Page 4 of Locked and Loaded

A chill slid through her. Lennox nodded once, grabbed the bags, and headed back toward the street.

At the end of the alley, she glanced both directions, confirming the dark-haired man was nowhere in sight, then flagged down a cab and climbed inside and immediately grimaced. Sweat, cigarettes, stale cologne, and something aggressively floral lingered in the air of the vehicle. What was it with cab drivers in Marrakech and air fresheners? They just made all the other smells seem so much worse somehow.

"The Royal Mansour," she said quickly, lowering the window.

The driver launched into cheerful conversation. First time in Marrakech? Was she American? Did she need restaurant recommendations, shopping, desert tours? Before all this, she might have found him charming. Now every question felt like data collection. Who are you? Why are you here, and where are you staying? Who are you meeting? So she fed him conflicting stories the entire drive. Yes, she was here alone. No, actually her husband was meeting her later. She was in fashion. Finance. From Toronto. Boston. Maybe London. By the time they reached the hotel, even she was losing track.

The Royal Mansour rose behind enormous stone walls that looked more like a fortress than a hotel, the entrance guarded with the kind of discreet security only obscene wealth could buy. Behind those walls, you’d find billionaires, royalty, celebrities, oligarchs, and individuals powerful enough to make problems disappear. Exactly the kind of people Lennox had spent a number of months investigating.

The cab stopped at the gate, and a guard approached. He said something to the cabbie in Arabic.

The cabbie turned to her. "Name, miss?"

"Callie Witherspoon."

The cabbie turned to the guard, but he was already checking his tablet. "I am sorry, Miss Witherspoon. Your name is not on the guest list." The guard’s accent was thick and his eyes unkind.

"Oh." She gave a small laugh and lifted the shopping bags. "I'm here to see a client, actually. Katya Ivanova."

The guard studied her for a moment and then looked at the bags next to her. Lennox opened one and removed the tissue paper, revealing a dress with the Dior tag. He nodded and stepped away to make a call.

Lennox kept her expression calm despite the adrenaline churning through her veins. She'd met Katya two nights earlier at dinner, then conveniently ran into her again at a nightclub. Wealthy women fighting with powerful men tended to be surprisingly easy to approach if you looked sympathetic enough. Katya had been furious with her boyfriend, keeper, handler… whatever he was, and the fight had opened the door. Lennox had sympathized. Men were terrible. Men were controlling. Men never listened. Then Lennox had mentioned she sourced exclusive designer pieces for private clients, and naturally Katya’s attention had been snagged.

It had actually taken her two weeks of following Katya around to get that meeting. Now she was standing at the gates of the most exclusive hotel in Marrakech carrying bags full of counterfeit luxury clothing, trying not to think about the man who had nearly caught her in the souk.

The guard returned. "Miss Ivanova says to send you through."

Relief stayed carefully hidden behind a pleasant smile. "Wonderful."

The Royal Mansour was less hotel and more private kingdom. Palm trees swayed over tiled courtyards and glowing lanterns. Water trickled through intricate fountains. Marble and carved cedar and silk shimmered beneath the lowering Moroccan sun. Wealth so extreme it no longer needed to prove itself. A sharply dressed attendant met her at the entrance, her bags were loaded into a golf cart, and moments later she was gliding past private riads hidden among lush gardens and flickering lanterns.

When they stopped, Lennox stared briefly. Katya's riad was the size of a damn house.

A maid opened the door and gestured toward the back terrace. "Miss Ivanova is by the pool."

"Would it be alright to leave the bags here?" Lennox asked.

The maid nodded. "Of course, miss."

Lennox crossed the richly tiled floor at a measured pace as if something like this was old hat to her.

The terrace doors opened onto a private oasis, where Katya lounged beside the pool in a microscopic white bikini, sunglasses perched on her head, an almost empty cocktail glass balanced lazily in one hand.

"Darling," Katya said warmly, her Bulgarian accent thickening the word. "So lovely you came."

Lennox leaned down and kissed both cheeks. "So kind of you to invite me."

"Did you bring the clothing?"

"Of course,” Lennox agreed. “I left the bags in the foyer. Seemed ridiculous to drag them all the way out here."

"No, no." Katya waved a dismissive hand as she stood. "I need another drink anyway." Barefooted, she slipped inside and went into a living room area where Lennox followed, finally letting herself look around. Only her glance wasn’t meant to take in the décor.

Security cameras. Sightlines. Entrances. Exits. And somewhere in the back of her mind, like a shadow refusing to disappear, the man from the souk invaded her thoughts. She glanced around again, just to make sure he wasn’t hiding in the shadows. Ridiculous.

Katya snapped her fingers at the maid, who disappeared and reappeared in seconds with a robe. “Champagne,” Katya said as she tied her robe.

The maid nodded once and then disappeared again.