The flight wasn’t as long as the one to Rio, but it was long enough. On this occasion, I spent the time reading Robert Ludlum.
It was almost nine pm when a taxi dropped me off in front of El Deseo del Corazón’s stone and glass porte-cochere. A uniformed doorman opened the door and murmured, “Good evening, sir.”
“Good evening.” I entered the hotel and walked to the front desk.
The clerk looked up and gave me a professional smile. “Good evening, sir. Are you checking in?”
“No. I’m here to see one of your guests. James Trevalyan.”
“Mr Trevalyan isn’t in, I’m afraid.”
Well, hell. “Do you have any idea when he’ll be back?”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t say.”
Bugger. I hadn’t thought much farther than finding him. I’d caught the first flight without bothering to pack. Would a hotel even allow m
