Room Service Page 12

  Beside him, Gus shrugged and nodded. “Looks like it, my friend.”

  “She’s become the blasted Energizer Bunny,” Rhys said, smacking his hand on the top of the bar. “I can’t turn the woman off for love nor money.”

  “She is kind of hopped up about this ball,” Gus agreed, and rattled the ice cubes in his glass at Tommy. The bar was deserted, as usual on a late Friday afternoon. “I’ll take another Coke.”

  “Hopped up? The woman is obsessed!” Rhys slugged back the rest of his drink and then reconsidered his words. “Not that she shouldn’t be, yeah? It’s her hotel, and it could certainly use a bit of spiffing up, and some decent publicity. But I’d like to spend at least a moment with her alone with no mention of zombies, the relative merits of crepe paper, and dry ice for the sodding punch!”

  In the days since he’d cornered her in the elevator, he’d spent approximately thirty-eight minutes alone with her. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. They’d spent evenings together, in her bed usually, but that was just sex.

  Just sex. He shook his head in disbelief, ignoring Gus’s glance. Once upon a time “just sex” would have been fine with him. The ultimate in a relationship, in fact. No strings, no bloody requests to “talk,” nothing but two naked bodies and all the many ways they could find pleasure together.

  Now he wanted to talk to Olivia, damn it. Not that he didn’t appreciate making love to her—appreciate was far too weak a word, in fact. Bloody hell. When had he begun to think of it as making love, anyway? Shagging, fucking, those were his words, his terms.

  And even when they were definitely shagging, like they had been up against the wall in the entryway of her little flat the other night, it wasn’t just shagging, was it?

  Not for him, anyway.

  And the way she’d stopped him the other night in the tub—that had hit home. He hadn’t been thinking beyond the wet, slippery pleasure of their skin sliding together in the water, and if Liv hadn’t said anything he would have thrust inside her in a heartbeat. But she had—she’d been the one to remind him that a condom was necessary if they didn’t want to be surprised a few weeks down the line.

  Unlike Clodagh.

  “I’m out of sorts myself,” he said aloud, in an effort to derail his uncomfortable train of thought. “I’ve not been cooking, and I miss it. I’ve got that final competition hanging over my head, and no way to prepare for it. And God only knows what I’ll do after that’s over.”

  Gus nodded thoughtfully. They’d spent so many afternoons together recently, just like this, that Rhys had eventually filled him in about Fork in the Road. After a moment, he said, “What about opening a restaurant of your own?”

  “It’s a possibility—but not a good one unless I win that bloody competition.” Even to his own ears Rhys sounded like a pouting child.

  “Well, why not ask Josef to let you mess around in the kitchen this afternoon, maybe help with dinner?”

  Rhys had been asking himself the same question for days. The answer was really quite simple, frightening as it was. “Because I want to be snogging Olivia somewhere, that’s why. Because I can’t think about anything but her, if you want the truth. Haven’t been able to since she knocked me down on the sidewalk that first day.”

  Gus considered this for a moment, then took a cocktail napkin from the pile on the bar and retrieved a pen from his pocket. “Well then, buddy, it looks like we’re back to kidnapping.”

  Standing in the center of the ballroom, Olivia whirled around and clapped her hands. “It looks gorgeous. If I do say so myself.”

  Two weeks and approximately a thousand cans of paint and paint stripper and rollers and floor wax and pieces of sandpaper, and the room was finally done. The walls were a rich sky blue, and the woodwork and moldings were all creamy eggshell. With the old drapes torn down and fresh new ones hung—fresh new cheaply made ones, thanks to some plain muslin on sale and the talents of Maribel’s mother—the whole room was as light and airy as it had once been dull and tattered. Even the ladders and scaffolding and drop cloths had finally been cleared away.

  Plus, a friend of Declan the doorman was an artist who had very generously agreed to paint a mural on the ceiling for a song. Which was fortunate, since Olivia’s personal credit cards had been getting quite a workout ever since she had decided to undertake Callender House’s new image. For a mere $500, plus generous credit in conspicuous places, the grand domed ceiling of the ballroom now sported pale drifts of clouds, and trios of very baroque angels in flight, each with a particular New York theme—one was eating a bagel and carrying a cup of coffee, another was a cabdriver, a third was draped in Liberty-like robes.

