An Affair of Vengeance by Jamie Michele Read Free Book Online Page B

under heavy brows.
    She knew him on sight, although only from photographs. Cristobal Ménellier was a native Marseille boy made good—very good, judging by the flashy Rolex and gold jewelry dangling from his sleeve. He’d made his money as a street dealer, but his ruthless business savvy and uncanny ability to stay out of jail had helped him rise above the retail scene. He was a middleman now, higher up than Penard, and with his links to Kral, considerably more interesting.
    A flash of white by the stairs caught her eye. McCrea, dressed in khaki slacks and a white shirt, loped down the stairway that led to the guest rooms. His slim-cut pants showcased a pair of long, lean legs and narrow hips. He scanned the room, and his focus landed on Ménellier. A flicker of recognition contorted the Scotsman’s hard face as he changed course and walked into the lobby, toward Evangeline and her new friends. She continued her discussion with the local girls but let her voice fall conspiratorially, reducing her end of the prattle to exclamations and encouragements for them to continue their tales.
    “I believe we share an acquaintance?” McCrea’s low rumble was directed to Ménellier.
    Ménellier flashed straight, white teeth. “Serge is my brother-in-law. Calling him an acquaintance gives him far too much credit.”
    McCrea’s gaze swept over the three women on the couch.
    Evangeline leaned close to the girl nearest her, who had just recounted a tale of single-girl woe, and patted her leg affectionately. She thought they looked like three best friends and hoped McCrea thought the same. If he looked closely, she was sure he’d see her heartbeat pulsing in her throat.
    “Join me in my room?” McCrea asked Ménellier.
    The Frenchman nodded and followed McCrea toward the stairs. Evangeline watched under thick bangs as McCrea and Ménellier walked out of sight.
    She excused herself from the girls and smiled at the concierge as she promenaded past the reception desk and up the gray concrete steps. Her rubber-soled platform sandals were silent as she tiptoed up the stairs. Ménellier tried to initiate small talk as the men walked, but McCrea was unresponsive. Someone opened the door at the fifth-floor landing. Footsteps recurred and then faded as the door snapped shut behind them.
    She vaulted herself up the remaining steps and reached the landing just in time to hear the click-and-whoosh of a door opening and closing in the hallway beyond. She had to assume they’d gone inside a room.
    She opened the heavy stairwell door and found the corridor empty. Padding softly down the travertine-tiled hallway, she wondered which of the ten rooms they’d vanished into. Pressing her ear against each warm wooden door gave her nothing but silence. Either all the rooms were empty, or McCrea had activated some sort of white-noise device to prevent eavesdropping.
    No problem. Her bag contained, among other things, a sound-amplification tool that could detect such antisurveillance measures. She found it and held it up to each of the three doors closest to the stairwell. She heard nothing on the first two, but the door to suite 434 buzzed like a radio between stations.
    Bingo
.
    She assessed the door, which was unfortunately well crafted. Dropping to her knees, she tried to push her smallest surveillance device, which this morning was a hairpin, between the door and the metal sill, but the space was airtight. Pushing any harder might rattle the door. She’d have a hell of a time explaining what she was doing out there if they caught her.
    Damn. If she wanted to hear what they said—and she surely did—her only choice was to breach access from the room next door.
    Quickly, Evangeline walked to the empty suite next door and inserted a credit-card-size lock pick programmed with the hotel’s master key into the card reader. The door latch released with a little snap and she was inside the room in seconds. From studying blueprints last night, she knew