Raw Deal

2. Four-Inch Heels

2Four-Inch HeelsThe hotel lobby stretched out on either side for what looked like miles. It was all the same: long, narrow, and bleak. Cream walls were bisected at regular intervals by abstract artwork, matching cream doors identified room numbers in cheap gold, and acres of multicolored low pile carpeting sported a repetitive cross-hatched design.

It was the sort of carpet that it would not be good to look at with a hangover.

Soren was searching for the elevator to take him up to the penthouse, but it was an upmarket place, the kind to hide the lift behind a phony double door—utility replaced by aesthetics. A far too familiar knot of tension twisted in his stomach. Aesthetics had its place, in Georgian town houses back in London for instance, or in the great churches of Paris and Rome, but not here. This place was a testament to the fake lunacy of Vegas architecture. It was designed to deceive, to disguise, to—

Dammit!

He stomped up and down the hallway for a second time, his temper starting to rise as high as the blast furnace outside. For once, it wasn’t the Risings causing the heat; it was simply the Nevada sun doing its best to beat all patience and reason out of the occupants of this overheated city.

The elevator pinged, and he chased down the sound to the far right of the corridor. The doors to the lift didn’t open, but a tiny downward-pointing arrow had lit up green when it floated past the floor and onward to the lobby.

At least he knew where the damn thing was now.

His stomach relaxed a little, but he still smacked roughly at the call button with the side of his fist. The plaster around the button crumbled slightly leaving white powder on his hand that he rubbed away with the other—

Destroy! That was it. Vegas architecture was designed to destroy all those who entered inside. To chip away at them until only dust was left.

He waited, breathing slowly, and trying not to stare at the gold painted frames around the horrendous artwork.

Cold breezes from the air conditioning blew across the top of his head, ruffling his long blond hair until he pushed it firmly back behind his ears. At chin-length, it was still manageable, but just washed, like now, it was too soft to stay put for long. The air flowed down into the open neck of his white shirt and light gray jacket. A welcome sensation. He’d gone back to his hotel room after the job at the apartment, and changed out of the fatigues and tee he usually wore when working. But a shirt and suit, no matter how impeccable the quality, were difficult to pull off in the heat, and the skin of his neck and cheeks buzzed too warm.

Another ping and the elevator finally opened its doors with a welcoming whoosh!

Inside stood a woman. She wore a low-cut black evening dress, even though it was just after lunch time, dagger-thin high heels that could skewer an eyeball, and black lace elbow-length gloves. He stared at her for a beat, taking in the ensemble, then nodded—a polite acknowledgment of her presence rather than approval of her outfit. He took a place in the elevator beside her.

She smiled, and asked with a raise of one impeccable eyebrow, “Going up?”

“Yes, the penthouse, thank-you.”

She nodded, and re-pressed the penthouse button although it was already lit, then cast the back of her hand under the sheet of jet black hair to lift it from her neck for a moment, as though his entrance had disturbed a few of the straight shiny strands. It hadn’t. The perfect central parting stood out white against the smooth ebony locks. Once her hair was tamed to her satisfaction, she stood motionless once more, staring forward at the doors, barely breathing.

Her movement had disrupted the flow of air in the small space, and he caught the smell of her perfume—fresh spring rain on a warm summer’s day. Within seconds it transformed to the tang of ripe peaches just picked from the tree, juicy and soft. All of his favorite scents.

The energy in the elevator seemed to oscillate. It made him shift his weight slightly further forward and place his feet half a pace more apart. The effect of the speed of their ascent, maybe.

Soren risked another side glance at her. That hair was incredible: thick and shiny, with just a hint of midnight blue, the magpie he’d seen earlier flashed again into his mind. He pushed the image away, it did her a disservice. Her hair reached to the middle of her back in one long heavy curtain. Sweltering, but she didn’t look hot. Not in that sense anyway. Christ, am I turning into Billy? That guy could never say anything without an undercurrent of s****l innuendo.

They traveled together up the remaining forty floors while Dolly Parton crooned about the femme fatale Jolene via the piped background music. It was one his mother used to sing to him when he was a young child. He frowned, thinking about it now, it seemed an odd choice.

The woman moved again. She began to play with the long twist of cream-colored pearls around her neck, lifting each one to her lips in turn and sucking on it very slightly. As the seal between each solid bead and her wet lips broke, there was a tiny smacking sound, and she moved onto the next like she was performing some fetishistic rosary. Before long, Soren was counting both the regularity of the smacks with the beats of the song.

He dwarfed her. His six-foot-three muscular body filled almost half the lift space, while her slight frame only reached his chin, even with the four-inch heels. Curious, he tried to catch a good view of her face, but couldn’t seem to get a proper glimpse. So, instead, he peered at her reflection in the dull mirroring of the lift’s interior. He still couldn’t make her out, the metal appeared to undulate under his gaze.

With a slight lurch, the lift stopped, and the doors opened. He wrenched his attention away from his companion and stared directly into the penthouse suite at the very top of the hotel.

The woman quickly stepped out. She turned slightly to look at him over her shoulder as she went. “Nice to meet you, Soren Huxford.” The accent was English with a twang of something else. French?

With a flash of azure eyes, she was gone, and for a moment, he felt… lost.

The sound of the gun c****d level with his head broke the daze.