THREE
It took all of ten seconds for me to get into Chelsea’s locked flat in Virginia.
As much as the ease with which I’d entered disturbed me, the future safety of her home was something I’d have to deal with later. I was more concerned with something else—finding her. I could lecture her on security systems and decent locks after I’d ensured she was safe.
I closed the door as silently as I’d opened it and made my way inside.
The place was minuscule. Housing in the D.C. area reminded me of my first flat in London—small and expensive. I didn’t have to go any farther than the sofa in the living room to get a clear view of the attached open kitchen and what I saw there stopped me dead.
I froze as a new concern struck me—making sure this was indeed still Chelsea’s place, because on the counter was a coffee maker with a half full glass carafe and the ON light glowing.
Was Chelsea here and just not answering her calls? Or had she moved out and I’d just broken into a stranger’s flat?
Bloody hell, I’d been in such a rush, I’d never bothered to check if she still lived here.
That was something I just didn’t do. I didn’t forget details like that. Shoddy preparation cost lives. My error was further proof this woman had gotten to me.
As I berated myself, the bathroom door opened and a woman accompanied by a burst of steam emerged—a woman who wasn’t Chelsea. All it took was one look at her face to tell me that, even if there was a white towel twisted around her head obscuring her hair.
It only took her one look at me to have her eyes widening as her fear became palpable.
She drew in a deep breath and opened her mouth in what I knew would be a blood curdling scream if I didn’t do something, but I was all the way across the room and I didn’t want to frighten her any more than I already had.
I could spin a tale and lie like a champ, but sometimes a simple explanation and the truth was the best course of action.
Holding up my hands, palms forward to show her I wielded no weapon, I said, “I’m looking for Chelsea. I’m sorry I frightened you.”
She closed her mouth and I breathed in relief as an expression of recognition crossed her face. “Are you Tristan?” she asked.
Now it was my turn to be surprised. “Actually, yes. And you are?”
“Her roommate. Trina.”
Chelsea had a roommate? If I’d ever known that fact, I’d forgotten it.
It was hard to imagine two people living here, considering the place was barely large enough for one person, never mind two. But the fact Chelsea didn’t live alone could be a huge help to me now.
“How did you know my name?” I asked, intrigued, but also making conversation to get Trina to confide in me.
She smiled. “As far as I know there’s only one sexy Brit with an accent to swoon over who dresses like he’s in GQ who’d come looking for Chelsea.” As I felt my eyebrows rise at that statement she laughed and continued, “Her words. Not mine. But I agree. Her description was pretty dead on.”
That’s how Chelsea had described me? This conversation got more interesting by the moment, but I couldn’t let myself get distracted. I’d broken in here for a reason . . . and that Trina hadn’t questioned how I’d gotten inside at dawn while she’d been in the shower disturbed me even more.
Something else bothered me too. If Chelsea were missing, why didn’t her roommate seem concerned? I decided to find out.
“Do you happen to know where Chelsea is?” I asked.
“I assume she’s working.” She moved toward the coffee maker on the kitchen counter and glanced back. “Coffee?”
“No, thank you.” My heart thundered as I digested her casual answer.
If Chelsea were working, Zane would know her location—unless she had another job.
She poured herself a cup, stirred some additions into it and turned to face me.
Leaning against the counter, sipping her coffee, Trina looked completely unconcerned that she was dressed in a robe and alone in her home with a strange man. I got angry all over again as I added another point to the safety lecture I planned to deliver the moment I saw Chelsea again.
Perhaps not the very moment—being here again had brought back some pretty powerful visceral memories of that night. There were a few other things I’d like to do to Chelsea before the lecture. But I had to get to her first.
“Do you know where she’s working?” I asked, sounding more casual than I felt.
“No. But whenever she’s gone for awhile that’s what she’s doing.”
I wasn’t so convinced. Was this lack of concern a typical trait among young American women? If so, it was a wonder they all hadn’t been killed or kidnapped by now.
“Do you remember when the last time you saw her was?”
Trina frowned. Squinting her eyes, she stared up at the ceiling, as if the answers were written there. “I think it was Sunday. Yeah, it was, because I remember I was off that day so it was definitely a weekend. Chelsea was walking around checking her phone every five minutes because she was worried that her friend Morgan wasn’t answering her texts. So I told her she should talk to some of Morgan’s friends.”
At last. One solid clue from amid Trina’s babbling.
“And who is Morgan?” I prompted.
“The girl she used to waitress with at Camelot.”
“And Sunday was the last time you saw Chelsea?” I’d gotten more details with less effort out of people with far more critical—if not deadly—information than Trina was in possession of, but that wasn’t helping me now.
