The same barbeque they had shared when he’d kissed her over two weeks ago.

Patrick sauntered into The Morrison in Houston as if he owned the place.

He glanced behind the front desk and noted an elderly woman who probably claimed at least eight grandchildren as her own.

Miss May, he said to himself.

He offered a friendly smile and walked straight for the elevators.

The second set. Katelyn had told him the first ones didn’t access the penthouse level and the passkey wouldn’t work.

Guests shuffled by with suitcases in hand. There were plenty of Stetsons and cowboy boots. So many that he thought maybe he should be wearing one or the other to fit in. He didn’t have time to think on it long before the elevator made a resounding ding and the doors opened.

A few guests stepped into the elevator beside him and pressed the buttons for their floors.

He stepped in and waved a mechanical key over an invisible sensor that would push the elevator to the top floor.

He stared at the numbers as the elevator ascended, completely aware of the coy glances he was given as he rode the elevator with strangers.

Twice the elevator stopped and guests stepped out. Each one turned to take a second look his way.

Their actions told him one of two things: Whoever had dropped a baby off at Katelyn’s didn’t have a passkey. Or if they did, they certainly didn’t catch the elevator with another hotel guest or someone would have seen something.

Patrick had stayed in a few fancy hotels in his time, but he hadn’t yet had the privilege of sleeping in a penthouse.

Katelyn had mentioned that people noticed her when she walked by, but he thought it was because of her striking appearance and larger-than-life presence when she walked into a room. Patrick was none of those things and he’d been seen by a half dozen people, including one employee within minutes of walking in the door.

The elevator opened to a short hallway with rooms only on two sides. One suite took up the west end of the hotel, the other took the east.

Katelyn’s was number one.

Fitting.

The same key that let him on the elevator flashed a green light over the hotel door so he could enter Katelyn’s personal space without so much as a hello.

He opened the door and at the same time removed a small notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket.

Who makes the electronic keys?

Who has access to the codes to Katelyn’s suite?

He made a few more notes about housekeeping and room service. All of whom would be able to get up into the suite without detection.

Much like the hotel he’d first met Katelyn in, this one was packed full of opulence and the evidence of money. Big money.

Marble tile floors were a softer hue than the one in California, the decor feminine. There were fresh flowers in the vase by the door, which struck him as funny since Katelyn wasn’t expected to return to Houston anytime soon.

He flipped on a switch and the room lit up. The sun was setting in Houston and the lights of the city were twinkling on the horizon. Patrick lost himself in the view for a moment.

Did the mother of the child know what a privilege it would be to have her child grow up with enough money to afford this view in whatever city they lived? Did they know flowers would greet the baby every day?

Did that play into the decision to give up Savannah?

Patrick moved into the room and noticed a small light above his head turn red.

Motion detector.

Before continuing his perusal of Katelyn’s personal space, he opened the outside door once again and looked in the small corridor. Above the elevator, a motion detector turned red.

He scribbled more notes in his notebook. Who was in charge of watching the detectors? When did they go off and alert the authorities?

Patrick removed his jacket, hung it on the back of a chair, and noted the time on his watch. He sat on the large white sofa and crossed a leg over his opposite knee before picking up a magazine. Any security worth their salt would be at the door in less than two…

Click!

Make that thirty seconds.

Patrick turned the page of the magazine and glanced up when two men wearing suits, but who certainly were armed, stepped into the room.

“Miss Morrison?” they called out.

“She’s not here,” Patrick told them.

One of the men moved into the doorway but kept his left hip toward the hall. The other had a hand on a radio.

“You would be who?” the large man in the doorway asked.

Patrick stood and moved slowly to the man, extending his hand. “Ben Sanderson. Katie told me I could crash here tonight. I had an unexpected layover. Damn airline lost my luggage.”

The security guard straightened and looked around the room. “She didn’t call ahead.”

“She said she’d try…but she was with friends…out. Well, you know Katie. Call her, she’ll vouch for me.” He removed the key from his pocket and waved it in the air. “She gave me her key. I’ll be back in LA with her next week.”

The guards exchanged a glance and proceeded to relax.

“We’ll check with Miss Morrison.”

“Suit yourself.” Patrick moved back into the room and picked up the phone. “Is the kitchen still open? Damn domestic flights don’t even serve peanuts anymore.”

If there was one thing Patrick had learned in all his years of being a PI, it was that when you acted as if you belonged, people seldom questioned if you did.

“Yeah, the kitchen’s still open.”

“Thank God. I’m starved.” Ben allowed the kitchen to patch through the line and proceeded to order the chef’s special. He glanced around the room, noticed a bar, and knew he could pour himself a drink.