Lucas
returns to the stairwell to find Marlowe bent over, gripping the handrail with one hand and using the other to untie the delicate laces that bind an elegant satin heel to her foot. Her head pops up. "Hey."
"Hey."
Marlowe removes her second shoe, claps them together, and whips the laces around them like a piece of twine. After hugging them under one arm and slinging her purse on her shoulder like a saddlebag, she plops down on the cold concrete floor in her stocking feet and proceeds down the stairs.
Lucas' brows draw together. "There's an elevator inside," he calls to her.
Marlowe shakes her curly head vigorously and takes another step, being careful to maintain her death grip on the rail. "I need to walk."
"Ten flights?" Lucas gripes under his breath. But he only hesitates for a second before bounding down the stairs two at a time and cutting in front of her. If she falls, he would prefer that she fall on him. He pauses at the end of every flight, glancing back to make sure that she is close behind him. She thuds down the stairs like a petulant child; the flounces on the shoulders of her dress flop like lazy bird wings.
"You're alright?" he asks on the landing of the fourth flight.
Her eyes have been glued to the stairs, so deep is her determination not to stumble. Her common sense has been flashing on and off as though there is an electrical short in her brain. But a moment of clarity on the eighth floor left her feeling like a fool for taking the stairs, and her current fascination with the steps includes a strong desire not to look into the eyes of the man who had the good grace to escort her. "Yes."
He stands still waiting until she looks him in the eyes. "You're sure?"
A flicker of judgment drifts through his eyes; Marlowe's stomach clenches. She can't say how she knows, but the thought of carrying her is at the forefront of his mind. "Yes," she repeats firmly.
Lucas studies her for another long moment, and then he continues slowly down the steps. Marlowe examines the spread of his shoulders beneath his tuxedo coat. He isn't a big man, but if he were to carry her, his broad shoulder would certainly support her weight. He looks good, if uncomfortable, in the clean classic coat of his tuxedo. The rich black fabric darkens the eyes beneath his thin straight brows to a charcoal gray the color of a storm cloud.
"You have curly hair," Marlowe observes, studying his short crop.
"I would if I grew it out."
"Why don't you?"
Lucas glances at her over his shoulder. "Fluffy curls aren't the fashion in my unit."
"Oh, right," Marlowe replies, sighing. "You're in the Army now," she croaks in a sing song voice.
"Yeah. Ten years."
"That's a long time." Her breath is wispy and short. "You don't look that old."
Lucas' crack of laughter echoes in the stairwell. "I hope not. I'm only thirty two."
"I'm thirty four."
"I know."
Marlowe's eyes narrow; she wrinkles her nose as though she smells something funny. "How do you know?"
"Roderick told me. Two more flights to go. Are you alright?"
"You're . . ." She stops speaking when she nearly collides with him on the landing. He stopped to check on her, and she was too busy thinking to notice. Their faces are level and just inches apart. "You're older than him." But he doesn't look older. Lucas and her brother both look like they belong at a frat party. No one would guess that they are over twenty five. Marlowe herself is often approached by men younger than her kid brother.
"One year and twenty seven days older," Lucas murmurs. "But I still don't get any respect."
Marlowe laughs. She doesn't get any respect either. Roderick tends to treat anyone shorter than him as a child in need of protection, especially his remaining sister.
"You're alright?" Lucas asks again, studying the fine sheen of perspiration that makes her skin glow. It is probably just the alcohol that is making her sweat, but she looks tired.
"Yes." She blinks when he continues to look at her as though there is something written in her eyes that he's trying to read. "I'm fine. For real."
But Lucas doesn't stop looking at her until he sees what he wanted to see. He nods finally and then says, "Two more flights to go. Suck it up."
She does, and shortly thereafter, she waddles into the carpeted lobby of the building and heaves a big sigh of relief. "We made it."
"That we did." Lucas comes up beside her and places his hand on the small of her back, ushering her toward the elevator that goes down into the parking garage. But she stops mid step and swings her purse around in front of her. She fishes around and finally produces a small slip of paper.
"Valet," she says cheerfully.
Smiling, Lucas takes the stub from her and spins her around toward the revolving door. He had not been looking forward to wandering around the parking garage trying to find her car. They are silent as they wait for the valet, and they remain silent on the short drive across town to the hotel where most of the wedding guests are staying. Lucas steers her rented Taurus with one hand, using the other hand to remove his tie and undo the buttons at the collar of his dress shirt. He glances at Marlowe in the passenger seat. He can't talk to her, even if he wants to. She's asleep.
"Marlowe." Lucas is bent over in the open passenger side door, braced by one hand on the roof of the car. He called her name six times before he got out of the car and circled around to her side. Then he started touching her, first her knee, then her elbow, then her shoulder. And now his hand is on her face, brushing a wayward curl away from her cheek. He could shake her, bark her name like a commanding officer. But he doesn't want to.
Lucas takes a deep breath and crouches down to retrieve her purse from the floorboard of the car. He finds her room key; she's on the ground floor in one of the deluxe rooms with a view of the pool. Meanwhile, his room is on the seventh floor with a view of the parking lot. He'd ended up with a double room; he'd pushed the two beds together. If he's staying in town for a few more days, a bed at Roderick's house is preferable to the wooden slabs he slept on last night. Lucas looks up at Marlowe, tapping her room key on his thigh. He definitely will be staying.
Lucas leans forward and slips his arm beneath her lower back, pulling her towards him until her head falls on his shoulder and her loose curls tickle his bottom lip. Slipping his other arm under her knees, he leans back as he lifts her out of the car, careful not to bump her shoulder against the door frame. Instead of going into the lobby, he carries her to the side entrance nearest her room and uses her key to open the lock. It isn't long after nine o'clock, but the hall is empty.
"Small mercies," he murmurs as he stops in front of her door. He doesn't figure that it would look kosher if someone saw him carrying an unconscious woman into the hotel. And he can only imagine the look on Marlowe's face if she thought that someone in her family knew about it.
When the lock snicks, Lucas pushes the door open with his foot and strides in to the dark air conditioned room. He frowns; the thermostat has to be set on fifty degrees - the room is as cold as a meat freezer. He deposits Marlowe on her bed, turns on a lamp, and then walks over to the window and checks the settings. High, medium, and low are the only choices. He changes the setting from low to medium and turns the knob towards the red zone.
There is nothing left for him to do except to make sure that she's awake and ready to leave at nine o'clock the next morning. He can't depend on Roderick to make good on his whispered threat to drag them out of bed; Rod will be too busy with Tamara in the wee hours of the morning to even think about preventing them from leaving town. Smirking, Lucas swipes the rental car keys and her room key off of the bed cover and puts them in his pocket. He will come in person to give Marlowe a morning wake up call.