  “It’s genius, I have to say,” Josie told her, nudging Olivia with a friendly elbow and tipping back her head to admire the artwork. “It’s a whole other room now.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” Olivia said with a happy grin. “Although now that I think about it, we probably should have redone the lobby first and saved the doom and gloom in here for the party. It doesn’t look very spooky now, does it?”

  “Fake cobwebs are preferable to real ones, if you ask me.” Josie nudged her again. “We have company.”

  Olivia glanced at the door to find Rhys slouched there, head tilted to one side as he looked at her, his hands jammed in his jeans pockets. He winked at her, and she blushed.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Josie muttered. “Get a room.” She was out the door, ponytail bouncing after her, before Olivia could protest.

  “What do you think?” she asked Rhys instead, spreading her arms to encompass the whole room. “Do you like it?”

  “It’s brilliant.”

  “You’re not even looking.”

  “I’ve seen the whole thing in progress, remember?”

  “Humor me.” She gave him a sad puppy dog look, and he groaned in defeat. Walking into the room, he turned in a circle, eyes on the ceiling.

  “Brilliant. Just like I said.”

  “You’re being stubborn,” she said as he caught her up in his arms and turned her around the floor in an impromptu waltz. Their footfalls echoed in the huge, empty room, a strange staccato rhythm.

  “Not stubborn, just determined,” he answered. His gray eyes gleamed with mischief. “I have something to show you.”

  “What is it?” God, if he kept feeding her, she was going to gain a thousand pounds. One more chocolate torte and none of her pants would fit right.

  “I’d be telling you then, wouldn’t I? I want to show you.” He danced them toward the door, but she dug her heels in.

  She had to stall, if nothing else. Rhys was far too persuasive when he got his hands on her, and it was only five o’clock. She still had a list of things she wanted to check on before clocking out for the day.

  Think of something quick. “Where did you learn to waltz like that?”

  “I was born to dance,” he said dryly. “No stalling. I’m hardly Michael Flatley.”

  Damn it. “Can you dip me?”

  He smirked. “Like this, you mean?”

  Before she knew it, she was bent back over his arm, and he was lowering his mouth to hers in a hot, lingering kiss that was so dark and spicy she could hardly breathe.

  “Um, yes…like that,” she managed when he had her upright again. “That was wonderful. Do it again.”

  “You’re going to be over my shoulder in a minute,” he warned, and steered her toward the door. “I have something to show you and I’m not taking no for an answer.”

  “The caveman in you is hardly appealing,” she said waspishly, but she let him lead her out the door and downstairs. In the lobby, though, she wriggled out of reach when he headed for the revolving door.

  “Rhys, just tell me,” she pleaded. “I shouldn’t take off without a word to anyone, you know.”

  “Already taken care of.” He hooked his arm around her shoulder and cocked his head at the registration desk, where Roseanne stood grinning at her. She waggled her fingers and mouthed, “�
��Bye-bye.”

  “It’s a conspiracy,” Olivia protested when she turned to see Gus waving from the door to the bar. Josie was beside him, looking a bit confused but waving nonetheless.

  “A happy one,” Rhys promised as he propelled her outside. “I’m not whisking you off to a torture chamber, yeah?”

  “How am I supposed to know?” she replied, simply to be argumentative. The man got his own way so often, he’d probably forgotten the world didn’t always bend to his wishes. She bent to his wishes all too often, in fact. Even if most of them were designed for her enjoyment, if not toe-curling physical pleasure.

  “Because this is what I wanted to show you.” He spread one arm toward the curb as they stood outside on the windy sidewalk, and in the gathering dusk she saw a horse-drawn carriage.

  It was white, and looked freshly washed, with gleaming black-painted wheels and two glowing carriage lamps already lit against the darkness. A garland of fall flowers lay along the back of the seat, and the horse was adorned with a wreath, the purple and yellow mums rich against his thick white mane.

  Oh, Rhys. He had no idea what he was doing to her.

