Chapter 6 THE KING-SIZE BED OF TERROR.

We stepped into the room and my jaw nearly hit the carpet.

The word "luxury" fell ridiculously short.

The suite was the size of my apartment, my building's hallway, and the corner bodega combined. It had massive floor-to-ceiling windows opening onto a balcony that overlooked the raging sea. There were burgundy velvet armchairs, shelves packed with leather-bound books, and a white stone fireplace that was already lit, crackling with firewood that smelled of cinnamon.

But all of that vanished from my sight the second I saw the center of the room.

A bed.

One single, gigantic, monstrous mahogany canopy bed, draped in translucent silk curtains and loaded with enough pillows to smother an army.

"Your luggage was retrieved from the museum coatroom and is already in the walk-in closet," Winston announced from the doorway, breaking my visual paralysis. "Room service is available twenty-four hours. Breakfast is served in the main dining hall at nine o'clock sharp. I suggest punctuality; the Matriarch detests waiting. Have a restful night, Miss Beaumont, Mr. Jenkins."

Winston delivered one last macabre bow, stepped out into the hall, and pulled the doors shut.

The metallic click of the deadbolt echoed through the sheer size of the room.

I waited three full seconds. When I was sure the butler was gone, I dropped the tuxedo guy's arm like his skin was burning me, took three steps toward the center of the room, and let myself fall backward onto the mattress.

It was like sinking into a cloud made of whipped cream and money. The relief in my shredded feet was so intense I let out a guttural groan.

The guy stood frozen near the door, spine completely rigid, staring at the bed with his eyes wide open.

"Alright, 'Arthur Jenkins,'" I said, propping myself up on my elbows and glaring at him in annoyance. "The cameras can't see us now and the stiff old man is gone. What is your real name? Because if I have to call you 'my love' all day tomorrow and then pretend your butler-sounding last name is a turn-on, I'm going to puke all over these silk cushions."

He blinked, running a hand through his messy hair to try and restore the perfect slicked-back look I'd ruined during the kiss.

"Liam," he said, his voice raspy from the tension. "My name is Liam. And for the record, the plan was flawless until you and your noisy stilettos showed up to wreck everything."

I laughed. A dry, humorless bark that bounced off the high ceilings.

"My fault? I already had the vase in my hand. You appeared out of the shadows like a low-rent vampire. You are the worst thief I have ever seen in my life, Liam. You froze in front of the guard. You froze in front of the old bat. If I hadn't shoved my tongue down your throat, we'd be sharing a holding cell with a meth dealer right now."

Liam flushed a violent red. The heat crawled up his neck straight to his ears.

"It was a primitive, impulsive maneuver utterly devoid of strategy," he fired back, crossing his arms over his chest, adopting his defensive stance. "Logic dictated attempting to reason or locating a secondary escape route, not physically assaulting me with your bodily fluids."

"I saved your hide, armchair strategist. You're welcome," I snapped, sitting up on the edge of the bed and unbuckling the straps of my one remaining shoe. "And since we are establishing the rules of this elegant kidnapping, I'll let you know right now: I'm taking the mattress."

Liam frowned, taking a step forward.

"Excuse me, what did you just say?"

"You heard me. I have a busted blister the size of a quarter on my right heel and my back is scraped raw thanks to the wall sconce at the museum where we almost got caught. You are uninjured. So you fend for yourself. There are some very nice armchairs right over there by the fire."

"This is unacceptable," Liam protested, his fake accent completely vanishing under genuine frustration. "We are in an undercover hostage situation. We are allies by obligation. Civilized protocol demands an equitable distribution of resources."

"To hell with protocol," I shot back, pointing at the double doors of the bathroom with my shoe. "Go take a look in there. I'd bet my head the bathtub is made of Carrara marble and is the size of a pharaoh's sarcophagus. Ideal for your rigid personality. You'll feel right at home."

Liam skewered me with a glare dripping with pure outrage. He opened his mouth to argue, raising an index finger with the clear intention of listing off a logical, itemized set of reasons why I was wrong. But I crossed my arms, lifted my chin, and held his gaze with the cold-blooded stare of a hitman.

I wasn't going to budge. I needed at least three hours of sleep before facing the monster that was Eleanor Vanderbilt-Hayes at breakfast.

For one solid minute, we waged a visual cold war in the middle of the Bridal Suite. I saw the exact moment the polite British gentleman inside him defeated his survival instinct. He clamped his jaw shut so hard I heard his teeth grind.

With a sharp, highly offended pivot, Liam marched toward the bed. He grabbed two thick pillows, violently yanked the silk blanket draped over the foot of the mattress, and slung it over his shoulder.

"You are an impossible, irrational, and deeply selfish human being, Chloe," he muttered, taking long strides toward the bathroom.

"Sleep tight, darling," I blew him a sarcastic kiss.

The bathroom doors slammed shut, muffling the sound of his cursing.

I was left alone in the vastness of the room. I peeled off the torn dress, dumping it over a chair, and slid under the heavy duvet in just my underwear. The shock of the freezing sheets against my feverish skin made me shiver.

I clicked off the nightstand lamp. The silence rushed back in, heavy and absolute, only broken by the distant crash of the waves against the island's cliffs.

From the other side of the bathroom wall, I heard a dull thud. The harsh clack of bones hitting stone, followed by a sharp hiss of pain and Liam's voice complaining about the hardness of the marble.

I sank into the silk, staring up at the Renaissance-painted ceiling, feeling the painful throb of my foot and the crushing weight of reality. We were surrounded by security, phoneless, without the loot, and trapped in a lie that could blow up in our faces at the slightest slip.

I smiled in the dark, a bitter, graceless smirk. This damn week was going to last an eternity.