Jaw tight with forced composure, she gave a perfunctory nod. “I’ll e-mail them to you.”
“I want everything you have,” he repeated. She’d obviously wanted to hold some things back, and he didn’t blame her. The woman had spent her life hiding what she was, and the image he’d just seen stripped every last layer away. Literally. Unfortunately, privacy was a luxury none of them could afford now.
“Of course. I’ll send along my notes as well.”
With a deft adjustment, Adam stood to go. To give her a little space. To give him some room to clear his head. A hard run ought to take the edge off the impact of the image, burning in his mind again.
One question, though. “The title. Why Sleeping Beauty?”
Talia yanked the jack out of the back of the laptop and twisted to pull the plug out of the wall. She wouldn’t meet his gaze, and he didn’t force her.
“A reference to my name,” she said briskly. “The fairy tale was my mom’s favorite. My mom had been confined to bed a lot in her life, and she said that my father ‘woke her.’ Talia comes from an older French version of the fairy tale, predating Disney.”
Something clicked in Adam’s mind. “Aurora.”
She piled the cord on top of the laptop and gathered the mass to her chest. She moved around the table toward the door. Running away again.
“Talia,” he called to her.
She stopped, but she didn’t look back.
“The name suits,” he said.
EIGHT
REDRUM. Murder. The heart-stopping horror of room 217.
The phone rang, scaring Talia out of The Shining and into the real world. The awful, humiliating world in which Adam had by now viewed the nine renderings of herself she had found on the Internet, all of which depicted her as a seductive beauty. None remotely based in reality. Laughable. Pitiable, even. Particularly the graphic novel that had illustrated her as some kind of demon-busting dominatrix all done up in strappy, studded leather.
She wanted to crawl under a rock and die.
The phone rang again. What if it’s him?
The sleek gray portable mocked her by ringing a third time.
She grasped the receiver. Pressed talk. “Hello?”
“Talia. It’s Adam.”
Damn.
“Would you mind coming down to the kitchen? I have someone I’d like you to meet.” His tone was even. Too even.
What must he think of me? She could still run away. Never look back. He had all her notes. He could carry on without her.
“Sure,” she answered. “Just give me a minute.” A minute to jump to my death off my balcony.
“Thanks.”
Talia hit END. Her face was on fire. It was one thing for him to think of her as a freak. After all, considering Segue’s purpose and staff, he was surrounded by them already. But it was a totally, wretchedly, different thing altogether if he thought she were a joke.
Talia went to the bathroom and splashed water on her face. She dabbed it dry with a towel and resecured her hair in a knot at the back of her head.
She dragged herself to her apartment door, forced her chin up—way up—and exited into the hall.
The elevator whirred down to the hotel’s main level. The drawing rooms were evening-deep, darkness webbing the corners as night encroached on day. The layers of shadow brushed softly against her skin, coaxing her into their depths. Oh, so tempting.
She ignored them and grimly pressed forward toward the comparably blazing light at the other end of the expanse. Her heart thudded as she crossed the threshold. Patty’s upper body was hidden by the door of an industrial-size refrigerator. An older man whom she’d never met dipped a tea bag in a mug at the counter. As she entered, Adam pushed off the edge where he’d been leaning, skinny-necked beer bottle in hand.
Her gaze darted to his face, met his eyes briefly, directly, and then dropped as heat burned her cheeks. She needed something to do, and quick, or she was going to embarrass herself. Again.
“Talia. Thanks for coming down. I’d like to introduce you to Dr. Philip James, our sometimes-resident philosopher. He asks the big questions. I bet the two of you will have a lot to talk about. Philip, this is Dr. Talia O’Brien.”
The old man put his mug down and held out his hand. “Please call me Philip,” he said.
“Talia,” she answered and braced as she put her palm in his. Exhaustion predominated the connection—the old man was bone tired—and raging intellect. He squeezed rather than shook, a warm, friendly pressure that helped to calm her, though she was acutely, painfully, aware of Adam to her immediate right.
“Would you like some tea?” the older man asked, raising the steaming teapot. A mixed box of tea bags was open on the countertop.