GOODBYE ARIZONA
Claude Dancourt
Copyright © 2016
Chapter One
Deb surveyed the corridor from her hiding spot in the alcove next to the vending machine. Laughs and noises of clinking glasses came from downstairs. The Ice Breaker Social held at the annual conference of the Romance Society of America—ROSA for short—was in full swing. She glanced at her watch, counting seconds along the second hand. After a full minute, she grabbed the ice bucket at her feet and filled it. “It’s now or never.”
Bucket in hand, she strode down the empty corridor to the door marked 292. Nerves burned a hole in her stomach. Deb swept the borrowed card in the slit and entered the suite.
The room was larger than hers. Past the little vestibule, there were a couple of tables sporting terracotta lamps. A cream striped sofa faced a mini-fridge. One of the two flat screens of the suite sat on the top of a dresser. The painting of Colorado’s canyons, which was the Arizona Paradise Hotel trademark, hung on the wall above a king bed that ate half the space. The office corner, complete with a desk, a minuscule filing cabinet, and a comfortable office chair, neighbored a small balcony. Unable to resist, Deb peeked at the view. The pretty terrace below glittered with spotlights and small torches. The vivid green of the golf course and the indigo of the mountains provided a breathtaking view.
The dusk light was enough for her task, so she avoided the risk of switching on a lamp. Deb put the ice bucket away and focused on the desk. He already had set it to his taste, the laptop, pens, and papers—all blank, unfortunately—at the ready. A strand of curly walnut-hued hair fell over her eye while she examined the contents of the desk. She pushed the strand away absently.
Apart from the typical ad pamphlets and service book, the drawers were empty. His laptop was off. She tapped the mouse, just in case, but nothing happened. It looked new. Deb wondered if he still used the same password. She doubted it. After last time…
A glimpse at the clock beside the bed announced she only had seven minutes left to the timeframe she’d allowed herself for her search. She pocketed the Wi-Fi access sheet, just in case, and moved to the bedroom.
The garment bag was empty, so she supposed he’d given his suit to the hotel for dry-cleaning and pressing. As usual, Marcus had only half-emptied his luggage, hanging shirts and pants but keeping socks, boxers, and a Hugo Boss tie bundled at the bottom of his carry-on. Deb resisted the urge to arrange the beautiful tie. “Sorry, Marcus, I can’t let you know I was here… But you have to give me something. You haven’t published anything in ages. What is a nice guy like you doing at the ROSA annual conference?”
Still searching the suite and addressing its absent owner, she stepped inside the bathroom. At the same instant, voices erupted on the other side of the door, both angry, and both very well known. Deb jumped, and pricked up her ears.
“No.”
“Be reasonable, cher.” The Cajun drawl added a lilt to each word. “Why take such a risk? I’ll go on stage to receive the Suzanne Philipps Award if R.J. wins, and—”
“No, Eden. The game is over. R.J. is about to make their first public appearance. I understand your concern, but I assure you, the shock is going to sell more books than your careful marketing plan.”
“I—we’re going to lose everything.”
“I don’t think so.”
Deb clamped her palm over her gaping mouth, eyes wide. She was right. The little prince of sci-fi thrillers had something up his sleeve. She. Was. Right! Deb almost made a happy dance in the middle of the bathroom. The enormous news made her head spin. Wow. Marcus James Turner was R.J. Flint, the new symbol of romantic suspense. And he was about to come out of the closet, here, in front of the ones who literally made romance. Wow. No wonder his agent was flippant. She had to be scared to
Claude Dancourt
Copyright © 2016
Chapter One
Deb surveyed the corridor from her hiding spot in the alcove next to the vending machine. Laughs and noises of clinking glasses came from downstairs. The Ice Breaker Social held at the annual conference of the Romance Society of America—ROSA for short—was in full swing. She glanced at her watch, counting seconds along the second hand. After a full minute, she grabbed the ice bucket at her feet and filled it. “It’s now or never.”
Bucket in hand, she strode down the empty corridor to the door marked 292. Nerves burned a hole in her stomach. Deb swept the borrowed card in the slit and entered the suite.
The room was larger than hers. Past the little vestibule, there were a couple of tables sporting terracotta lamps. A cream striped sofa faced a mini-fridge. One of the two flat screens of the suite sat on the top of a dresser. The painting of Colorado’s canyons, which was the Arizona Paradise Hotel trademark, hung on the wall above a king bed that ate half the space. The office corner, complete with a desk, a minuscule filing cabinet, and a comfortable office chair, neighbored a small balcony. Unable to resist, Deb peeked at the view. The pretty terrace below glittered with spotlights and small torches. The vivid green of the golf course and the indigo of the mountains provided a breathtaking view.
The dusk light was enough for her task, so she avoided the risk of switching on a lamp. Deb put the ice bucket away and focused on the desk. He already had set it to his taste, the laptop, pens, and papers—all blank, unfortunately—at the ready. A strand of curly walnut-hued hair fell over her eye while she examined the contents of the desk. She pushed the strand away absently.
Apart from the typical ad pamphlets and service book, the drawers were empty. His laptop was off. She tapped the mouse, just in case, but nothing happened. It looked new. Deb wondered if he still used the same password. She doubted it. After last time…
A glimpse at the clock beside the bed announced she only had seven minutes left to the timeframe she’d allowed herself for her search. She pocketed the Wi-Fi access sheet, just in case, and moved to the bedroom.
The garment bag was empty, so she supposed he’d given his suit to the hotel for dry-cleaning and pressing. As usual, Marcus had only half-emptied his luggage, hanging shirts and pants but keeping socks, boxers, and a Hugo Boss tie bundled at the bottom of his carry-on. Deb resisted the urge to arrange the beautiful tie. “Sorry, Marcus, I can’t let you know I was here… But you have to give me something. You haven’t published anything in ages. What is a nice guy like you doing at the ROSA annual conference?”
Still searching the suite and addressing its absent owner, she stepped inside the bathroom. At the same instant, voices erupted on the other side of the door, both angry, and both very well known. Deb jumped, and pricked up her ears.
“No.”
“Be reasonable, cher.” The Cajun drawl added a lilt to each word. “Why take such a risk? I’ll go on stage to receive the Suzanne Philipps Award if R.J. wins, and—”
“No, Eden. The game is over. R.J. is about to make their first public appearance. I understand your concern, but I assure you, the shock is going to sell more books than your careful marketing plan.”
“I—we’re going to lose everything.”
“I don’t think so.”
Deb clamped her palm over her gaping mouth, eyes wide. She was right. The little prince of sci-fi thrillers had something up his sleeve. She. Was. Right! Deb almost made a happy dance in the middle of the bathroom. The enormous news made her head spin. Wow. Marcus James Turner was R.J. Flint, the new symbol of romantic suspense. And he was about to come out of the closet, here, in front of the ones who literally made romance. Wow. No wonder his agent was flippant. She had to be scared to
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