No Survivors

17

As she looked in the full-length mirror, plumping up her freshly sprayed hair, adjusting the way her breasts sat in the corset, and examining the cut of the waist-length black jacket she’d just purloined, Alix felt reborn. For the first time in months she recognized the face looking back at her in the glass and took pleasure in her appearance. It was like meeting a bunch of long-lost friends, not just her looks, but her feelings of self-assurance, and even power. The dowdy, downtrodden woman she’d been that morning had vanished. This was the real Alexandra Petrova.

Satisfied that her makeover was complete, she put her old jeans, T-shirt, scarf, hat, and bag into one of the hotel laundry bags that were hanging in the suite’s closet. She couldn’t really afford to let them go, but they were a necessary sacrifice. Only her coat, and the purse she’d stuffed into one of its pockets, would stay with her. Next, she went into the suite’s bathroom, took a tissue from the dispenser, wiped down any surfaces she had touched, then flushed it down the lavatory. She pulled out one more tissue from the dispenser, to use on the door handle, then left the suite, carrying her coat and the laundry bag.

The suite was right at the end of the corridor, by the emergency exit. As she passed it, Alix thought she heard footsteps. She opened the door a fraction and listened. Yes, there were definitely footsteps, several of them, coming up the stairs, still some flights below. She muttered a Russian expletive under her breath. The housekeeper must have reported her missing key. They were after her.

She glanced down the corridor. If there were men coming up the stairs, others would be using the elevator. She prayed she had enough time. Leaving the coat and bag by the door, she dashed back into the suite. A pair of French windows led from the sitting room to a balcony with views across the city. She flung the glass doors wide open, then ran to the bathroom, wrapped the key card in toilet paper to make it sink, and flushed that, too. Then she bolted to the door, leaving it open as she went.

The footsteps from the stairway were much louder now. They couldn’t be more than a floor below her.

Alix started walking toward the elevator. Along the way, she draped the laundry bag around the door handle of another room. The housekeeping staff would pick it up and clean everything inside, removing any trace of her identity.

When the elevator doors opened and the hotel security chief and his men stepped out, she was there to meet them. Every single one of those men saw a hot blonde casually leaning against the corridor wall with her hands behind her back and her tits poking out of a sexy corset. Not one of them saw a thief holding a coat. By the time the doors of the elevator had closed behind them, she had slipped by and was pressing the button for the ground floor.

Alix sauntered into the hotel bar. The men’s gazes warmed her like sunlight, making her blossom. The women’s eyes were a challenge she was ready to overcome. Her back was straighter, her head held more proudly, her walk just a twitch more flirtatious in her tightly cut skirt and teetering heels. She thought of the last time she’d done this and the night that had followed. Then she ordered a kir royale.

“Please charge it to Room one thirty-eight,” she told the barman as she took a stool by the counter. “The name is Schultz.”

She cast a practiced eye around the bar, looking for the best marks. A man sitting alone at a table, just across the room, caught her eye. His dark hair, slicked back across a tanned but balding crown, was just graying at the temples. His dark-blue suit was immaculate, his silk tie perfectly chosen to complement the sky-blue cotton shirt. The watch was a gold Mariner model, on a polished brown leather strap. He was, in short, the epitome of sophisticated, middle-aged European wealth. And he was looking at Alix with a smile playing around the corner of his mouth that suggested he knew exactly what she was up to. And he didn’t mind at all.

She pretended not to pay him any attention. But from the corner of her eye, she saw him summon a waiter and hand him a piece of paper. Half a minute later, a freshly sparkling glass of kir appeared beside her. Slipped beneath the glass was a note. It simply read, Ponti, 446, 10 mins. By the time she turned around to acknowledge the message, his table was empty. She was impressed. This man was as practiced as she was.

So now the deal was on the table. All she had to do was go upstairs and fulfill her side of a civilized, adult transaction. All her years of experience, and his own calm assessment of the situation, suggested that Ponti would prove an adept, experienced lover. He would not be grudging or ungenerous. If the night went well and he was a regular visitor to the city, he might very well suggest a more regular arrangement. Her financial security would be assured, and with it Carver’s treatment. As these arrangements went, it would be as good as she could possibly expect.

And that was what made her realize that she simply could not go through with it. She couldn’t fool herself anymore. Even more important, she couldn’t save Carver on those terms. She tried to imagine what he would think if he knew what she was doing. Would he tell her to go ahead?

The question was no sooner asked than answered.

She left the bar, picked up her coat from the cloakroom, and walked from the hotel, feeling utterly deflated.

All her newfound confidence had disappeared, leaving her even more bereft than before. She had tried to determine her own future, and save the man she loved, but her efforts had been futile. Her defeat was absolute.