“Gill, I don't just want to know why; I need to know why. But truthfully, I'm a little pissed off right now. You were there, right there, right fucking there, and you didn't even let me come to enough to see your face.”
I stop shuffling and look up at him, trying to judge his reaction.
Gill looks right back at me and purses his lips, dark hair still wet but thankfully covered head to toe in clothing. I don't think I could take even an inch of bare chest at this moment.
“There's so much,” he says, but I'm already shaking my head.
“One thing at a time,” I tell him. “Answer me, please. I deserve that, at least, don't I?”
Gill stands there for a long moment and then reaches down to grab his shoulder holster, tucking the gun we snuck to the pool back into it. He made me carry the damn thing in the Saint Laurent. I'm keeping the purse as payment for all of this shit.
“When I first left, I was trapped, Regi. I couldn't have come to see you, no matter how I felt about the matter. After about a year, he let loose on the reigns enough that I was able to sneak away now and again. That night at the pool, that was the first night I got to see you since the day I left.”
“Who's he?” I ask, still looking at him as he moves between the beds and sets the guns on the nightstand between the two.
“Karl Rousseau,” he tells me without hesitation. “After that first year, I kept a close eye on you. I couldn't be with you or even talk to you, but I watched.”
“Do you know how creepy that is?” I ask, my voice raising as I toss the cards onto the white bedspread and watch them splay out into a sea of scattered symbols. “You watched me? So you stalked me then? You're a stalker?” I can't keep the edge of anger and confusion out of my voice. “I don't get it, Gill. I'm sorry, but I just don't. Stalking is for people too disillusioned to realize they'll never get what they want most. You had me, Gill. You had me—hook, line, and sinker. I was yours. So why run away and then come back just to watch?”
Gill lets me finish my rant as I sigh and lean forward, putting my face in my hands.
“It's all I could do, Regina, the best I had to offer. I wasn't allowed to be with you; Karl wouldn't let me.” I'm shaking my head again because I have no clue what's going on here. Allowed? Nobody ever allowed or disallowed Gilleon Marchal to do anything. Ever. “I watched because I had to make sure he'd keep his word. I needed to know you were safe.”
“Why wouldn't I have been?” I ask, lifting up my face to look over at him. He's not looking at me anymore, pretending to be interested in the room service menu. “Gill?”
“Are you hungry?” he asks me, voice soft but hard-edged, like this conversation is taking ten times more out of him than he ever thought it would. “I want to order before the kitchen closes.”
My turn to purse my lips.
“Why go work for Karl Rousseau if he was going to keep us apart? I thought what we had meant more to you than that.”
“It meant everything to me,” he says, and a chill travels up my spine. I pray that he doesn't lift his blue eyes off of that menu. “So I did what I had to to keep you safe.”
“From who?” I demand, hating the roundabout road of questioning we're hurtling down.
“Karl.”
I just stare at the top of his head before looking away and examining the photographs hanging on the wall opposite me. In typical Seattle fashion, they're all artsy shots of the city, signed in the corner with a silver scrawl that says local photographer to me. Underneath each picture, there's a small plaque with the name of the piece, the artist, and a price. I almost want to buy one for my new place. Only I don't have my money yet.
“Let me get this straight,” I say, taking a deep breath and trying to wrap my head around all of this. “You went to work for … Karl, to keep me safe from … Karl, so we could one day rob … Karl.”
“That's about the gist of it,” he says, and I can feel his blue eyes boring into me. I don't look his way.
“So who do you work for now?” I ask as Gill reaches over and drags the black hotel phone towards him.
“Max.”
“Max?” I ask, but I can see that Gill is desperate for a break from this conversation.
“If you don't pick something, I'm just going to order you a burger and call it a day.”
I sigh and reach my hand out for the menu, still not looking at him. Gill passes it over, our fingers brushing in the process and making my breath catch. I slap the menu on my lap and stare down at the words, waiting for them to stop spinning in front of my face.
“Just … order me whatever you're getting. Oh, and a slice of chocolate cake. Je ne pense pas pouvoir m'en sortir sans chocolat.” I don't think I'll be able to get through this without chocolate.