Max felt a vague twinge of alarm. She really didn’t believe in coincidences, and a news team appearing while they were holding a megamillionaire hostage …
“Hey! Look at the babe! They must be shooting a commercial.”
“Yeah?” the third gunman said, suddenly attentive. So far, he had resisted joining his colleagues, staying at his post on the far side of the room. “What’s she look like?”
“Can’t see her too well,” came the response. “I think she’s only wearing body paint, though. C’m’ere and look.”
A sharp rapping at the room door froze everyone into a startled tableau. The guards at the window let the curtain drop back into place and stood, hands on their weapons, waiting for orders.
The knock came again, and the guard closest to the door shot an inquiring glance at Maxine, who answered with a silent nod.
Flattening against the wall beside the door, the guard drew his weapon, then reached out and put his hand over the peephole used to check visitors. It was an old trick, and a normal precaution against someone shooting through the door when they saw the dot of light visible from the other side change as someone looked through.
Nothing happened.
Moving carefully, the guard slowly turned the doorknob, then threw the door open with a jerk.
“Good evening. My name is Beeker. Forgive the intrusion, but I’m with-oh! There you are, sir.”
The guard gaped helplessly as the butler strode past him and into the suite.
“Hey, Beek!” Phule called in greeting. “I was wondering how long it would take you to show up.”