42. Betrayal

42

Betrayal

NICOLE LAMB

Nicole had been standing in the doorway from the bedroom for over a minute, wrapped in the Baccarat Hotel’s over-floofed robe, watching Kingston stare at the screen of her laptop.

It was definitely her laptop.

The desktop image behind the open folders was a pink and lavender high fantasy illustration of swooping dragons and maidens with swords.

When she’d eased the bedroom door open, a green uploading progress bar had just finished and then disappeared.

When she spoke, Kingston’s shoulders slumped before he twisted on the couch and looked back at her, his blue eyes wary.

With one step closer, she could see that her Experimental Designs folder was open, and the subfolders with all her plans, specs, and ideas had new green checkmarks beside them, showing that they had been backed up in cloud storage instead of only residing on her hard drive.

He’d stolen them.

He’d stolen everything.

She couldn’t even talk, couldn’t accuse him of what they both knew that he had obviously just done.

If she opened her mouth, she might vomit on the hotel’s expensive rug.

If he denied it, she was going to grab the nearest froufrou crystal candlestick and heave it at his head.

To save them both from that, Nicole walked over, plucked her laptop from his unresisting fingers, and slapped it closed. Grabbing her backpack, she stalked back into the bedroom, yanked her frilly pink pajama bottoms over her bare butt, and jammed her feet in the hotel slippers.

With a quick swipe in the bathroom, her birth control pills, toothbrush, and a few of her favorite cosmetics fell into her backpack. She crammed the laptop in the rear compartment made for it.

The sweet little sundresses in her luggage and even her favorite LBD were garbage. She would never wear them again, so she walked out of the bedroom and through the living room toward the suite’s front door with just her backpack.

“Nicole!” Kingston called after her.

Her throat was choked closed, and she couldn’t answer.

“Nicole, wait! I can’t book the plane with less than twelve hours notice.”

She kept going, the slippers slapping the thick rugs and dark walnut floor and her heels as she half-ran. “I’m going to the airport.”

Running footfalls behind her, and Kingston caught up to her, snagging her elbow and his fingers. “Please don’t leave.”

“Take your hand off of me,” she snarled at him, and he let her go. “I don’t want to hear your rationalizations. I gave you a chance when I shouldn’t have, and you threw it away.”

“You heard Morrissey Sand. I’ve been dancing around the subject for months, but without a huge change, Sidewinder will self-destruct. This is the only way to save the company and everyone’s jobs.”

“You’re trying to save your own reputation as the guy who saves companies, but you’re going to destroy Sidewinder if you put those designs into production. They are not ready yet.”

“Failure is not an option. I have to do this.”

“ I don’t care what you do, but leave me alone. Don’t talk to me at work. Do not try to contact me. I am done with you.”

Nicole marched out of the suite and didn’t look back, even when she heard the door click closed behind her.

She caught the elevator down, stewing and replaying the scene in her head the whole way. She should’ve told him to go to Hell.

A bellhop met her when the elevator doors opened to the lobby. “Mr. Moore has instructed us to arrange a limousine to safely take you to JFK. I cannot recommend that a young lady such as yourself walk the streets of New York City alone after two o’clock in the morning. We are working on getting you an airline ticket to the John Wayne airport. Or would you prefer LAX?”

The barrage of information ricocheted around Nicole’s head. “First available, please. San Diego is also fine. Thank you. I have my credit card here. I’ll get it.”

“Mr. Moore instructed us to put it on his account. There are often six a.m. flights to the West Coast. We’ll see what we can book you on. In the meantime, we have a private VIP lounge where sensitive guests can wait if needed. You’re welcome to it.”

He led her to a discreet door on the lobby’s back wall.

Inside was a lounge with couches and a TV high above a mini-bar with alcohol and snacks.

“Can I get you anything to eat or drink or anything to make you more comfortable?”

Service at the Baccarat really was impeccable.

The rage leaked out of her body because this very nice man was not to blame. “No, thank you. I appreciate your help.”

The bellhop’s slight smile was purely professional. “It happens all the time, ma’am. Please do not hesitate to ask if I can do anything to make these moments more comfortable for you. I can even collect additional items from the room while you wait.”

“No, thank you. There’s nothing up there I want anymore.”

“I understand. Please rest here, and we will have more information about the car service and airplane tickets soon.”

Within an hour, a black car drove Nicole through the shockingly empty streets of New York City to JFK airport, where the United desk asked her for her driver’s license and then handed her a first-class plane ticket to San Diego.

No, she had no luggage to check.

The security lines were short, and the hotel slippers were easy to slap into a bin on the conveyor belt.

The hotel robe was too fluffy for the X-ray machine to see through, and a very sympathetic TSA agent patted Nicole’s shoulders with the backs of her hands and looked under the robe’s cowl collar before waving her through.

Crying in first class seemed absolutely ridiculous, so Nicole held it together during the eight-hour flight to San Diego, the Ryde car trip back to her apartment, and until she set her backpack on her threadbare couch.

The time was only one o’clock in the afternoon, and she needed to water her plants.

She connected the engineering marvel of rubber tubing to her kitchen faucet and spooled it outside to the tall towers overflowing with plants, and she took care of them.

As the water dribbled into the black potting soil warmed by the California sun, the gaping hole of loss swallowed her.