  “This is for me?” she said, turning her face up to his. “For us?”

  “All ours, love, for as long as we want it.” He flicked a glance at the driver, who was bundled into a heavy corduroy coat under his black top hat. “That right, Pete?”

  “Yes, sir.” The man grinned and let go of the reins to hop down and offer his arm. “My lady?”

  Well, there was no way on earth to deny Rhys the pleasure of arranging this surprise. And there was, honestly, no way she was going to miss out on it. She climbed up the hanging steps with Pete’s help, and turned to Rhys when he joined her.

  “This is lovely. I’m sorry I was being difficult.”

  “No worries, love.” He was practically beaming now that he had her in the carriage, and before she had decided how to mention that the October air was really kind of chilly, he’d presented her jacket and a snug lap blanket.

  God, she was going to cry if she wasn’t careful. “You thought of everything.”

  “I try, I try.” He rummaged at his feet and came up with a thermos. “Thirsty? I’ve got hot tea here, just the way you like it, and there’s a bit of a snack for later, as well.”

  “Why are you doing all this?” She whispered the words, not trusting her voice to remain steady, as he snugged her up against him and put his arm around her shoulders.

  “What a nonsensical question, Liv.” He kissed the top of her head as the carriage pulled away from the curb, heading uptown. “Because I want to. Because it makes me happy. Because I hoped it would make you happy. And truly? Because I wanted a chance to spend a few minutes with you away from the hotel.”

  He was the only person who’d ever called her Liv—even her father had only ever called her Olivia, since his pet name for her had been, inexplicably, Button. But Liv seemed right on Rhys’s tongue, and the intimacy of a name only he used gave her a little thrill whenever she heard it.

  She hid her face against his coat and snuggled closer. The horse’s shoes made a soothing clopping noise on the pavement. “Why? I mean, why away from the hotel? At the hotel we can…you know.”

  He set her away from him so abruptly, she was startled. His dark eyes blazed with outrage. “Do you think that’s the only reason I want to spend time with you? Because it’s certainly not. Not that I object to the way we spend time in your bed, you see, not at all, but really, Olivia. That’s a bit unflattering.”

  Oh my goodness. He was so incensed, she didn’t quite know what to say. The sex was wonderful—it was amazing, transporting, and amazingly addictive—but it wasn’t the only reason she was attracted to him, either.

  But…if it wasn’t just sex for him, what was it? Because the minute she began to believe that it might be more, that it might be forever, she was going to get her heart broken. She knew it. He was leaving in just a few weeks, and he’d never said a word about coming back after he was finished with the show.

  But she couldn’t say that, not here. Not now. Not at all, probably, because he’d never made one promise that involved more than a few hours together.

  She put her hands on his cheeks and drew his head closer, so she could look him in the eye. “I’m sorry. That was horrible of me to say.”

  He let the silence linger a moment in the crisp night air. Somewhere a cabbie was leaning on his horn, and the noise cut through the background hum of traffic rushing by on Madison. “Forgiven,” he said finally. “Or you will be if you let me grope you under the blanket.”

  She smacked his hand away with a laugh. “I am sorry,” she repeated. “It’s just that everything sort of happened at once. You showing up the day that Uncle Stuart made those awful threats, and then I had the idea about the Monsters’ Ball. I’ve probably been insufferably self-absorbed, huh?”

  “Let’s say understandably distracted.” He smiled and pulled her into the circle of his arm again.

  “It’s just that I can’t help feeling responsible for everything that goes on there,” she said, enjoying the cool air on her cheeks. “I mean, I am responsible. It’s my hotel, after all. And if this ball fails…”

  “It won’t,” Rhys assured her. “Haven’t you already had a bit of good press? The preparations are coming along just fine, the menu’s all been sorted, and Roseanne said you’ve already sold dozens and dozens of tickets.”

  “That’s true,” she admitted. Maybe she should let him reassure her on a daily basis. Everything sounded sensible and under control in his crisp British accent.

  “You know the staff is all pulling for you, too, yeah? They’re going to do their damnedest to make the thing work brilliantly. Look at Angel, asking his brother-in-law’s band to play. Free publicity for the band, free entertainment for you.”

