Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Next, I lift a bit of caviar. I set that down as I stalk the young blond couple. The man has cowboyish looks, a Stetson, and alligator boots. The woman has a southern belle quality about her.
A peace settles around me as I come to terms with them being American.
My way out.
After a while, I have two champagne flutes in my hand, and I’m chatting up Fran and Billy. As they laugh at my jokes, I take a subtle glance over my shoulder. Although Al Rafi’s competing with another Arabian man, his inky black gaze links on mine as if attuned to my thoughts.
Play it chill, Luxxie.
“Fran,” I turn away from the sheikh and chat up the woman, “you’re quite the good luck charm.” I pat her shoulder as her husband plays Blackjack.
“Yes, my honey has all the charm in the world,” her husband, Billy, chimes in.
As he wins another fifty grand, I joke with Fran, who is clearly ready to go. I need a way to leave with them without causing a scene.
“Billy, we’ll miss the karaoke,” Fran finally says with an edge in her voice.
They smile at me. Billy tosses back his shot of bourbon and stands. For a moment, I’ve gotten too nervous to speak—my shy past returns with a vengeance—so I follow them to the elevator.
Get it together. You have a baby to protect, Luxxie!
My eyes latch onto one of the tux-wearing security guards. Speaking in the tiny receiver at his ear, he looks away from me.
I heave a relieved sigh as Fran mutters, “Well, we’re going to head on down to the club. Perhaps we’ll see you later.”
As they climb aboard, she doesn’t allow any extra room, although her husband is inviting. Uh oh. I think she thinks I’ve flirted with Billy.
“Oh, lemme tell you about the attraction a couple of blocks up.” I give them the New Yorker charm, whisking inside just in time.
They start to get out on the 143rd floor and quickly say another goodbye. A man, dressed in a shiny suit, begins to step inside. Heart walloping in my chest, I weigh my options: go straight to the first floor or get the fuck off now and find another elevator that he isn’t on.
Although he’s not wearing one of those ear-bud thingamajigs like Al Rafi’s other guards, tension coils my gut.
I start to get out. “Excuse me.”
His dark eyes connect with mine. He looks me up and down as I step out. About a hundred yards away, another set of elevators swooshes open.
Too frightened to check, I focus on how the doors behind me haven’t closed. Something tells me not to turn around to see if he’s still watching.
“Hello.” A woman in a skimpy red dress comes out of a hotel room, holding a cell phone to her ear. She quickly speaks in Arabic and then hangs up.
“Hi.” I turn to look at her, and in my peripheral, I notice that the man’s still holding the elevator door open as he pulls out his cell phone.
The woman waves me into her room. Without a moment’s contemplation, I step inside. Just as the door clicks shut, it hits me.
Could she be Princess Noor?
“I . . . Dayuna . . . I . . . Dayuna.” The strange beauty says words in her native tongue, clasping the strap of my dress.
“Get away from me!” I grab the back of her silky hair and yank.
I swiftly climb on top of her, nimble fingers wrapping around her neck. Tiny swats assault my arms as I imagine myself when the sheikh forces himself upon me in the future.
Or worse, Noor murdering my baby and me.
Compelled by a powerful motivation, I squeeze at the woman’s neck until her silky hands flop to the floor.
As I let go, her pretty face falls to the side, cheek hitting the marble with a thud.
I fall back onto my ass, my tailbone hitting the floor, jarring me back to reality. I committed murder.
Without a second to spare, I sneak toward the closet and look through the neatly arranged things.
All male.
I slip on a pair of luxurious, soft cotton pajama pants and a shirt. Instantly I pause, taking a full inhale of the shirt.
“Vi . . . Victor . . .” I groan, breathing in the smell that reminds me of him.
Lux, this isn’t the time for wallowing in sorrow.
I need the present. I pull on the dead woman’s flats.
I, Luxury, have only one mission.
To live.
10
Victor
The elevators zip open on the 143rd floor. Janae’s quickened pace matches mine. She’d uttered an apology in Arabic when learning from one of Al Rafi’s wives that Luxury had left the palace. Had come here.
“Dayuna has her. Your room, sir.”
“She has—”
“The girl. Cinnamon freckles.”
We move swiftly down the hallway.
I place the keycard in the lock and open the door. Janae gasps. Instincts hit like a thunderbolt. A bullet blazes past my head. Fuck, wearing the keffiyeh, a traditional male head covering, obstructs my peripheral vision.