Blood Noir - Laurell K. Hamilton [28]
“No, it’s a terrible idea.” He said it just before he kissed me. He kissed me, not like he meant it. He kissed me not because he wanted to kiss me, but because it would cause trouble. I didn’t like it, but I knew if I struggled that it would both smear my lipstick and maybe make him try for more of a kiss. He was in such a strange mood that I just wasn’t sure how to handle him.
Chuck came and shielded us from the camera with his broad back. To the unfamiliar guards, he said, “Get that camera.” To Jason, he said, “Why?”
Jason broke from the kiss and gave the taller man a look I’d never seen before. It was a look: part anger, part stubbornness, part just strength and ill will. It was a look more at home on my face than Jason’s.
“I don’t like being told what to do, Chuck.”
“Now you do sound like Keith.”
“You have no idea how much like Keith I can be.”
“I don’t need the two of you fucking this week up, Schuyler.”
“I am not one of the Summerlands, Chuck. You don’t get paid to boss me around, so don’t try.”
Jason reached for my hand. I made sure he got the left one. I wanted my gun hand free just in case. Because if looks could have killed, Jason would have been a greasy spot on the pavement.
Teasing large armed men was not a healthy hobby, and I’d be talking to Jason about that when we weren’t in public.
The big man’s hands were flexing slowly at his sides, while I think he counted to twenty. If a camera hadn’t been aimed at us, I was pretty sure we’d have seen more of Chuck’s temper than just a little flexing.
The photographer was running toward the sunlight with the guards in pursuit. He was taking pictures over his shoulder the way you’d shoot a gun to slow down your attackers, but not really sure you’d hit anything. But he was aiming at Jason and me, not the guards.
“Carry your own damn bags then.” Chuck said it through gritted teeth.
“Happy to,” Jason said, and his voice was angry. His eyes were very blue, a rich, deep color. I realized it was the color of his eyes when he was angry.
The photographer was out of sight now, and the guards had vanished with him. Jason picked up both suitcases, got the balance of them, and headed for the door. I took the overnight case with all the guns in it and followed him. I kept an eye on Chuck as we moved up the back entrance.
He was right about one thing: Jason had deliberately put a rumor into that camera. It would hit the news before anyone thought to ask if it was some distant relative. They’d all believe it was Keith Summerland with a lover going into a hotel just five days before his wedding to someone else.
Shit.
12
WE GOT TO the room after Jason had proved with his ID that he was not a Summerland. They kept trying to check us into Keith’s room. Jason got overly familiar looks from several of the female staff. One even tried to give him a note while I was holding his hand in the elevator.
We finally got to the room, tipped the bellperson, shut the door, locked it, and were alone. Jason leaned against the door.
The room was big, with two different conversation areas complete with couches and chairs. Large windows let in sunshine and a view of the mountains. There was even a four-seat table near one set of windows so you could eat and look out at the view. Big, roomy, but the décor stopped me in my tracks. The couches and chairs were all deep purple and red, but their shapes were vaguely organic. The drapes were heavy as if the sunlight were fighting to get through, and there were paintings everywhere on the walls. Most of them were modern art, which is okay, I own some, but modern art isn’t meant to be plastered on like wallpaper. It was all very artsy and sort of claustrophobic.
“They call it ‘the Gallery,’” Jason said. I looked at him. “Hey, it was either this or the ‘Swinging ’60s.’ It’s painted completely in pink.”
“Pink?”
“Pink.”
“The room’s lovely,” I said.
“Thank you,” he said.
The bed was around the corner. There was a fainting couch near it. I sat down on the edge of the bed and took