by Suzie Nelson
But Janice wasn’t buying it. “Uh huh,” she said, raising an eloquent eyebrow. “Well, whatever the reason, you could do a heck of a lot worse. You do know who he is, right?”
Avery made a face. “I know his name from somewhere, but, honestly, I have no idea.”
“God, girl, do you literally live under a rock?” Janice shook her head, grinning.
“Maybe a little,” Avery smiled. “Tell me who he is.”
“He’s the son of Howard Wolfe, who owns that huge chain of luxury hotels in Asia.” Janice raised her eyebrows, waiting for the penny to land.
“Oh my God, you mean he’s one of the Wolfes? Like, the Wolfes who are in middle of buying us?” Avery gaped down at the other woman.
“Yep. He’s one of those Wolfes. Plus, he’s only, like, the most eligible bachelor in New York. He’s only thirty and he runs his father’s Hong Kong and Singapore branches. Word is they’re opening a new one in Indonesia next year. He must be in town for the deal.”
“Oh God,” said Avery. “I didn’t put two and two together. I had no idea! How could I be such an idiot?”
Janice shrugged. “It is only 7:30 in the morning. Plus he seems pretty down to earth for a multi-millionaire. He probably appreciated the fact that you didn’t start sucking up to him just because he’s the new owner’s son.”
“On the other hand, it’s more likely that he’s a spoiled brat and is totally offended by the fact that I didn’t do exactly that!” Avery put her head in her hands.
“Nah,” said Janice. “He had the hots for you. I seriously don’t think he minded.”
Avery peeked out from between her fingers. “You really think so?” she asked miserably.
“I really think so,” Janice replied. “Chill, boss. You look like amazing in that skirt. Harness that power.”
Avery let her hands fall. “Oh well, if nothing else, tonight he’ll meet Selena and she’ll give him all the attention he could want. She so much better with men than I am.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” Janice replied, “but she certainly has a gift for showing her tits in their faces.”
“Janice!” Avery frowned. “She’s not like that. She’s just good at flirting, that’s all. It’s not her fault she’s drop dead gorgeous.”
Janice looked up at her future boss. “There’s good at flirting, and there’s good at flirting, Avery. And you’re ten times prettier than she is. You just don’t gussy yourself up as much.”
Avery shook her head. “Now you’re just living in a fantasy land.”
Janice laughed. “Suit yourself, Avery. But I bet Deacon Wolfe would agree with me.”
“Stop it!” Avery half-giggled, half-moaned as she lightly slapped Janice with a brochure. “God, I can’t believe I flirted with a Wolfe!”
“You go, girl,” said Janice, dodging the brochure.
Then the front doors opened and an elegant older woman in a Chanel suit and pearls came striding in, followed by a parade of beautiful young men carrying an impossible amount of luggage. Janice and Avery immediately plastered on their most charming smiles and stood at attention. Everybody in the hotel business knew there was nobody so hard to please as a rich woman over sixty.
Chapter 2
Deacon Wolfe pushed away the paperwork he was looking over and checked the sleek, black leather and gold watch on his wrist. He made a face. It was already eight o’clock. He’d missed the foxy little concierge from this morning. Running his hands over his face he thought back to the way her pert bum swished back and forth in her perfectly fitted pencil skirt. All the way up the hall he’d wondered what kind of nylons she was wearing. He knew it was unlikely, but he liked to imagine they were thigh-highs. He could almost imagine rolling the black lace down her long, lean legs.
His cock twitched in his slacks and he shook his head to clear it. Reaching back, he picked up the phone and rang the front desk for room service. A woman’s low, purring voice answered at the first ring.
“Concierge speaking, how may I help you?” the voice asked.
“Hi, I’m in room 714 and I’d like a cortado brought up, please. With a pastry of some sort.”
“We have some lovely freshly made pain au chocolats, if you’d like,” the beautiful voice continued.
“Perfect. One of those, please.” Deacon wondered if the woman on the other end of the voice knew she sounded like a call girl. It was sexy, but too over the top for him. She sounded like she was trying too hard.
“It’ll be right up,” said the voice.
“Thanks,” said Deacon and hung up. For a moment he sat in silence. Then he picked up the phone and called the front desk again. “Actually, sorry, you know what, I’ve changed my mind. Cancel that cortado.”
“Of course, sir,” the husky voice didn’t even sound surprised, just sexy. Deacon was mildly impressed. “Anything else I can get you instead?” Just that sounded like an innuendo and, unbidden, an image of Avery laughing sprang to mind.
“No, thanks. I think what I actually need is a bit of a walk.”
The voice laughed throatily in a way that Deacon was sure gave many men hard-ons immediately. “Well, I’m afraid that I can’t help you with it.”
He smiled. “No, I’m afraid not. Thanks for your help.”
“My pleasure,” was the smoky reply.
Deacon hung up again. Standing quickly, he crossed the room and tugged on his coat.
