Chapter 4 - THE LESSON OF NUMBERS
When Nicholas stepped back into the foyer less than twenty seconds later, the towel was gone.
He was dressed in tailored black trousers and a crisp, unbuttoned white linen shirt that hung loose over his chest, leaving the jagged white scars across his sternum and shoulder partially visible. His hair was pushed back from his forehead, and his expression remained completely composure-bound.
He didn't look like a mobster in hiding; he looked like an aristocrat taking an afternoon rest in a private suite.
He walked over to where her tablet lay on the floor, crouched down with fluid ease, picked it up, and handed it toward her.
Clare reached out with a trembling hand, taking the tablet from his fingers without making skin contact.
Nicholas looked at her, his dark eyes penetrating. "What room were you supposed to enter, Clare?"
Clare swallowed, looking down at the glowing screen in her hands. "4217. The... the priority checkout on the south corner."
Nicholas pointed a long finger toward the brass numbers on the entryway. "This is 4227."
A cold weight dropped straight into Clare’s stomach. A simple transposition of digits. A minor clerical error that anyone on a ten-hour shift could make—and it had dropped her into the hiding place of Chicago’s most dangerous phantom.
"I'm sorry," Clare gasped, tears of sheer panic welling in the corners of her eyes. "I'm so sorry. I... I wasn't looking properly. I won't tell anyone. I swear to God, I won't say a word to the manager, to the staff, to anyone. I didn't see anything."
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Nicholas raised his right hand, making a small, calming gesture in the air between them. The gesture was so controlled, so unexpectedly gentle, that it cut her panicked ramble short.
"Finish your shift," Nicholas instructed smoothly, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Go home. Forget you saw me."
