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Scandal in the VIP Suite
by Nadine Gonzalez
One
It seemed to Nina Taylor that she’d been traveling forever. Her flight was delayed at JFK, and the plane had spent an eternity in the queue at Miami International Airport before reaching its gate. Outside, she slipped on dark sunglasses to block out Miami’s Technicolor brightness and settled into the back of a cab. It was unreasonably hot—even for July—and the fake leather seat stuck to her bare arms. The driver loaded her bags into the trunk and slipped behind the wheel. “Where to?”
“Fifteen ten Ocean Drive.”
“Sand Castle? Good choice.” He adjusted the rearview mirror. “What brings you to Miami?”
A simple enough question. Most people wouldn’t have to lie. “Meeting a friend.”
“Nice! Nice!” The driver nodded. A bald spot on the back of his head revealed a patch of shiny brown skin. He eased into traffic. “I tell my grandkids to have fun! Take chances! Enjoy their youth!”
“Sounds like you’re a good grandpa.”
He glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “You look like my granddaughter. Which island are you from?”
The question didn’t surprise Nina. People from the islands had a sixth sense for this stuff. But Nina’s Caribbean roots were so deeply buried, Manhattan was the only island she could legitimately claim as her own. Just then, a massive SUV sped past them, cutting them off. A honking match ensued. The driver returned his attention to the road, saving her from having to answer his question. It was better this way; her family tree was more of a twisted, brittle vine.
As the AC kicked in, Nina got comfortable. This was not her first trip to Miami, but the memory of the last trip was blurred in a Jell-O shot glaze. She was twenty-three at the time and on assignment for Belle, a women’s magazine. She was thirty-one now, and her taste in cocktails had greatly evolved.
Nina lost herself in the view. Miami was one big, bloated suburb. One strip of highway connected to the next with a few well-placed palm trees to maintain the illusion of paradise. Soon enough they reached a causeway soaring above the dazzling bay, and everything changed. Suburban sprawl gave way to waterfront mansions and glass condo towers. Traffic was at a crawl when they inched past the iconic Welcome to Miami Beach sign. Nina snapped a photo with her phone, excitement bubbling inside her. By the time they veered onto Ocean Drive and pulled up to the hotel’s glossy black gates, Nina’s outlook on life shifted. Maybe this solo trip wasn’t the worst idea she’d ever had.
The mansion-turned-private boutique hotel stood proud in the sun. It had all the trappings of classic Mediterranean style: chalk-white walls and an angled terra-cotta tile roof, randomly placed windows—some arched, some not—and French doors opening to Juliet balconies. But it wasn’t until she entered the courtyard that Nina hit all-time Zen. The villa soared three stories above an interior garden complete with a fountain, each floor opening onto balconies with iron rails as fine as lace.
Mom would have loved this. The thought escaped her like a leaf caught in a breeze. But it assured her that she was in the right place.
* * *
Nina approached the front desk, gave her information and helped herself to a complimentary mint.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Taylor. There’s an issue with your reservation.”
The words no weary traveler ever wanted to hear.
“What’s the issue?” Nina asked. “I booked my stay a month ago.”
“Not sure. The manager will tell you more.”
The clerk offered her a mini-bottle of water, but Nina would not be placated. The sharp click-clack of high heels on tile announced the arrival of the manager. Nina readied herself for a fight.
“Welcome to Sand Castle, Ms. Taylor! I’m the general manager, Grace Guzman.”
Despite the circumstances, Nina winced at the hotel’s generic name. It wasn’t suited to a Mediterranean-style mansion, and Nina had half a mind to let this Guzman woman know.
“Come with me. Let’s get you sorted.”
Nina followed the manager along a cloistered walkway to a small office that might have been a butler’s pantry in another era. A nameplate read simply, “Graciela Guzman.” The stark white walls were cluttered with charcoal sketches framed in gold. She sat behind a desk that was free of all clutter and got down to it. “Ms. Taylor, the suite you requested is no longer available.”
Nina dropped into an empty chair and stared at her. “I don’t understand. I booked the Oasis spa getaway package one month ago.”
“Sand Castle has no official spa suite,” Grace said. “All our rooms are suited for relaxing stays.”
“Not according to your website.”
The spa package had included the two-bedroom top-floor suite. Jackie Onassis had called it an oasis when she’d spent a night in February 1988 and the name had stuck. Belle magazine had ranked it among the top ten hotels for the sophisticated traveler—a list that Nina had curated without ever stepping foot on any of the listed properties. It was her late mother’s dream to spend the night there. Nina was here to fulfill that dream. If that weren’t the case, Nina would have picked a less expensive, less pretentious hotel. Even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew it wasn’t true. The instant her cab pulled up to the gates and her luggage had exchanged hands, she had succumbed to the old mansion’s charm.
