I enter the elevator, reaching for the seventh floor button. The doors close, and I immediately reach behind me, pulling my gun out of the back of my waistband. I hold it behind my thigh in case the doors open, and someone is standing there waiting for the elevator, but as soon as I see the hallway is clear, I lift my .45 and silently make my way to room 703. It’s the only room on this end of the hall, indicating it must be huge—a suite.

Pressing my ear to the door, I hear nothing inside, so I hurriedly take out my wallet with one hand, continuing to train the gun on the door while I slip out the key card Seth gave me that supposedly opens any electronic lock. I replace my wallet in my back pocket, and exhale a breath, centering myself before sliding the card into the lock, sending up a silent prayer that it works. As soon as the tiny light turns green, with lightning-fast movements, I open the door, bursting into the room with my gun aimed ahead of me.

The room, set up like a living room’s sitting area from what I can make out in the darkness, is empty, so I hurry over to the white door I see at the far end of the right wall. Getting closer, I see it has been barricaded by a door jammer. Whoever is inside wouldn’t be able to get out because of the long metal pole lodged between the doorknob and the floor.

I remove it easily, turning the knob and opening the door.

The small figure groggily sits up in the middle of the bed, her disheveled appearance visible from the light coming from the bathroom over to the right.

She rubs her eyes, squinting. “Jean? It’s so early. You okay?” she murmurs, and it confuses the fuck out of me. Why would she be worrying if her kidnapper is all right? The moment she registers I am not Jean LaRue, I see it in her eyes as her expression turns to terror when she spots my hulking frame with the gun trained on her, and she lets out a blood-curdling scream.

At the exact same time, something hits me from behind, and I stumble forward. Thankfully, whoever hit me must be short, because the object didn’t connect with my head at my towering height, so I turn and aim my gun at the dark silhouette still inside the bedroom door.

“Get your fucking hands up,” I growl loudly, and I hear Quincy gasp behind me.

“Please! Don’t hurt him. We’ll give you whatever you want. Money? We have lots in the safe. Please, just don’t hurt him,” she begs, and it confuses me even more.

Gun still trained on LaRue, I hiss over my shoulder, “I’m not here to rob you. I’m fucking rescuing you.”

“What?” she squeaks.

“Mon dieu,” I hear LaRue sigh, and I see him shake his head.

“I was hired by Demetri Security to find and rescue you from the man keeping you captive, your Infidelity client, Jean LaRue,” I explain briskly, my eyes darting between Quincy and the hotelier as I back up toward the bathroom so I can see both of them.

Silence.

And then, “I told you, Jean. I told you they would come looking for us. You should’ve trusted me. You should still… trust me.” Quincy’s voice is reassuring as she continues, “Your secrets are safe with me. Not only because of the contracts I signed, but because we’re friends. For a whole year you’ve been my very best friend. You know in your heart I won’t tell a soul.”

With that, LaRue falls to his knees as he buries his face in his hands. That’s when I see the man standing behind him in the doorway, still in the darkness of the living room. I raise my gun to aim at him, and he squeaks femininely and puts his hands up.

“Okay, what the fuck is going on?” I call fiercely.

“Please, sir. There’s no need for the gun. I swear I’m safe,” Quincy says quietly, scooting to the edge of the bed to stand, her hands coming up in a placating gesture.

“You were barricaded inside the room, ma’am,” I remind her, switching my weight from one foot to the other, not knowing exactly what to do. I’m so thrown off by their exchange and the sobbing man on the floor that I don’t know what my next move should be. So, I lower my weapon, deciding to trust the woman as she moves to kneel in front of LaRue and wraps her arms around his shaking shoulders.

“Sir, come into the room so I can see you,” I call out to the man in the doorway, and he enters timidly, his narrow, hairless chest coming into view before I see he has a sheet wrapped around his waist. And that’s when everything clicks.

Her profile stating she wanted only a platonic relationship behind closed doors.

A secret she promises she won’t tell.

“You’re his beard,” I murmur, and all three sets of eyes come to me, LaRue’s wet from his tears, Quincy’s full of worry, and the other man’s wide, holding a hint of… jealousy?

“Please. No one can know. If anyone were to find out, he’d lose everything. His family will disown him,” she pleads. The looks on all their faces would be heartbreaking if I were a more sensitive person, but it’s enough to make me slip my gun into the waistband of my jeans. Quincy turns back to LaRue. “It’s over, honey. But you can trust me. Your secret is safe with me,” she repeats, kissing his cheek before standing. She takes a step over to the other man, wrapping her arms around his waist to give him a brief hug. “Take care of him, Spence.”

He nods, giving her a small smile as she steps back. “I will, Quin,” he promises, before holding his hand out for LaRue to take. He hauls him up and against his chest, kissing the man’s forehead as he rubs his palms up and down his lover’s biceps.

Quincy walks over to me, her body angled toward mine as she directs the words at the couple over by the bed. “I’ll tell them it was a misunderstanding. We wanted our last week to be an epic getaway just the two of us, to go out with a bang at the end of our one-year contract, and we were having so much fun that we lost track of days.”

“Ma’am, there’s a video of him forcing you into his car,” I tell her.

“Oh that?” She scoffs. “I was being a brat. He wanted to surprise me, but I wanted to know where we were going.” She looks at LaRue expectantly, silently asking if he agrees to her story.

He nods. “Thank you, sweet Quincy. I’m very sorry for my panic and distrust. I should’ve known better,” he apologizes in his thick French accent.

“Think nothing of it,” she replies, and then she tilts her head back to look up at me. “Ready?”

“Uh… yeah,” I agree, and I stand there awkwardly as she gathers her few belongings, shoves them into her giant purse, and hurries into the bathroom to change. When she emerges, she’s dressed in jeans and a fitted T-shirt with flip-flops on her feet, and shoves her nightgown into her bag.

As the hotel room door closes behind us, I shake my head at the turn of events, pulling my phone out of my pocket. When Mrs. Witt answers, I tell her I have Quincy and to send a car to pick her up.

I’m ready for my reward for a job well done.