“Would you like me to come, sir?” Bart, his dour-looking bodyguard asked from the couch, where he was reading a magazine about guns.
Deacon shook his head. “Nah. I’m just going out for a quick walk to clear my head. If I suddenly decided to go on an all-night bender, I’ll text you.”
Bart nodded. “I’ll be ready and waiting.”
“Enjoy your magazine,” Deacon smiled.
“I always do, sir,” Bart replied.
Deacon shook his head, walking quickly to the elevators. Bart had subscriptions to have a dozen different gun magazines but Deacon just couldn’t see the appeal. Then again, he supposed that guns were the tools of Bart’s trade. You had to keep up-to-date, after all.
Deacon recognized the owner of the call girl voice without even needing to see her name tag. Behind the front desk, a stunning woman in a tight black linen dress and high, patent leather heels stood sorting mail. Her thick, wavy blonde hair had been done into one long French braid that hung over one shoulder and rested on her beautiful, golden cleavage. She looked like she’d walked right off a California beach and into business clothes.
As he approached, her tawny eyes flicked up from the mail and met his. Her large red lips curled slowly upwards in an appreciate smile. She liked what she saw. Or at least, she wanted him to think that she did. She was very good, Deacon had to give her that. But all her actions, from her sultry smile to the way she stood with one hip cocked to make her ass look better (not that it needed the help) were a bit too pat for his taste. A bit too showy.
“Hello,” he said, stopping briefly on his way out the door. “I believe we spoke on the phone a minute ago. I’m the undecided cortado drinker.”
The beauty gave a throaty laugh. “Yes, of course. I’m Selena, the night concierge.”
“Nice to meet you,” he said. “I just wanted to say thanks for your understanding.”
“Not at all,” she smiled, looking at him through heavy lidded eyes. “Our guests’ comfort is our first and foremost priority, Mr. Wolfe.”
Deacon nodded. “Glad to hear it,” he said and headed for the door, leaving the beautiful Selena alone at the desk.
For a while Deacon simply wandered the streets, slowly making his way to Central Park, enjoying the evening air. The golden light that came just before sunset was making the city even more beautiful than usual and Deacon felt as if he could have walked aimlessly like that forever.
The bright green flush of spring still lingered, but he knew that soon the summer humidity w
ould have the city tight it its sweaty fist. Growing up he’d always hated the swampy heat of New York summers. Not that his family had ever stayed in the city. As soon as the first heat wave approached they had had their penthouse suite packed up and moved the whole family out to the summer mansion in the Hamptons. It helped that the “whole family” consisted of Deacon, his mother, and her small yappy lap dog, Bitzy. His father had only ever come out on the weekends – if that.
After wondering around for a while, Deacon crossed into Central Park. Breathing deeply, he smiled as he walked through the looping trails. All around him, people were going about their daily business: tourists were pouring over maps trying to figure out where they were, couples were cooing at each other (or arguing), kids were screeching with delight as they ran around, teenagers were draped across any stationary surface, texting frantically. Ah, New York. Deacon had missed his city. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent a whole week back. It had been years at least.
Working for his father’s hotel chain was fun and rewarding. Ever since he’d graduated from university and shown an aptitude for business, his father had started giving him more and more responsibility within the company. He’d started by managing one tiny boutique hotel in Paris and, slowly, he’d worked his way up from there. His father had always said that if his son was going to inherit it all when he died, then Deacon had damn well known what he was doing.
And Deacon did. It had even been his idea to expand into Asia, and, once his father saw that Deacon was taking his job seriously, he’d let Deacon run with it. Now Asia was one of their most successful markets. And Deacon loved his job. He loved living in Hong Kong – it was a beautiful, fascinating city. And he loved getting to travel the length and breadth of Asia, seeing cultures he’d only ever read about as a child. But, he had to admit, every once in a while it was nice to just come home. So, when his father had asked him if he’d like to oversee the purchase of the Crosby Street Hotel, he’d jumped at the chance.
As he walked, Deacon let his thoughts drift back to their favorite topic of late: Avery, the world’s most adorable concierge. She’d clearly had no idea he was one of the same Wolfe family that was currently in the process of buying her hotel, and Deacon had liked that she didn’t make a big deal of him. It had been clear from the start that she found him as attractive as he found her, the way she looked at him had spoken volumes, but her professionalism hadn’t wavered – unfortunately. But Deacon liked women who played it cool. Like most men, he liked the hunt. He thought back to her pert bum in its tight pencil skirt and her quick, laughing smile and grinned to himself.
And then, suddenly, as if summoned, there she was. Deacon stared. He thought maybe he was dreaming, or had mistaken some other slender brunette for her, but no, the longer he looked, the more undeniable it was: Avery was sitting on a park bench sipping a green smoothie and reading Mrs. Dalloway. Her rich chestnut hair was out of its tight bun and fell over her shoulders, glowing in the golden sunlight. As he watched, she tucked it behind one ear, frowning adorably at her book. She’d changed into a simple pink cotton dress that highlighted the rich warm hues of her skin.
