else. Confusion reigned
in her mind as he pulled in to the forecourt of the hotel and a uniformed
doorman rushed to help her out. She fought her visceral desire for him with
what she wanted to do next, what she should do. Like call James Bell and
apologize.
The Paris stood on one of the main streets of Baton Rouge
but the atmosphere inside was hushed and expensive. Although used to these
places, she’d never visited one as a guest before. She’d visited, sometimes
worked in, even lived in, some of the finest hotels in Europe, but that
involved the staff entrance, not the porticoed front door with a uniformed
bellboy opening the door for her.
She wasn’t overawed though. The Paris belonged to a hotel
chain that prided itself on luxury and service but not individualism. Reminders
of the hotel lingered in the flourishing P logos on the luggage trolleys, the
badges of the receptionists, even woven into the pattern of the carpet. She
supposed ordering it in bulk helped with the cost. So did having a stranglehold
on the suppliers. Order enough and the company might as well be part of the
group, so that withdrawing the custom ruined them.
Her mind followed those tracks these days, but she had to
admit, she didn’t care about them half as much as she did about fresh food,
where to buy it, how to prepare and present it. She’d belonged in the catering
world, left her heart there, but she hadn’t felt part of the hotel management
business. It would come, she’d told herself, but it never had. Welcome to the
real world, of people who liked but didn’t love what they did. Even people who
detested their jobs.
Jace touched her elbow. “This way.”
“You’ve checked in?”
He grinned. “They did it for me. I explained we didn’t want
the media turning up and disrupting their hotel. They’re used to guests like me.
The concierge has me down as Mr. Trevor and you, my dear, are my wife.” He
laughed when she turned to him indignantly and held up his hands in
supplication. “It’s easiest. Now come on before somebody spots us.”
“I think they have,” she murmured, nodding to a woman who
stared at them, then hurried across to join them.
“Don’t I know you?”
“I doubt it,” Jace said. “Not unless you work for Trevor’s
Plastics.” He walked away, leading a numb Beverley.
“How could you do that?” she demanded once they were alone in
the elevator. “You don’t look anything like a manager in the plastics industry!
You look like what you are.”
“Which is…?” He stared down at her haughtily, reminding her
forcibly of his origin as local aristocracy.
“A rock star,” she suggested, indicating his nipple rings
and his open jacket. She’d been trying not to keep her attention on his
chest all afternoon, ever since he’d given her his shirt.
He laughed. “It kept her busy working it out, long enough
for us to get away. She thought she knew me but she wasn’t sure where she’d
seen me. She was chancing a guess.”
Even that sounded seductive the way he said it. Realization
struck. “Your shirt. I left it at the department store.”
He shrugged. “What’s the betting it gets lost in transit?
You watch the online auction sites in the next few days.”
The revelation shocked her, although on reflection she
supposed it shouldn’t. “Do people steal things from you?”
“All the time.” He reached out, spread his hands on either
side of her waist and drew her close. His voice lowered. “What do you want to
steal from me?”
“N-nothing.”
“Pity. I could hold you to ransom over it. That would be
fun.” He bent his head and kissed her.
This time, with nobody to see them, he didn’t have any
reason to kiss her but one. A reason she shared. She wanted him badly, and the
little devil inside her, the one she’d suppressed for years, said, Why not?
Just this once, live a little.
By the time he broke away as the elevator doors opened,
she’d made up her mind. Why not? She’d be in
in her mind as he pulled in to the forecourt of the hotel and a uniformed
doorman rushed to help her out. She fought her visceral desire for him with
what she wanted to do next, what she should do. Like call James Bell and
apologize.
The Paris stood on one of the main streets of Baton Rouge
but the atmosphere inside was hushed and expensive. Although used to these
places, she’d never visited one as a guest before. She’d visited, sometimes
worked in, even lived in, some of the finest hotels in Europe, but that
involved the staff entrance, not the porticoed front door with a uniformed
bellboy opening the door for her.
She wasn’t overawed though. The Paris belonged to a hotel
chain that prided itself on luxury and service but not individualism. Reminders
of the hotel lingered in the flourishing P logos on the luggage trolleys, the
badges of the receptionists, even woven into the pattern of the carpet. She
supposed ordering it in bulk helped with the cost. So did having a stranglehold
on the suppliers. Order enough and the company might as well be part of the
group, so that withdrawing the custom ruined them.
Her mind followed those tracks these days, but she had to
admit, she didn’t care about them half as much as she did about fresh food,
where to buy it, how to prepare and present it. She’d belonged in the catering
world, left her heart there, but she hadn’t felt part of the hotel management
business. It would come, she’d told herself, but it never had. Welcome to the
real world, of people who liked but didn’t love what they did. Even people who
detested their jobs.
Jace touched her elbow. “This way.”
“You’ve checked in?”
He grinned. “They did it for me. I explained we didn’t want
the media turning up and disrupting their hotel. They’re used to guests like me.
The concierge has me down as Mr. Trevor and you, my dear, are my wife.” He
laughed when she turned to him indignantly and held up his hands in
supplication. “It’s easiest. Now come on before somebody spots us.”
“I think they have,” she murmured, nodding to a woman who
stared at them, then hurried across to join them.
“Don’t I know you?”
“I doubt it,” Jace said. “Not unless you work for Trevor’s
Plastics.” He walked away, leading a numb Beverley.
“How could you do that?” she demanded once they were alone in
the elevator. “You don’t look anything like a manager in the plastics industry!
You look like what you are.”
“Which is…?” He stared down at her haughtily, reminding her
forcibly of his origin as local aristocracy.
“A rock star,” she suggested, indicating his nipple rings
and his open jacket. She’d been trying not to keep her attention on his
chest all afternoon, ever since he’d given her his shirt.
He laughed. “It kept her busy working it out, long enough
for us to get away. She thought she knew me but she wasn’t sure where she’d
seen me. She was chancing a guess.”
Even that sounded seductive the way he said it. Realization
struck. “Your shirt. I left it at the department store.”
He shrugged. “What’s the betting it gets lost in transit?
You watch the online auction sites in the next few days.”
The revelation shocked her, although on reflection she
supposed it shouldn’t. “Do people steal things from you?”
“All the time.” He reached out, spread his hands on either
side of her waist and drew her close. His voice lowered. “What do you want to
steal from me?”
“N-nothing.”
“Pity. I could hold you to ransom over it. That would be
fun.” He bent his head and kissed her.
This time, with nobody to see them, he didn’t have any
reason to kiss her but one. A reason she shared. She wanted him badly, and the
little devil inside her, the one she’d suppressed for years, said, Why not?
Just this once, live a little.
By the time he broke away as the elevator doors opened,
she’d made up her mind. Why not? She’d be in
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