“How long are you staying, ma’am?”
“I’ll be here for a couple of months.”
“Are you Ms. Eaton?” the young man asked.
She nodded. “Yes, I am.”
The valet opened the driver’s-side door. “I’ll park your truck and have someone bring in your luggage.” Reaching into the back pocket of his slacks, he removed a walkie-talkie. “I need a bellhop out front.”
Crystal reached for her handbag and the tote with her laptop and then slipped from behind the wheel. She managed to smother a moan. Her legs were stiff and her shoulders ached. She’d driven nearly six hundred miles, stopping in St. Augustine to refuel and order a fruit salad. The entire drive had taken her nearly twelve hours.
What she wanted now was a leisurely bath before climbing into bed to sleep undisturbed throughout the night.
She made her way into the lobby and over to the desk to check in, admiring its sophisticated opulence. Marble flooring, several glittering chandeliers and a massive glass-topped table in the center of the lobby cradled an enormous hand-painted ceramic vase filled with fresh flowers. Queen Anne chairs were positioned at round pedestal tables for guests to sit and relax.
A woman with flawless brown skin, neatly braided hair and an infectious smile greeted Crystal as she approached the front desk. “Welcome to the Beaumont House. How may I help you?”
“I’m Crystal Eaton,” she said, “and—”
“Oh, Ms. Eaton, we’ve been expecting you,” the woman said. “Your accommodations will be handled by concierge.” She picked up the telephone, speaking quietly into the mouthpiece.
In less than a minute, a tall man in a black tailored suit approached the desk. There was something about his bearing that reminded Crystal of her father. Raleigh Eaton’s good looks, refinement, charm, and legal and financial acumen had made him a very wealthy man and a magnet for women regardless of their age.
Two years ago he’d divorced his fourth wife, and his current fiancée was thirty-five, only five years older than Crystal. Wherein Raleigh might have been unable to maintain a successful marriage of any duration, he wasn’t so reckless as not to have had his prospective wives sign a prenuptial agreement. The exception had been his first wife. The alimony payments deposited directly into Jasmine’s bank account like clockwork afforded the mother of his only child, coupled with her successful art business, a very comfortable lifestyle.
The concierge extended his hand, while offering Crystal a friendly smile. He lowered his gaze rather than let her see the admiration in his gaze. Crystal Eaton was stunning. Her pixie-cut hairstyle, unblemished face, the color of polished mahogany, radiated good health, and her dark brown wide-set slanting eyes, pert nose and full, sensual mouth were enthralling.
The perfection of her body matched her face: tall, slender and curvy in a pair of fitted black jeans, matching pullover sweater and leather flats.
“Welcome, Ms. Eaton. I’m John Porter, your personal concierge. Mr. Beaumont has asked me to take care of all of your needs during your stay.”
Crystal took his hand, finding it as soft as her own.
“Thank you so much, Mr. Porter.”
John reluctantly withdrew his hand. “Mr. Beaumont has arranged for you to stay in the penthouse. You will have the privilege of twenty-four-hour room service that includes laundry, dry-cleaning, housekeeping and meals.” He angled his head, smiling. “All of which are gratis. The penthouse staff is aware they’re not to accept tips from you. Don’t look so alarmed, Ms. Eaton,” he said when Crystal’s gave him a stunned look, her delicate jaw dropping. “They are compensated far beyond what the other employees earn,” he added when her mouth closed.
She forced a smile she didn’t feel at that moment. “That’s good, because I wouldn’t want to take advantage of their services.”
John cupped her elbow, directing her to the bank of elevators, and stopped in front of one with a sign indicating floors 8-PH. “Mr. Beaumont treats all of his employees quite well. I’m going to give you two room card keys. The red one will permit you elevator access to your floor and the green to your apartment.”
He handed her an envelope with her name, punched the button and waited for the doors to open. Crystal walked into the car. He entered behind her and, reaching into the pocket of his suit jacket, removed a master key and inserted it into the PH slot. The doors closed, and the car rose silently.
When she agreed to the terms in the contract between Beaumont Hotels and Eaton Interior and Design in which the owner of the hotel chain would provide lodging for the duration of the project, Crystal had expected to occupy a suite, not a penthouse apartment. She knew Algernon Beaumont was anxious for her to decorate the two boutique hotels before spring and the influx of tourists to the Lowcountry, and because she wasn’t married, didn’t have a fiancé, boyfriend or children, Crystal was able to accept the commission that would take her away from home for weeks at a time.
The elevator doors opened and she stepped out into a carpeted hallway.
John remained in the elevator. “You’re in penthouse two, which is on the left,” he informed Crystal. “The bellhop will bring up your luggage. If you need anything, please dial fifteen and either I or someone from my staff will procure it for you.”
Crystal smiled at the very formal man. “Thank you. I doubt if I’ll need anything tonight.” All she wanted was a bath and a bed. Anything she did need would wait until the next day.
John nodded. “Good night, Ms. Eaton.”
“Good night, Mr. Porter.”
She walked the short distance to the door labeled PH 2, opening the envelope and taking out one of the card keys.
Crystal’s hand halted as she caught movement out the corner of her eye. She stole a glance at a tall, slender man dressed in a pair of cutoffs, a T-shirt and flip-flops closing the door to the other apartment as he walked toward the elevator. The contrast of the white shirt against his olive complexion was attention-grabbing. He was like a bronze statue come to life.
After several seconds Crystal realized she was staring when their eyes met and held. Even from the distance she noticed the perfection of his features.
“Good evening, neighbor,” he said.
She went completely still as a shiver of awareness swept over her body. The man’s voice was deep and as utterly sensual as he appeared to be. “Good evening,” Crystal replied, smiling.
