“He had them countermand your publisher’s order and sent one of our specialties. Our Arnold Bennett Omelet, as well as the lemon ricotta pancakes, which are extraordinarily delicious, and hash browns with a rasher of bacon, along with a large, freshly squeezed orange juice and Irish breakfast tea.”
“That sounds amazing. Way too much and far too many calories, but I’ll stab you with a fork if you try to take any of it. I usually don’t want much, but this morning, I’m famished.”
“Very good, Miss.”
Sage rifled through her messages as she ate. When she’d finished, she went through her mail, leaving the manilla envelope, with only her name and room number, printed by hand, for last.
“Hmm,” she said, downing the last of the juice.
She slid the knife under the flap, opening it, and pulled out the thick paper—blank on one side. Sage turned it over and inhaled sharply. The other side was the cover of her yet to be released Roark Samuels’ novel. She had revealed it on her private reader page, to the PR firm, and in her newsletter. The picture had been manipulated so her heroine had a gaping slash across her throat, and the hero was holding a bloody knife.
Sage put the picture down on the bed and called down to the front desk, asking them to send someone from security up to her room, then placed a call to Gail.
“Please don’t tell me the driver didn’t show up,” she said.
“No, Gail. The front desk sent up messages and mail with my breakfast. Someone took the cover for Stack of Corpses and manipulated it…”
“Manipulated it how?”
“Put a bloody knife in Roark’s hand and made it look like he slit the heroine’s throat.”
“I’m on my way…”
“No. You handle everyone on that end. Give them my apologies and let the event organizer know what’s going on. I’ve asked the desk to send up someone from security. As soon as they’re done with me, I’ll head to you.”
“Are you sure you don’t need me?”
“I am, but thanks, Gail. Someone’s at the door…”
“Make sure you check their ID. Call me before you leave.”
Gail could be a real pain in the ass, but she did care, and for all her meddling ways, she always made sure Sage was taken care of.
The knock on the door sounded again. She put the night latch on and opened the door a crack.
“Can I see your ID, please?”
“Of course, Ms. Matthews,” said a gruff voice as he slipped his hotel security identification through the opening. “I’m Gabriel Waverly—Gabe—Head of Security here at the Savoy. I have Felix, the head concierge, with me. May we come in? The front desk said you asked for me.”
Shutting the door and releasing the night latch, she opened the door, inviting them in. Sage was faced with her second shock of the morning. Felix, the head concierge, stared back at her. A part of her had expected him to look like the character she had described in the book, often being mistaken for Hercule Poirot, but he looked nothing like that. This Felix was a tall man, sleek, lean, but powerfully built, with a small, vertical scar by his left eye, deep brown eyes, sensual mouth, and chestnut brown hair—a far cry from a short, round man with an egg-shaped head and cat-green eyes.
“My dear Ms. Matthews, you look as though someone walked over your grave,” Felix said, reaching out for her and leading her to one of the armchairs.
The Roark she had described in her novels was a muscle-bound hunk and contrasted with the soft, round Felix. But here in the real world there was a grace and power to Felix she could feel through his impeccably tailored suit.
“You’re Felix.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Sage reached out and touched his face to assure herself he was real. “Would you like me to call a doctor?”
Sage shook her head, trying to clear the fog from her brain.
“On the bed. It came up with my breakfast… which was delicious. Thank you, Felix.”
The Savoy’s head of security—a tall man, heavily muscled with the air of someone who could handle himself and any situation that came at him—move toward the bed. He had shortish blond hair he wore slicked back and icy blue eyes, which somehow seemed warm, set in a face that seemed sculpted from stone.
“I take it the knife and the slashed throat were not part of your original cover art?” Gabe asked.
“No, not at all.”
“I can see why you would find this disturbing. Is this the first time you’ve received something like this?”
“No, back in the States, I have a stalker. It seems he or she has followed me across the Pond.”
“How perfectly dreadful for you,” Felix sympathized.
“It came in this envelope?” Gabe asked.
Sage nodded again. “You look worried, Mr. Waverly.”
“Gabe, please. I am. Someone following you across the Atlantic to London isn’t a fly-by-night, run-of-the-mill stalker. I’d like to get Scotland Yard involved. Felix and I were part of a Special Ops unit and have a friend there. I’ll call him unofficially.”
“Thank you.”
“In the meantime. I’d like to run a check on your driver before you get in a car with him. I assume you’re still going to attend the tour event. I’d prefer to take you in my car and give the Four Seasons…”
“How do you know my event is at the Four Seasons?” she asked, beginning to be a bit unnerved by the events of the morning.
“Your publisher, Ms. Vincent, gave Felix a copy of your itinerary and schedule, which Felix gave to his staff and mine. We pride ourselves on the care we give our guests here at the Savoy—especially those with a high profile, who got waylaid by the paparazzi when she arrived at the airport.”
“I’m sorry. You’re just
