Hotel Indigo by Aubrey Parker Read Free Book Online

speaking to him as if I’ve ordered him to stay away (and he’s therefore violating some request by being here now) will only make me look crazy.  
    “Um, yes?” I manage to say.  
    There’s a split second between my almost-question and the moment he speaks. Yet that fractional moment stretches into eternity. His eyes are pits of coal. I don’t feel like he’s looking at me so much as through me. Or into me — through my clothes and skin into the core of my being. I feel assessed, weighed, judged. His lips form a cruel little line — and looking at them, I’m sure he hates me, even without knowing me at all. Somehow this man is against me.  
    That’s when it hits me: he’s here because I saw his outburst. I’m a witness. I saw something he didn’t want me to see. And now that he has me alone, and I’ve foolishly opened the door without so much as a chain between us, he’s going to knock me back, pin me down, and perch above me like a beast of prey while I fight for breath.  
    Then he’ll end me, and I’ll be helpless to stop him.  
    “You requested a massage, Miss White?” He says it politely enough, but I feel certain that satire lurks behind his words — just the slightest lift of one side of his lips.  
    Miss White, he said. Like it’s Princess White to him, and he’s not buying my fancy-girl posturing at all.  
    “Oh.”  
    “I’m Marco.” He doesn’t offer his hand.
    “Nice to meet you, Marco,” I say without meaning it. I was hoping to avoid this man for the whole week, at all costs. “Is the masseuse ready? I know where the cabanas are. I’ll be down in five minutes.” Then I decide that’s not fast enough. He’s said all of six words to me, but those hard eyes have uttered hundreds more. I correct myself, to appease him: “Two minutes. I just need to …”  
    I trail off when he turns away from me mid-sentence, as if I’m boring him.
    “So, two minutes,” I repeat, then start to close the door. He puts a hand out to stop it without looking over. This is all pedestrian to him, and he’s unable to hide the fact that I’m being an idiot and doing this — whatever it is — all wrong.  
    His other hand takes something big that I didn’t notice from out in the hallway. His door hand pushes a little and I get a look that makes me raise my hands and take a step back, not wanting to offend this man by being in his way. He slides the large object inside my room, and I understand.  
    It’s a massage table.  
    They’ve sent this big, strong lug up ahead of the masseuse, to do the grunt work of setting up for her. I guess I’m having my massage in my room instead of down by the pool.
    “Oh. I’m sorry.” Apologizing is a stupid reaction. I try to laugh it off, but that comes off terribly, too. Why am I being such an idiot? I’m intimidated, I’m sorry, I’m a ditzy little schoolgirl apologizing for no reason.  
    The giant endures it, doing his job of delivering the massage supplies and ignoring the yammering dumbass. He sets the table down and reaches into the hallway for a smaller parcel — a small caddy with a handle in the middle, full of oils and implements.  
    “I didn’t realize the masseuse would be coming to me.”  
    “You’re right; this isn’t how it normally works.”  
    “Oh.” I get the feeling I’m supposed to say more. “Thanks.”  
    He looks up at me without raising his head. I get a flash of dark eyes rolling up from his downturned face, but no more.
    I try to peek down the hallway, looking for my masseuse behind him. But even though I’m positive he sees me looking, Marco closes the door to cut off my view. Now he’s in my room. I don’t like that the door is closed with him this near me.  
    “So you’ll just set up,” I say. It’s not a question. Why is my heart beating so fast? I’m supposed to be relaxing.  
    “That’s right.”  
    “Anywhere is fine,” I say, even though he’s already chosen a spot uncomfortably