“You just keep your hands to yourself, buster, until we figure out what we’re going to—Phillip King, please,” she told the receptionist. In a moment that would haunt her nightmares for eternity, she’d blanked out and had to call Jonas back to get the guy’s name. And her friend was so out of breath he could hardly spit it out. And there was an odd thumping noise in the background—not like they were on a bed, but maybe—

“Remind me not to eat anywhere in your suite until I figure this out,” she muttered, shrugging when Thomas gave her a mystified look.

“I’m sorry,” the receptionist said, “but Mr. King is in a meeting right now and can’t be—”

“Tell him,” she said, “it’s about his ex-wife. I bet he’ll see us.”

“I bet he will, too,” the receptionist muttered. Then she pushed a couple of buttons on her console, gestured to the elevator, and said, more graciously, “Top floor.”

“Remember,” Fred said as they marched into the elevator, “nobody use the bathrooms while we’re here.”

“Oh, Fred, that’s gross!”

“Just sayin’. Artur, what the hell’s the matter with you?” For he had suddenly thrown himself against her and was clutching her hard enough to hurt.

“This little metal box—moving—up?”

“Yeah, it’s an elevator, it’s perfectly normal, now leggo.” She tried to pry his fingers off her arm. “Artur, calm down.”

“But what is to prevent the box from shooting right out of the top of the building?”

“Nothing,” Thomas said cheerfully. “Happens at least once a week in this city.”

“Owwwww,” Fred bitched. “Artur, you’re cutting off the circulation. Thomas, cut the shit.”

“I just think he should prepare himself.”

“Owwwww!”

There was a ding and then the elevator slowed to a stop and the doors hummed open. Artur lost no time in getting out. Thomas went sailing after him, thanks to Fred’s helpful shove. He stumbled into Artur, sending them both sprawling in the elevator.

“I swear, the trouble you two cause me on a minute-by-minute basis…” She stomped past them and resisted the urge to kick Thomas in the ribs. At least they were helping each other up like gentlemen.

“You have to admit, I gotcha good,” Thomas said.

“Indeed you did. I shall remember your deviousness and address it another time.”

“Bring it, you redheaded overgrown—”

“Dr. Bimm, Dr. Pearson, and Prince Artur of the Black Sea,” Fred announced, walking into the conference room the receptionist had directed them to. Artur had made it clear he wanted his true name and affiliation when they finally confronted the bad guy.

Bad guys.