The Export by J.K. Kelly (read along books txt) 📕

“Hold on,” one of Tilton’s security team said, raising a hand toward Matt’s chest to physically stop him if necessary.

Matt looked around and took in everything he could. One nondescript guard with an earpiece and a bored look stood at the door to the suite, another of the same size, shape, and demeanor stood at the opposite end of the hallway, watching the emergency exit staircase door. The fire alarm pull was to the left of the exit doorway and a red firebell was mounted above it. This guard, the largest of the three, had positioned himself in front of Matt and planted his feet firmly in the middle of the hallway.

“This isn’t the lobby,” Matt garbled, allowing the scent of the Jäger to tell the sentry that this was just a drunk attendee, too drunk to have removed his event badge before the meetings had even started.

“No, sir,” the guard stated, Matt noticing a slight softening in the man’s demeanor. He was clearly the alpha, lean and mean, and judging from the flat-top haircut, a former Marine and perhaps special forces.

“Just jump back in the elevator, and we’ll get you headed in the right direction.” The guard walked Matt back to the gold-mirrored elevator door, both men looking at the reflection of the other as they awaited its return. The bell sounded, the door slid open, and the guard guided the lost man into the elevator and then reached to push the L button to send him to the lobby or anywhere else but that floor.

When the doors opened, a much sturdier, more sober American operative left the elevator and headed back down the main hallway to the restaurants and lounge bar. He hoped she’d still be there, but based on his observations and experience, he realized he probably had blown his chance.

The bar was crowded and noisy, and the stools they had occupied were now taken by two other attendees deep in conversation about global warming, soccer, or whatever. He scanned the room. She was gone.

Disappointed, Matt stepped as close to the bar as possible and waived to the bartender for service. No more of that damn Jäger, he thought. A voice whispered into his ear. Matt knew the voice, the accent, her scent, and grinned as he turned to face her. Their eyes met, and she returned the smile.

“That was quick. I barely had time to take a leak,” she joked. “Now, what’s for dinner?”

Matt knew the area well but was concerned that tourists would have crowded every restaurant to capacity by now. Except for one, maybe.

“You like Italian food?” he asked.

She didn’t need to answer; she took his arm and guided him out into the hallway. “Lead the way, George!”

A quick five-minute walk back up the Grand Allee and Matt went up three steps, past two couples waiting for a table, and into the restaurant named Au Parmesan. The décor was made up of old wine bottles, now corked with lit, melting candles, red-and-white tablecloths, and photos of movie stars and sports heroes who had dined there over the years. An old man strolled between the tables in the small rooms, playing Volare on his accordion.

“I know the owner,” Matt called out to Eve as he waved for her to come up the steps and into the room on the right side of the restaurant.

Within a minute of his arrival, the host had quickly cleared a window table that had just been vacated, tossing on a new tablecloth like a matador with a cape. Two waiters worked as if performing a racing pit stop to reset the table and pull back chairs for their guests.

After an intimate candlelight dinner that had started with the first bottle of red wine and ended after their signature trio dish, then strawberry shortcake and coffee for him, Matt paid the bill and escorted his guest down the steps and back toward the hotel.

“The maître d’ used to have a basket of strawberries or blueberries always at the ready. He’d toss them to passing tourists and kids,” Matt told her as they walked. “But then some dipshit who couldn’t catch got a strawberry stain on her dollar-store dress and sued the place.”

“What a shithead,” Eve protested.

“So that was the end of the tossed fruit.”

Eve laughed hard enough that she snorted and then was embarrassed at the noise she had made. He laughed at her, and that made her laugh even more until she finally calmed down and caught her breath.

“So you called me George?” he stated. “You don’t recall I said my name was Matt?”

She smiled, and they continued to walk toward the Chateau. “I was just busting on you,” she said. “You no doubt get that all the time.”

Matt kept walking and looked to his left, where four horse-drawn carriages awaited their next tourists, the sound of their shod hooves clacking restlessly on the cobblestones of the old city.

“Want to take a ride?” he asked but didn’t hear an answer. He looked to Eve, who seemed to have something else in mind.

“Well, the first one should be in an elevator,” she told him. Without further delay they were on their way up to Matt’s room on the tenth floor. Leclerc wanted him as close to Tilton as possible without setting off any sirens, and Matt had agreed. They waited until an elderly couple ascending with them slowly exited on the third level.

“I have to warn you, I prefer bathrooms with lots of mirrors and prefer standing,” he told her. “I like to watch.”

“That’ll work. I can check my hair and makeup while you have your way with me,” she responded, laughing. In the morning, the sun shining brightly into Matt’s hotel room, he reached for the alarm on his phone and realized she was gone.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Room service at any high-end hotel can be a treat, even a life saver, and the knock at the door signaled relief