I am the luckiest man on earth, thought Deacon Wolfe as he watched her.
Quickly, a little scared that she would disappear into thin air if he waited too long, Deacon crossed to her bench. “Avery?” he asked, a smile spreading across his face.
Startled, the concierge jumped slightly as she looked up, lowering her book. “Holy shit,” she said. Her eyes grew wide as she realised she’d just sworn in front of a client. “I mean….Mr. Wolfe. Sorry. I – I didn’t see you there.”
Deacon chuckled at her flustered response. “May I?” he asked, gesturing to the bench.
“Of course,” she replied, her eyes flicking up and down his body surreptitiously. She swallowed and cleared her throat. “Are you enjoying your stay? No problems with the room, I hope.”
“Of course not,” Deacon shook his head, soaking in her pretty face. “Everything is perfect. I can’t imagine you let anything get by you, Avery. Not when it comes to the hotel, at least.”
She smiled happily, clearly pleased by the compliment. “I do my best,” she replied.
“And it shows,” Deacon told her. “Are you enjoying the book?” He nodded at the novel she’d let fall to her lap.
“Mrs. Dalloway? Oh, yes. I’ve read it a million times. I love Virginia Woolf. I always have. Have you read it?”
Deacon nodded, making a face. “Yes. We read Mrs. Dalloway in high school, but I have to admit that I never got into it.”
“Well there’s your problem right there. Nobody likes anything they read for high school. High school ruins books,” Avery grinned mischievously at him. “You’re just going to have to give it another try. Besides, I think Virginia Woolf just gets better as you get older. Teenagers don’t always have the patience necessary for her. But every time I read her stuff I find some new meaning. Every time is like the first time.”
“Wow, you really love her,” Deacon said, raising his eyebrows.
Avery nodded. “Some people read Jane Austen to relax, some people like Harlequins, some people Cosmo…me, I read Virginia Woolf.”
“Well,” Deacon grinned at her, his deep blue eyes twinkling in the setting sun, “no one can accuse you of having bad taste.”
Avery giggled a little. “To be honest, most of my friends think I’m a totally stuck up snob when it comes to reading material. But, I mean, I love a good Cosmo as much as the next girl. But I like to balance that out with something a bit meatier when I have the time. What about you?” She smiled up at him in a way that made Deacon’s slacks feel awfully tight in the crotch.
He shifted on the bench, trying to make himself comfortable. “Personally, I don’t have a lot of time to read. But if I have to choose, I’d say I’m a Hemingway man.”
Avery laughed. “Only men are fans of Hemingway.”
Deacon raised his eyebrows. “Oh? Do you think so? And why is that?”
“Because he was the kind of witty, womanizing drunk that men look up to and think that women want to sleep with.”
Deacon’s eyebrows rose even higher. “And women don’t want to sleep with men like that?”
Avery shrugged. “Some women, sure. But I like my men with a little bit more moral fiber and a little less alcoholism.”
Deacon laughed long and loud. “That’s fair,” he said. “That’s very fair.”
“On the other hand,” Avery held up one finger and smiled, “I will always be grateful to Hemingway for having invented the mojito. That is a beautiful, beautiful thing.”
Deacon had a stroke of genius. “Oh yes?” he asked softly.
Avery nodded. “My favourite drink of all time.”
“Have you tried the ones at Doppelganger?” Deacon asked, referring to one of his favourite bars in New York.
“No,” said Avery, looking surprised. “I’ve never actually gone to Doppelganger.”
Deacon stared at her as if she’d just declared herself to be a Coldwar sleeper spy. “Okay, well, first of all, you’re a blasphemous heathen.”
Avery giggled again. “Is there any other kind of heathen?” she asked.
“And second of all,” Deacon continued, ignoring her valid point, “we’re going there right now and having mojitos. That is the best bar in the city, and its mojitos are a-ma-zing.”
Avery blinked at him. “Oh, I’d love to, really, Mr. Wolfe—”
“And third, you’re going to stop calling me Mr. Wolfe and start calling me Deacon. This isn’t the 1950s.”
She laughed again and Deacon smiled. She was so beautiful when she laughed. Her whole face lit up in happiness. “Deacon. Thank you. But I really can’t. The hotel has very strict policies about that kind of thing. I can’t go for a drink with a guest. No matter how much I’d like to.”
Deacon looked her in the eye. “And how much would you like to go for a drink with me?�
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Avery gave him a half-smile. “I think you know the answer to that already.”
“Yes,” he agreed airily, “but I’m vain. I want to hear you say it.”
Avery rolled her eyes but she was smiling. “Very much,” she told him finally.
“Just one drink,” said Deacon. “No one’ll ever have to know.”
Avery bit her lip and Deacon knew she was tempted.
“The best mojitos in New York,” he reminded her with his most rakish grin.
The woman’s shoulders slumped and she shook her head at him. “You’re not going to take no for an answer, are you?” she asked with a faint smile.