“Ms. Taylor, try to understand. The Oasis is our equivalent of the presidential suite. It’s subject to availability.”
“Is the president coming?” Nina asked. “Because according to CNN, he’s expected to give a speech in Johannesburg.”
Grace’s eyes narrowed. “We’ve had to make it available for an important guest. It’s all last-minute, and I apologize. Since you’re traveling alone, would you settle for a superior room instead?”
What? She wasn’t going to settle for some single-lady-traveler downgrade! “I’d mind very much.”
Grace smiled coolly. Nina noted the lovely creases at the corners of her eyes. In her midfifties or so, she was a beauty and knew it. Her foundation makeup didn’t blend well into her olive complexion, but otherwise she was perfect. Wearing a belted yellow dress and heels, Grace had the advantage of style. Nina felt plain by comparison in her go-to travel uniform: T-shirt, skinny jeans, don’t-mess-with-me shades and ballerina flats.
Prepping for this trip, Nina had scrubbed, peeled and waxed. On the plane, she’d slathered serum on her face; as a result, her matte brown skin was dewy, but not in a good way. Her hair hung in a limp braid down her back. And now it was clear that in her zealous preparation for her Miami getaway, she’d neglected all the smaller moments leading to it, like arriving in style at a luxury hotel, dressed to kill and prepared to confront the arrogant staff.
Grace checked her gold watch. “Your stay is important to us, I assure you.”
Nina’s anger spiked. “Not as important as this person you’ve given my suite to!”
It was probably a lost cause, but there was no way she was going to make this easy on management.
“We think you’ll be happy in our Garden Room.”
Nina shut her eyes. A tingling sensation spread from her chest to her throat, a sign that things were going to get loud and ugly. She thought it best to warn the other woman. “I’m sorry, but I’m about to throw a fit.”
The flutter of Grace’s unnaturally thick lashes was the only hint that Nina had gotten under her skin. “Naturally, your account will reflect the change in price.”
“No, it wouldn’t.” She was so brittle with exhaustion, if anyone laid a hand on her, she’d snap like a twig.
“How about an extra night’s stay on us?” Grace proposed.
That would round up her trip to seven nights. But why stop there? “Make it two nights.”
Grace made a show of checking her computer before tossing her reading glasses onto the glass desktop. “That’ll work.”
Nina nodded. She was disappointed, to be sure. The point of this trip was to honor her mother with the sort of Jackie O experience she’d deserved, but even the most unhinged traveler had to yield to reason. The Garden Room would do for now.
Grace pressed an intercom buzzer and called for a porter. Rising from behind her desk, she said, “Let’s get you settled.”
Nina followed Grace out the office just in time to witness the commotion in the courtyard marking the arrival of new guests. Grace promptly abandoned her and, in a state of agitation that didn’t suit her, went off to greet the newcomers. A hostess trailed behind her with a tray of champagne flutes. Nina wondered where the welcome committee had been when she’d arrived only moments earlier. Then it dawned on her—she’d been booted out of the Oasis to accommodate the excessively attractive people making their entrance.
A power couple if she’d ever seen one. The man was stunning. Nina hated to admit it, but there was no tap-dancing around the obvious. Tall, broad and with a profile that matched the marble busts hidden in the mansion’s many alcoves, he was hard to ignore. His complexion was raw honey, taking on a golden patina in the sun. His eyes were concealed behind smoky glasses, and he wore his long, wavy hair tied neatly at the nape of his neck. Given three guesses, Nina would go with soccer player, baseball star or prizefighter—middleweight division. He looked important, even though his appearance was somewhat disheveled in a black blazer worn over a wrinkled white T-shirt paired with faded jeans. The woman was obviously younger, still in her twenties, but that was how those things sorted themselves out. She was blonde and wore the equivalent of Nina’s travel uniform, elevated by a pair of black pumps. Nina imagined the couple getting settled in her suite, sipping champagne on her balcony before having sex on her custom double king bed—the absolute best sex in the world. That image alone prompted her to move all her resentment from Grace Guzman to the power couple with a simple mental balance transfer.
Nina hid behind a pillar and watched as Grace, clumsy with giddiness, gushed over the couple. The man laughed at something she said, the full, throaty laugh of a man who had everything going for him. Something about it sent a ripple down Nina’s spine.
