Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 72056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
But something about it calls to me.
I walk toward it, as if being hypnotized to do so. My fingers itch to touch the texture of the paint, but I hold back. Instead, I move my hand under the large frame. I don’t know what I think I might find, but disappointment courses through me when the wall is empty.
No hidden safe.
So why am I here? Rogan knows I’m here, so he wants me to find something. Or perhaps he wants me to find nothing so I’ll stop this search.
I can’t. I’m here, and I need to take advantage of what little time I have.
The painting, though inebriating in a way, is hiding nothing. I must look elsewhere. I sit down in the lush leather chair and smooth my palms—still sticky with blood—over the glossy desk. No blotter, no pens or pencils, no photo frame displaying images of loved ones.
A truly empty desk.
But the desk has drawers. I open the top drawer, and—
A post-it note sits inside the empty drawer, and on it are written only three words.
Open the door.
Open the door? What door? To the bedroom? To any of the other rooms? Clearly this isn’t meant for me.
I slam the drawer closed.
Now what? I continue to search the bare office. Nothing on top of nothing. Perhaps I should be searching his office downstairs—the one inside the high stakes area. By now, though, the bomb threat has most likely passed, and the casino is rocking once more.
Open the door.
The words play over and over in my mind, to the rhythm of a bass drum.
Op En The Door.
Op En The Door.
Maybe the message is meant for me after all. Or maybe I’m going insane. What is insanity, anyway, but a severely disordered state of mind?
Sounds a lot like my mind at the moment.
I touch my lips, sticky from blood. In my mind’s eye is the image of my blood-smeared face. I run my tongue over my teeth, my canines still pointed.
Op En The Door.
Op En The Door.
The bedroom. The door that’s pulsing.
That must be it.
But why?
I leave the office and head, still stumbling slightly, to the door that leads to Victor Rogan’s bedroom. The bedroom where we fucked. Where I passed out from his blood and my own lust and didn’t even remember him taking me back to my own suite.
I grasp the crystal doorknob, surprised that it turns. He doesn’t keep his bedroom locked. I’m not sure why that seems strange to me, as he lives alone as far as I know. The crystal is warm to my touch, almost like it’s alive with a heartbeat of its own.
I slide the door open and walk slowly inside.
The silky black comforter on the king-size bed.
Spread your legs, princess.
Yes, I remember now. This place.
I close my eyes in an attempt to breathe through the lust that tries to consume me. Rogan’s not here. This is just a place. Just a bed. Just his scent.
It’s not him.
I open my eyes and scan the room, deliberately looking away from the bed. The rest of the room is magnificent. The floor is dark wood, no carpeting like in the main part of the penthouse. The furniture—a dresser, chest of drawers, night tables, and a small table by the window—are black lacquer like the desk in his office. A loveseat—black leather with red satin pillows—sits near the window next to the small table.
The room is so…
So…
So…me.
If I designed my own perfect bedroom, it would look exactly like this.
I close my eyes once more, again easing the lust. When I open them, I zero in on one of two doors. I walk toward it slowly and open it.
It’s a huge walk-in closet, and boy, does Rogan like clothes. Designer suits galore in myriad colors and fabrics, and my God… He has a whole wall of shoes.
So odd, when he looks his best in jeans and nothing else.
Or in nothing, period.
I’m not a fashionista myself. Give me a tank top, skinny jeans, and thigh-high black boots and I’m ready for any occasion.
Still, the wall of shoes draws me forward. I trail my fingers over the rich Italian leather of a cordovan Oxford. The robust scent of the leather mixes with Rogan’s wolf fragrance. I close my eyes and inhale the intoxicating aroma. Then I pull the shoe off of its shelf—
And I gasp.
A compartment opens behind the shoe wall.
A secret compartment.
Still holding the cordovan shoe, I squeeze through the small opening.
20
Rogan’s scent isn’t nearly as acute in this secret passageway. The fragrance still lingers, but…
I inhale, exhale, inhale again.
My eyelids flutter.
What is happening to me?
Hold your breath.
My instinct again. I trust it, but I can only go so long without air. The passageway is dark and narrow, and—
I can’t help it. I breathe in. A gasp of air. Then another.