"Who put you in my bed?" Juliana yelled, heels clacking on marble.
A dark shape rolled over the duvet. Silence tried to answer and lost.
"Get off me," she said, voice sharp. Her hand found the bedside lamp and the room flung itself into half-light.
Something caught her ankle. Fingers closed like a clamp.
"Let go," she snapped, stamping down with a heel.
"You're—" a man's voice groaned, half asleep, half smug.
"Who are you?" she demanded, twisting. Her other hand beat at the grip. "Get the hell off my ankle."
He tightened, then tried to speak her name. The name was wrong for him to say in this room.
Juliana swung her elbow hard into his ribs. He cursed, then grabbed her wrist.
"Stop," he whispered. "Juliana, listen—"
She slapped him. The slap landed loud enough to wake the whole suite.
He fell back, unsteady. For one insane second she saw him clearly: wire-rim glasses, toothpaste smear at the corner of his mouth, a cheap hotel keycard sticking out of his pocket.
"Who sent you?" she asked, stepping back toward the open bedroom door.
He lunged. She shoved him. He hit the headboard and slid off the bed onto the carpet. He laughed, a wet, stunned sound.
"You're on the wrong trip," he said, scrambling for the nightstand.
Juliana didn't wait. She grabbed the duvet and bundled it, turning the sheets into a weapon. She shoved him again. The shove knocked him against