A porter approached, startling her. “Ms. Taylor, my name is Jim. Please come this way.”
She followed him up a grand, winding staircase, that unnerving laugh licking at her ears. And because she couldn’t let a damn thing go, Nina tossed a final look over her shoulder. To her surprise, Mr. VIP was at the bottom of the stairs staring up at her without the filter of the smoky sunglasses. Mortified, she held his gaze a beat longer than necessary for no other reason than to prove that she wasn’t. Their eyes locked, and for a split second it was just the two of them in the courtyard. Nina grabbed the handrail for support. Jim the porter called out, “This way, Ms. Taylor.” Good thing, too, because for a moment there, she’d forgotten who she was and where she was headed.
On the second-floor landing, Jim turned to her. “Sorry about the commotion. You know how it is when Hollywood comes calling.”
Nina knew something about that. The daughter of a Broadway actress, she’d witnessed firsthand the frenzy the arrival of a Hollywood player could provoke. Her mother’s friends would enjoy a collective orgasm whenever a film actor signed up for a play. So...Hollywood? She’d been wrong on all three guesses.
“I shouldn’t say this, but it’s a madhouse down there. Glad my shift is over.” Jim stopped abruptly and checked the key in his hand. “You’re in Oasis? Really? I thought...”
“What?” Nina skipped a step and nearly tripped.
“We could have taken the private elevator,” Jim said glumly. “Sorry about that.”
“Uh...no worries. I could use the exercise.”
“All right. Only one more flight to go.”
The stairs wound up to the third floor. Nina looked over the rail down at the courtyard. The VIP couple was still chatting with Grace. She had time. To do what exactly? As she tried to puzzle that out, her gaze lingered on him. She had the luxury of staring at him unchallenged and took full advantage. An athlete would have had rough, rugged edges, but he was Hollywood beautiful: solid, symmetrical, smooth. His casual clothes looked expensive, and he wore them with effortless cool. His smile was like the sun. Nina’s core turned to jelly, and it had nothing to do with the languid heat.
“Ms. Taylor?”
Damn it! Busted again!
Nina swiveled around and followed Jim, her heart racing. On the third floor, potted lavender plants lined the way down a hall to a pair of carved mahogany doors. She was at the threshold of paradise, but what was the plan here? Take a quick look around. That was all. And why not? She’d been robbed of the experience.
Jim punched a code in the keypad and explained that a new code would be sent to her via email. Then he inserted a hefty skeleton key in the lock and turned it until the lock clicked. Sweat beaded at Nina’s temples, and she wondered about the maximum sentence for trespassing. The door swung open to reveal a Greek key tiled floor that seemed to go on forever. Jim ushered her into a sitting room furnished with antiques. A crystal chandelier hung overhead, and French doors opened to a wide balcony. Nina’s anxiety gave way to a rush of excitement.
Jim stacked her luggage on a loading table in the foyer. “Would you like a tour?”
“No, thanks. I’m beat.”
“Very well. The master suite is to your left, and the guest room to your right. Each room has a private bath.”
Nina tipped Jim handsomely to better send him on his way. She preferred not to get him mixed up in this. As soon as the door shut behind him, she wasted no time storming the master bedroom suite, only to stand frozen at the threshold.
This was the famous Oasis. The space glowed. Honey oak furniture, gold leaf accents and yellow silk drapes all helped to spread the sunlit luster. A mural of hand-painted flowers crawled up the walls. The bed was a sea of blue silk anchored by four wood posters—and it called out to Nina. She went over, sat at the edge, bounced a bit to test the mattress, then she spilled onto her back. “Oh, yes,” she murmured, staring up at the ceiling. A fresco depicted angels floating on tufted clouds. They looked down at her knowingly.
She made a mental note for her journal: Elegant, opulent and a little too much! I love it!
Only one more box to tick: a selfie. For good measure.
Nina sat up, pulled her phone from her pocket, smoothed her hair, selected a photo filter, tilted her head, pursed her lips, grimaced, attempted a smile and—
“Does the bed feel just right, Goldilocks?”
The phone fell from her hand. The masculine voice had a blunt British accent. It punched her in the gut and left her winded. Nina folded forward, squeezed her eyes shut and prayed that the angels frolicking on the ceiling would do her a favor and summon the angel of death.
God, please! I’d rather die than live through this. Amen.
Copyright © 2021 by Nadine Seide
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ISBN-13: 9781488070365
Running Away with the Bride
Copyright © 2021 by Sophia Singh Sasson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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Running Away with the Bride--An opposites attract romance with a twist Page 19
