Page 16 of The Mafia King's Acquisition
“Hi, I’m here to see Lindsay Beaumont. I was hoping if you could call up to her room and figure out if she’s there.”
She pauses, like she’s trying to figure out why I haven’t just called her myself. Then she leans forward, too far to be accidental.
She’s beautiful. Soft lips with the kind of body most men wouldn’t think twice about reaching for.
“Are you staying here as well?” she asks, her voice dropping, her hand drifting closer to mine on the counter.
I don’t move. Don’t react.
The woman is practically offering herself up with zero effort… and I walk in looking for the one who wants nothing to do with me.
Figures.
Her smile falters, just slightly, when I don’t take the bait. Then she straightens, professionalism snapping back into place like it never slipped.
“Do you have her room number, sir?” she asks politely.
I hold her gaze for a beat, unmoved.
Because the only woman I’m here for is Lindsay. I plan to see her and maybe even ruin her, I’m just not sure in what way yet.
I flash a small, charming smile, “The penthouse. But I’m sure you already knew that.”
Lindsay Beaumont has been staying in the most expensive room here for weeks. I’m sure they’ve all seen her. The Beaumont heiress who seems like she’s got everything she wants out of life. She feels untouchable, smart, rich, accomplished, and seemingly completely above everyone and everything else.
Well, almost everyone.
She picks up a telephone in front of her and presses a button. There seems to be no answer on the other end.
“I’m sorry sir. It seems she isn’t in the penthouse at the moment.”
I nod. A part of me had been expecting it. Seeing as I have confirmation that she’s currently in the hotel, there’s probably only one other place she could be right now. Which serves me well.
Considering the day I’ve had, I need a drink.
“Thank you,” I tell the receptionist before heading to the elevators and getting a ride to the third floor.
The bar is dimmer than the lobby, lit in low amber that softens everything. I scan the room and find her immediately. She’s sitting alone at the bar, on a stool with a drink untouchedin front of her. Her fingers rest lightly against the glass like she’s forgotten it’s there.
I watch her for a couple of seconds. She stands out in a room like this. Although I get the sense that Lindsay Beaumont stands out anywhere she goes.
My mind flashes to the sight of her walking down the aisle as the maid of honor at my brother’s wedding. There had been stern resolve in her expression, but her eyes displayed the happiness and love she felt for her friend, despite the reservations I’m sure she has.
Her dress clung to her body like it was made for her, soft and elegant.
Now she’s sitting here wearing a black dress that skims high on her thighs, tailored within an inch of perfection. It’s definitely designer. Lindsay Beaumont doesn’t wear anything less, according to her best friend, my sister-in-law Valentina.
She’s wearing a short jacket above it, also black, and, if I’m guessing the logo correctly, Chanel. Her blonde hair falls loose and unrestrained as opposed to the wedding when she had it in an elegant bun.
The woman is beautiful. The kind of woman people turn to look at twice before pretending they weren’t staring. She also possesses a subtle air that makes her intimidating to approach, which is why most men in the bar are currently sneaking peeks at her. But they don’t seem to have the balls to approach.
I don’t have such reservations.
I start toward her, my steps quiet against the floor. Her back is turned to me so she doesn’t notice my approach. Not until I’m standing behind her.
“You’re an extremely easy woman to find, Prosecutor. You should work on that.”
She turns around and her eyes widen slightly. For an infinitesimal second, I find I am robbed of breath at the blueof her eyes. Perhaps it’s the low light of the bar, but they seem impossibly blue and deep. Deep enough to sink into.
