Page 12 of Lord of Passion

"What's option two?" I ask.

***

Ser- Sir or Mr. in Russian

Chapter Five

In which there is parkour, hot, but patronizing guys and a “deer” in the trunk.

Caroline…

I'm restless.

I’m responsible, I went to bed early because I have a 6 am meeting with a supplier in Australia tomorrow. But no matter how many times I force myself to close my eyes and sink into my gloriously soft mattress, sleep refuses to come.

Giving up with a groan, I roll out of bed and walk to the window. The hotel is positioned perfectly between easy access to the financial district and a series of parks and bars, and some of the more beautiful, older neighborhoods in the city.

My two-mile run back from Liria's this afternoon didn't give me nearly enough exercise and I feel that…zingstarting to move through my nervous system, a low vibration making my muscles twitch and my heart race. Pulling on some leggings and a sports bra, I bounce on the balls of my feet, trying to loosen up as I look for a black hoodie.

There has to be an Urban Adventure run tonight. I found a group online when I first moved here to New York City and I was trying to get to know more people. Most of the runners are a lot more hard-core than I am, they parkour, they're lean and whipcordtight. The group has everyone from late teens to early 40s, and they all have that same restless movement behind their gaze that I feel, some kind of a current inviting me to dive in and escape.

Sure enough, there's a meetup at 1 am, six blocks from the hotel. I wave to Reginald, the doorman, as I leave and he frowns slightly. "Do you want me to call you a cab, Caroline?" When I first took over as GM, the staff tried to call me Miss Basha until I sent out a staff memo telling them I would throw them an employee party if they could all successfully call me by my first name for an entire month.

"No, I'm good," I smile reassuringly. "I have my pepper spray."

He does not look reassured.

Pulling up my hood, I run down the sidewalk feeling that dark excitement again. I love my job. I love this city, but god, sometimes beingproperand good andresponsibleis such a fucking pain in the ass.

How do people like Nikandr live like that all the time? Always in a suit, always restrained and vaguely disapproving of everyone else. That has to be boring as hell.

I meet up with the rest of the group on a cobbled side street. There's sixteen of us tonight; some I recognize, like Sven, an extreme athlete who is constantly hurling himself off cliffs and videoing his descent. There's Nadege, who I know is a cunning real estate developer in her 30s, who is just as desperate to shed her suit as I am. Miko's here, he's one of my favorites, early 40s and in better shape than any of us. He pulls up his phone and projects the map on the brick wall of the building.

"Here's the map for tonight, I'm sending you all a screen shot of the map. We start here. Whatever direction you choose to take, you have to be over on 57th by 2 am. There's three jumps, one ofthem is a rooftop crossing." He points from one building to the other and I purse my lips. That's one hell of a jump. I'm gonna need a running start.

"There's a whole series of metal roofs on this section," Miko says, pointing out two streets over. "Easy for sliding down and onto the overhang. You have to do three stunts tonight. Mark them on your map as you go. Is everyone ready?"

We're all dying to shout, "YES!" at the top of our lungs, I can tell, but it is 1 am and that would be an asshole move.

Taking a deep breath, I smell the ever-present car exhaust, a wisp from a sewer grate, which is not appealing, but also the tantalizing scent of something with oranges, like a sweet dessert. There's something else… a little tinge, the smoky bite of gunpowder. I've smelled it enough times in my life to know it intimately. I shove off the wall and bounce lightly before taking off on Miko's signal.

We all scatter in different directions. The point of this is to find your own route, and I tear up the street. There's an eight-foot brick wall ahead of me and I leap, digging my toes in between the bricks and pushing up, scraping the heel of my hand on the top as I flip over, landing in a crouch. There are only two clear stretches of street on this route and everyone else will take them, but I'm lucky. I know this neighborhood well because it's so close to the hotel, and I've been through here many times.

However, I do need to find a fire escape soon because I have to access a rooftop within the next two buildings to stay on the route. Taking a left around the corner, I grin. Perfect. There is a heavy old-fashioned iron one, it'll barely creak under my weight. I race up six stories on the side of the building, ignoring the burn in my thighs and my scraped hand.

Once on the roof, I see that it's flat, stretching across the building and gravel covering the top. I frown. Gravel rooftops are much louder than I like, the rock slips under my running shoes, but I run as lightly as I can over it to the other edge. Part of the roof on the next building is raised, so it's only maybe an eight-foot drop. I'm gonna have to roll.

Backing up six feet, I make a run for it, pumping my arms and digging my heels into the gravel, wincing when my heel slips once, but I'm off.

There is always that incandescent moment when I'm suspended in the air between two buildings with nothing but a drop beneath me. For one perfect, magical moment, I'm flying. I'm weightless. There is nothing but the sense of the sky and the night and the breeze around me…

…before it all abruptly collapses into a thud as I hit the next roof.

I land on my shoulder a bit harder than I like but I come out of a neat barrel roll and back on my feet, hitting the next rooftop and doing it again, clicking off the stunts on my route. Now, to find a way back down to the street level. I see the long metal rooftop Miko pointed out to us. It covers an open-air farmer's market. The stalls are shut down and empty tonight, but that rooftop is perfect. I can slide down it as long as I don't get my leggings caught on a nail. I did that once and limped for a week while the bloody scrape on my thigh healed.

The metal creaks loudly as I land, indignant by my weight. I freeze for a second to see if there's a watchman ready to yell at me, but there's no sound. I'm off again, running and sliding down the roof on the side of my thigh and my ass, landing on the canvas overhang and rolling over it onto the street into a crouch again.

There is a huge sense of jubilation, and I'm ready to dig in and charge down the street when a hand goes over my mouth and an arm around my waist.