Chapter 6 - THE QUESTION ON THE BRASS RUNNER
Lincoln stood motionless beneath the portico, the freezing drizzle misting across his dark wavy hair, his gaze burning into the woman on the ladder.
His private driver hurried forward, holding the heavy black umbrella overhead to shield him from the downpour, but Lincoln raised a single, scarred hand, gesturing for the man to stand down. His security detail immediately froze, stepping back into the shadows of the luxury sedan.
Lincoln’s eyes swept down Rosalind’s shivering frame.
He noticed the violent tremor in her raw, red hands as she fought to keep the brass squeegee steady against the glass. He noticed the thin, inadequate fabric of her dark work clothes, completely saturated by the icy spray coming off the street.
And then, his dark eyes locked onto the right pocket of her navy windbreaker.
Sticking out of the nylon seam, softened and darkened by the rain, were two jagged pieces of torn white paper. Beneath the wet fold, the bold red lettering of the header was clearly visible in the amber light of the entrance sconces: ...MINATION OF EMPL...
Lincoln’s handsome face hardened into a mask of pure, absolute granite.
The lines around his mouth tightened into an icy, dangerous fury that caused the doorman standing ten feet away to instinctively swallow his breath. The pieces of the puzzle connected in Lincoln's mind with terrifying, mathematical speed.
He didn't look at the doorman. He didn't look at the arriving guests.
Moving with a slow, heavy, deliberate grace, Lincoln Marsh turned his back on the lobby entrance and walked across the wet granite pavement toward the window.
His polished black leather shoes made no sound against the wet stone. He stopped at the base of the aluminum ladder, barely two feet from where Rosalind was working, his towering six-foot-two frame casting a long, dark shadow that shielded her from the wind.
Rosalind didn't notice him at first. She was entirely focused on the top corner of the pane, her teeth chattering audibly as she pressed the gray cloth into the corner molding.
"You missed a spot," a low, gravelly baritone rumbled beneath her.
Rosalind gasped, her foot shifting on the wide, stable platform of the ladder. She caught her balance against the vertical rail, her head snapping downward, her blue eyes wide with defensive shock.
She looked down into the face of Lincoln Marsh.
Up close, the sheer, suffocating gravity of the man was overwhelming. His dark eyes, cold as Lake Michigan in January, were looking directly up at her with an intensity that pinned her to the metal steps. He wore an expensive black suit beneath his heavy dark overcoat, his rugged jaw shadowed with dark stubble, looking like an emperor who had stepped out of a private war room.
Rosalind recognized him instantly from the corporate portraits that hung in the executive boardroom on the mezzanine: the owner of the hotel network. The man whose name was whispered with terrified reverence by every manager in Chicago.
Her heart leaped into her throat. Her first instinct was panic—convinced that Gerald had called building security to have her forcibly removed from the sidewalk.
"I'm sorry, sir," Rosalind stammered, her voice shaking violently from the cold, clutching her wet squeegee against her chest like an improvised shield. "I’m almost finished. Gerald said I had to complete the exterior panes before my shift ended, or they’d hold my final hours—"
Lincoln’s gaze flicked down to her pocket, then back to her face.
His voice was quiet, conversational, and possessed the terrifying, absolute finality of an iron vault door swinging shut.
"Who fired you?" Lincoln asked.
May you like
Rosalind froze on the ladder.
Behind the two-story plate glass of the hotel lobby, three front-desk clerks, the head concierge, and Gerald himself had gathered, their faces pressed against the interior glass, their expressions pale with sheer, unadulterated horror as they realized who was standing at the base of the housekeeper’s ladder.
