AM Hartnett - Holding My Breath

Mischief

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers

77–85 Fulham Palace Road,

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.mischiefbooks.com

An eBook Original 2014

Copyright © A. M. Hartnett 2014

A. M. Hartnett asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © 2014 ISBN: 9780007587841

Version: 2014–08–21

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page HOLDING MY BREATH A. M. Hartnett

Copyright Copyright Mischief An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 77–85 Fulham Palace Road, Hammersmith, London W6 8JB www.mischiefbooks.com An eBook Original 2014 Copyright © A. M. Hartnett 2014 A. M. Hartnett asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Ebook Edition © 2014 ISBN: 9780007587841 Version: 2014–08–21

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

More from Mischief

About Mischief

About the Publisher

Molly leaned forward and watched the man’s entrance into reception. She could see the lobby from her office and the atmosphere seemed to alter as he entered. She likened it to the uncanny charge that made the hairs on your arms stand up when a storm lost its patience and was ready to unleash. She’d been watching him for about three months, and she felt it every time.

He came in the same as always, a Ken doll fresh from his plastic cage, but not quite. No, the clean-shaven face and brown hair slicked down, the expensive suit and occasional glitter of that $3,000-dollar watch peeking from the French cuffs weren’t real.

What made him real were his hands. Save for the manicure, he didn’t have Armani hands. His were scarred, knuckles and joints knotted, and there was a squiggling line leading from the flesh of his thumb to his wrist.

He never tried to hide them. Nor did he now as he leaned against the front desk and folded one hand over the other. Molly had never given them more than a discreet look when she was the one to greet him, though some nights she longed to reach out and turn them over, to run her fingers over those scars, trace the lines on his palms and follow that bluish vein from his index finger to where it disappeared under those cuffs.

‘Good evening,’ she heard the clerk, Nick, greet him.

‘You too,’ the man said. ‘Can you please call up to room 435 and let them know their guest is waiting in the bar?’

‘Certainly, sir.’

He could have used the courtesy phone in the seating nook alongside the front desk, but she didn’t think he’d trade this part of the routine. It was a part of the image he had created. Using the courtesy phone to call a room direct was too subtle. Announcing his arrival at the desk was sordid and suited his image.

His swagger was pure confidence as he headed to the bar, or maybe it was arrogance. He slid the green and red tartan scarf from his neck and draped it over the coat he carried across his arm. Once in the bar, he went straight to his usual table where he could see the entrance and placed coat and scarf over the edge of a chair, then took the same seat as always.

Here, again, another snapshot: one arm hitched over the back of his seat, long legs stretched out under the table. The waitress quickly appeared to take his order and returned with something dark. There he waited, large hand turning the tumbler round and round. He didn’t drink. He never drank. Like everything else, the drink was for show, something to show off those enigmatic hands.

He incited hunger from the moment his companion got off the elevator. Molly had seen it happen at least three dozen times. She imagined that the short walk across the lobby to the bar would seem like miles to the woman he had come here to meet. The urge to be near him was always written all over them, and the more Molly watched, the more she understood it.

The elevator chimed, and she watched the drama unfold.

He never changed, but the women did. Most fell into the range of middle age, though some were younger than she was, while others had silver hair. A few dripped with diamonds and had faces pulled tight as a drum, but most came off as powerhouses in their own right. After working in hotels for the past decade and a half, Molly had grown accustomed to learning everything she needed to know about people, based on their wardrobes, demeanours and the credit cards they used.

She’d developed an odd admiration for the women who sat with the man in the bar. They believed they deserved the best, and, if she read the man right, he was the best.

The woman who slid into the seat opposite the man had checked in wearing a power suit. She had changed into a little maroon dress. While she hadn’t shed her powerhouse outer shell entirely, the bangles on her wrists and the hoop earrings made her appear flirty.

Molly often wondered if these women dressed for him or for themselves. She leaned towards the latter. Who was he to impress when he was a thing to be bought? They were there to pamper themselves. He, like the in-room massage, was a part of the experience.

Another guest approached the reception desk to check in. He was tall and broad and obscured her view of the lounge. When the man and the woman strode arm in arm past the reception desk Molly stifled a growl from the back of her throat. She’d seen the to and fro of sexual negotiations enough that she didn’t need to look, but she still wanted to watch it unfold this last time.

No matter, she thought. You’ll be seeing him soon enough.