Cursed: A Fallen Siren Novel by S. J. Harper

Author:S. J. Harper [Harper, S. J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Fantasy, Urban, Romance, Paranormal, General
ISBN: 9780425263297
Publisher: Roc
Published: 2013-10-01T07:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 15

The Hotel Del Coronado looks as spectacular today as it did when it opened over a century ago. Since that time, the red-roofed Victorian hotel has become a favorite of presidents, royalty, and Hollywood’s darlings. The beachfront resort is luxury at its finest and most elegant. There is a long line of cars sitting at the entrance. Zack veers to the left to Self Park.

“Why didn’t you valet? We’re never going to find a spot in here,” I grumble. To say nothing of dreading the idea of hiking across the asphalt parking lot in four-inch heels.

Zack raises an eyebrow. “O ye of little faith.” He pulls up to the console and pushes the big green button. The machine spits out a ticket, the gate goes up, and Zack drives into the lot. The taillights on a white Mercedes come to light as we round the corner. Just as we round the corner. The Mercedes pulls out, we pull in. We’re within a hundred feet of the hotel entrance.

“How did you do that?” I ask, properly impressed.

Zack grins. “Another of my many talents.” He springs from the car. “Let me get your door.”

But I already have it open. “I know how to open a door and get out of a car. I’ve done it a bazillion times.”

Just not in these damned heels.

The words are no sooner out of my mouth than I stumble.

Zack is there, reaching out a hand to steady me.

“Thanks.”

He offers his arm. “You clean up nicely, Monroe.”

I don’t take it. “This isn’t a date. We’re working, Zack.”

That’s what I say. What I’m thinking is, he cleans up nicely, too. The tux is obviously tailored. The white shirt is crisply starched and the shoes, if I’m not mistaken, are Italian.

“Okay, okay. Strictly business.” He touches his hand to his heart. “Just try to blend without falling.”

I ignore the hint of humor in his tone. A wisp of hair escapes from my French twist. I tuck it behind my ear, then smooth down my dress. The gown is off-the-shoulder, black lace with a nude lining. It fits like a surgical glove. The shoes like a medieval torture device. I lift up the edge of my dress and start to walk. “Easier said than done. I don’t know how Liz does it. These shoes are already killing me.”

Zack places his hand at the small of my back as we cross the drive and go up the steps to the entrance. “Want me to carry you?”

“What I want to do is find Barakov.”

Every time I walk into the Del, I’m hit by a wave of nostalgia. I feel as if I’ve stepped back in time—dark wooden paneling, rich fabrics, antique furnishings, and an abundance of fresh flowers all set the stage. Guests are milling about, dressed in formal attire—the men in tuxedos, the women in gowns. Except for the modern cut of the dresses and the scandalous height of our heels, we could be waiting for the Duke and Duchess of Windsor to sweep in the door.

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