  “Also true,” she said and watched as Pete pulled the carriage onto Fifty-Ninth Street. “Are we going to the park?”

  “Where else?” Rhys tipped her chin up to kiss her. “Just for a little while. So we can enjoy a bit of privacy and talk to each other, away from it all. The hotel’s in good hands, love.”

  He was right, of course. She settled into him and closed her eyes as the horse clopped into the park proper. She deserved to get away for a little while now and then. After all, what could happen?

  Stuart Callender’s office was as gloomy and gray as he was, Marty Kinsella thought as he and Davey O’Brian stood waiting for the big man himself to end his phone call. It was tonight, because it was already dark and the man had only turned on the desk lamp, but it always felt like a frigging cave to Marty.

  Or it would have, if it weren’t for the sweep of windows behind Callender’s desk. He and Davey were reflected in them now, and Davey was rummaging in the pocket of his khakis. Dress pants, according to Davey. Someone really needed to smack some sense, or at least some taste, into him.

  “Stop fidgeting,” he hissed at Davey. Whenever Mr. Callender wanted them for one of his special “assignments,” the pay rocked. The work wasn’t always steady, but there were creative ways to make funds last, and anyway, it beat slinging burgers somewhere on the Jersey Turnpike. Or, God forbid, riding the back of a sanitation truck with his uncle Lou.

  “I’m not fidgeting!” Davey protested—too loud, because Callender looked up and glared at them both.

  “You fuck this up for me, and you’re gonna regret it,” Marty whispered in Davey’s direction. “I promised Shelley I’d get her an iPod for Christmas, one of the big video ones, and I need the money.”

  “Don’t worry,” Davey whispered back, but not before rolling his eyes. His eyebrows looked like rusty beetles crawling across his forehead, Marty thought. That Brillo hair had to be the reason he never got laid.

  Callender hung up the phone with a distinct thud, and sat back in his chair. It was one of those snazzy black leather jobs, of course.

  “Two people on the maintenance staff of Callender House a
re quitting without notice, thanks to me,” he said without preliminaries. Figured. “I’ve managed to plant a seed, through mutual acquaintances who have assured me my name will be kept out of it, that you two are the perfect replacements.”

  Maintenance? What the hell? He didn’t want to push a fucking broom, not even for whatever Stuart Callender was willing to pay. But he kept his mouth shut, waiting for the other shoe to drop. There was always another shoe with Callender.

  “All you two have to do is show up at the hotel tomorrow and ask for Angel Dorsey. The rest should be as simple as adding two plus two.”

  The rest? What did that mean? Getting the jobs, or whatever extras Callender wanted them to perform? Davey was already scratching his head thoughtfully, and Marty resisted the urge to elbow him in the ribs. Hard.

  Too late. Davey said, “And then what?” God, he was a moron.

  Callender rolled his eyes as he folded his arms across his chest. The glare he directed at Davey was lethal. “And then you take every opportunity you find to cause trouble. On the sly, of course. Think sabotage, secret and subtle, not wrecking balls. Can you handle that?”

  Sabotage? That was more like it. Marty straightened up, and decided to lob a ball back to the big man, just to be sure they were playing the same game. “Screwing with the plumbing, maybe. Stuff like that.”

  Callender’s smile was as cold as midwinter day. “Exactly.”

  “No problem, sir,” Marty said proudly, before something confusing occurred to him. He should probably keep his mouth shut, but maybe it was better to be sure…. “Can I ask…why? Don’t you want the hotel for yourself, sir? Why do you want us to ruin stuff?”

  “I don’t want that falling down pile of bricks,” Callender scoffed. “I want the property, which is worth far more. And I’m going to have it one way or another.”

  Chapter 11

  “G ood afternoon, Mrs. Gilchrist,” Olivia said on Saturday morning as one of their permanent residents ventured carefully into the lobby. Olivia couldn’t blame her for the caution—it looked as if a bomb had gone off, with buckets for tile cleaning in one corner, the brass on the reception desk being polished, and Olivia herself kneeling in front of the red velvet banquette, an upholstery knife in hand and torn red velvet splashed like blood on the floor.