather ones worn at each wrist. “Yet with the Holidays, as you know, it’s near impossible to track all the comings and goings in the vale.”

      Yes, but. (And how interesting that he’d said vale, not valley.) “Wouldn’t she most likely stay here?”

      The Brigantium had connections all over the world, sure, but the Landmark would best suit. Security and luxury. Just what the exclusive and well-moneyed group would be drawn to.

      She said as much to Murphy, flattered his ego a bit with it in the process—and for good measure gifted him with her best impression of awed subservience. She may have overplayed the innocently arched brows and wide eyes, because he grimaced.

      “That’s more frightening than all your shows of power.”

      She batted her lashes, making him laugh outright.

      And then he waved her off. “Stop, I beg you. I’ll not be telling you what you want to know.” He leaned forward, still smiling, and once more took up his pen. “Now leave me be. I’ve got all this to get through before dawn.”

      “It was worth a try,” she said pleasantly and stood. The door’s lock disengaged on approach, and she set her hand on the knob.

      Dammit. She couldn’t not say it. On a hard breath, she turned back. “Murphy.”

      He lifted his head, no longer smiling. Wary. “Aye?”

      “Thank you again for before.” She struggled to get the words past her usual guards. “My career, it—well, it means a lot to me. I could have lost it if you hadn’t stepped in.”

      “‘Tis a fine thing to be thanked for one’s own self-interest.” He returned to work. “You’re a good manager. One this hotel would hate to lose at any time of year. With the Holidays upon us? You’re damn near indispensable.” He shot her a look beneath his brows. “As you well know. Now get out. One of us needs to be rested and alert tomorrow and it isn’t likely to be me.” He pulled over a calculator.

      “I owe you, anyway.” She stepped out.

      He grunted, tapping on the keypad.

      She was closing the door when his voice made her pause.

      “Should the high-and-mighty Beatrice Meriwether ever seek accommodation in this fair city, I should think she’d ask members of her organization for recommendations.”

      Kendra tried to understand what he was getting at. Or rather, guiding her to. “Would they speak well of the Landmark?”

      “If they had chosen to stay in it.” His mouth quirked as he shrugged. “I believe the third floor would be very much to their taste.”

      Ah. Kendra felt herself smile. “Thanks—again. For the help.”

      “Earlier?” he said, a deliberate misunderstanding. “Aye. I’m a slave to self-interest, I am.”

      Kendra wasn’t so sure. “Good night, Murphy.”

      He flicked a hand over the paperwork. “If you say so.”

      She laughed, closed the door. The lock clicked.

      

      Pine Meadow

      Thia sat on the guest room’s iron-framed bed, her knees pulled up to her chest. The decor was what she termed “country cute:” A worn rag rug on a light pine floor, curtains printed with pastel checks and trimmed in eyelet lace, tatted doilies on the dresser and bedside table.

      It didn’t seem Abby’s preferred style. The rest of the house was done in darker wood and bolder colors. And since Thia had found herself unwilling to turn out the lights and (consequently or not) unable to sleep, she had had ample opportunity to contemplate the oddity.

      Contemplate but come to no conclusion.

      As with so many things.

      Had that been Cormac? She’d been so sure before the chase to the elevator. But, gradually, doubt had crept in. She dropped her head to her knees, thunked it a few times for good measure.

      What would it mean if it were?

      Easy. It would mean that he couldn’t be bothered to reveal himself, that’s what.

      She wasn’t being fair. It was possible, after all, that he couldn’t reveal himself to her because….

      After several attempts to fill in the blank, she gave up. But just because she couldn’t supply a reason, that didn’t mean he didn’t have one.

      Then again, she might be making excuses.

      Unnecessary excuses, since she was probably mistaken, anyway, and Cormac was not currently—and most likely would never be—in Granite Springs. Abby could be right; Thia was projecting, seeing him where he wasn’t because she wanted him to be there. She was going to drive herself crazy.

      So, then what was the deal with Connor Michaels?