“Yup. I haven’t seen her since that conversation. She said she was going to Camelot to ask around about Morgan. From what I can tell, she hasn’t been back to the apartment since.”
That meant she’d been missing for almost a week.
“And you’re not worried by that?” I asked.
“I didn’t think there was anything to be worried about.” Trina finally looked as if she’d noticed my concern. “Look, I’m used to Chelsea. We’ve lived together for years. When she’s lucky enough to land a modeling or an acting job, I’ve seen her grab a bag and leave for weeks at a time on five minutes notice.”
“Would she leave without telling her other job? Her boss, Zane Alexander, hasn’t heard from her.”
Trina pressed her lips together. “I know she likes her job and she needs the salary and the health care. I don’t think she’d do anything to risk getting fired, but I don’t know. I really can’t say. For the right gig, she might.” She lifted her shoulder in a half-hearted shrug.
I didn’t know what to think but I knew one thing, I wasn’t about to be as complacent about Chelsea’s sudden disappearance as her roommate. “Would you mind if I looked around her room a bit?”
“Go for it. I have to get dressed and get to work so just lock the door when you leave.”
“I most certainly will.” As if the lock had done any good when I was breaking in . . . I kept that to myself since Trina still hadn’t asked how I’d gotten inside.
Shaking my head at that I made my way across the small room toward Chelsea’s bedroom as memories assaulted me with every step.
In my mind I could clearly see the image of her pressed against the wall outside her door as I brought her to orgasm with my hand. I remembered well her clothes scattered in a path that led to her bed and the narrow mattress where I’d first sunk deep inside her.
I drew in a breath and took in the details of the tiny room in a single glance.
She’d left her brush on the dresser in front of the mirror. I picked it up and remembered the silken feel of her long blonde hair.
Without looking I knew the top drawer of the dresser contained her lingerie. I recalled her purple bra with vivid clarity. As clearly as I remembered the taste of her, the scent, the feel and more—how she made me feel.
I mentally shook some sense into myself. None of this was going to help me find her. That was first and foremost my top priority.
If she had flown off to some photo shoot somewhere, I needed to know that. Because if she hadn’t, I feared something might be very wrong.
The Chelsea I’d had the pleasure of knowing, however briefly, would do anything for Zane and her job. Leaving with no notice wasn’t in keeping with that.
With my head back in the game I began to search her room in earnest.
At least there was one point in my favor—the girl was a minimalist. I suppose she had to be given the lack of space. But it would be easy for me to go through everything in my search for clues since there wasn’t all that much.
It didn’t take long for me to figure out that she must pay her bills online because there wasn’t even a damn paper credit card or bank statement for me to find.
Though I found no computer or cell phone either, leading me to believe wherever she’d gone, she’d taken her electronics—and her chargers—with her.
I finished searching inside her dresser drawers, proud I’d handled her intimates without getting a hard-on, and moved to her jewelry box. I flipped open the lid and was just in the process of refusing to remember how I’d chosen her jewelry that night we’d gone out when my eyes hit upon a folded piece of paper.
I stopped dead as I recognized my own handwriting.
The girl who kept next to nothing had kept that.
I didn’t need to but I did it anyway—I unfolded that paper and read the few words I’d written to her six months ago.
Chelsea. Until we meet again, and have no doubt we will meet again. Tristan
That was another thing I’d never done before—write notes to one-night stands or promise to see them again.
Realization was a hard nut to swallow, but I couldn’t deny it. The evidence was there. Clearly I’d been whipped from the very start. I just hadn’t realized how bad until now.
Chelsea was far more than a one-night stand and she had been from the beginning . . . and now she was missing and I might be one of a mere handful of people looking for her. And one of the even fewer with the resources to actually find her.
That reality knocked me back into my right mind. I whizzed through searching the rest of the room. I even checked behind the drawers and beneath the mattress.
Nothing. That left me one thing to do. I had to find Morgan. She had to know where Chelsea was. If she didn’t—Well, I’d deal with that when and if it happened.
Taking out my cell phone I hit the search button and said, “Camelot, Washington, D.C..”
When the search results came up, it was as I’d expected but had hoped wasn’t true. This version of Camelot had nothing to do with King Arthur. Camelot was a strip club and, according to Trina, Chelsea and this Morgan person had worked there.
Chelsea, the elegantly charming though sometimes bumbling woman in the impeccable suit who’d navigated the assignment I’d thrown her into with a dexterity that belied her lack of experience as a field op, was a model and an actress and had worked at a strip club.
It was becoming apparent that though I’d thought I did, I really didn’t know Chelsea at all.