“Are you checking in?” She nodded. Closing the distance between them, he extended his hand. “Joseph Cole-Wilson.”
Shifting the card key to her left hand, she took the large, groomed hand with long, slender fingers. “I’m Crystal.”
“It’s nice meeting you, Crystal.”
Nodding, she withdrew her hand from his loose grip. “Are you Joseph or Joe?”
He smiled, drawing Crystal’s gaze to his sensual mouth and the slight cleft in his strong chin. “I’ve always been Joseph. I’m not going to hold you up settling in, but I just want you to know I’ll be next door if you need anything.”
Crystal wanted to tell Joseph that if she did need anything, all she had to do was pick up the telephone and dial two digits. She didn’t know if Mr. Drop-Dead Sexy was attempting to come on to her, but at present his mojo definitely wasn’t working. She was much too tired to carry on an exchange of witty repartee with him, and the reason she was in Charleston took precedence over any-and everything in her life.
“Thanks, Joseph. I’m sorry, but I have to get some sleep or I’m going to fall on my face.”
Joseph’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. Light from a wall sconce illuminated the face of the tall, slender woman with the killer body. Only those in his family knew his legal name: José Ibrahim Cole-Wilson. His mother had always called him Joseph, so the name stuck.
Crystal put up her hand to smother a yawn, and it was th
en he noticed her exhaustion.
“I’m sorry to hold you up. Have a good evening.” That said, he turned and walked to the elevator.
Crystal stared at him until he disappeared into the car. Then she inserted the card key into the slot, waited for the green light and pushed open the door.
If the furnishings in the lobby reflected a bygone era, it was the same in the penthouse. The chairs, tables, lamps, wall mirrors in the living and dining rooms were uniquely art deco, one of her favorite decorating styles.
Dropping her handbag and tote on an oversize ottoman, she walked into a modern, state-of-the-art kitchen with double stainless steel sinks, cooktop stove, double oven, eye-level microwave, dishwasher, French-door refrigerator/freezer, trash compactor and cooking island. There was also a fully stocked wine cellar with three dozen bottles.
Crystal opened the refrigerator stocked with dairy products, the vegetable drawers with fresh fruit and salad fixings. The freezer was also filled with packaged and labeled meat. The shelves in the pantry were stocked with everything she would need for breakfast, lunch and dinner. A door off the kitchen revealed a half bath.
She continued her tour, mounting a flight of stairs, discovering two bedroom suites with adjoining baths. Each bedroom was constructed with sitting and dressing areas. Wall-to-wall silk drapes were open to offer an unobstructed view of nighttime Charleston and a lit rooftop deck.
She returned to the first floor at the same time the bell chimed throughout the apartment. She opened the door and the bellhop carried her bags up the staircase, leaving them in the hallway outside the bedrooms. He returned, gave her a slight bow and then left, closing the door behind him.
Crystal turned off all the lights on the first floor with the exception of the table lamp in the entryway. Her footsteps were slow as she climbed the staircase for the second time, wondering if she would remain awake long enough to take a shower.
After a hot shower, she crawled into bed, pulling the sheet and comforter up to her neck.
She hadn’t drawn the drapes. Daylight coming in through the windows would become her alarm clock. Eight hours of sleep would give her everything she needed to face the day and the most comprehensive commission of Eaton Interior and Design thus far.
Chapter 2
Joseph lost count of the number of times he swam the length of the Olympic-size swimming pool on the lower level of the Beaumont House. He’d also stopped cursing his cousin for banishing him to South Carolina to start up ColeDiz Tea Company, ColeDiz International Ltd.’s first U.S. mainland venture since their great-grandfather established the company ninety years ago. He was solely responsible for the oversight of the ongoing operation of the tea garden, as well.
This wasn’t his first trip to the Lowcountry. Two years ago, Joseph had met with Harry Ellis to survey one hundred acres of land between Kiawah and Edisto Islands the real estate agent had purchased on behalf of the Cole-family-owned conglomerate. Not only had Harry bought the land, but five years earlier he’d also brokered a deal with a Ugandan cotton grower for Diego, making ColeDiz the biggest family-owned agribusiness in the United States.
Subsequently an engineering company had drained the swampy area to prepare it for growing and processing tea leaves, all the while Joseph insisting they not upset the ecological balance of region’s indigenous wildlife.
He’d argued with his cousin that he was a lawyer, not a farmer, but Diego was quick to remind him that he also wasn’t a farmer, yet had familiarized himself with the entire process of growing and harvesting coffee, bananas and cotton. Joseph had been under the impression that tea wasn’t grown in the States, but Diego told him about the tea garden on Wadmalaw Island, South Carolina. Once ColeDiz Tea Company harvested their first yield, there would be not one, but two tea gardens in the United States.
It’d taken him a while, but he had adjusted to spending the last two years of his life in Belize, Mexico, Jamaica, Puerto Rico and Brazil, educating himself with the cycle of planting, cultivation, harvesting and processing coffee and bananas in order to learn everything he could about the different varieties.
It hadn’t been only about planting trees, but also soil quality, insect control and irrigation. He had logged thousands of hours in the air, crossed various time zones and grown accustomed to sleeping in strange beds and ordering room service. Several of his college buddies and fraternity brothers claimed they envied his jet-setting lifestyle, but Joseph had been quick to remind them it was work and not fun.
However, he did take time off to have some fun when he stayed with his landscape-architect cousin Regina Spencer in Bahia, Brazil. Regina and her pediatrician husband hadn’t been to Carnival in years, yet had offered to accompany him. Joseph witnessed firsthand the once-in-a-lifetime frivolity. Partying nonstop for three days offset the months, weeks, days and hours he spent learning to become a farmer.
Now he was back in Charleston to oversee the first planting of ColeDiz Tea Company’s tea garden. He’d grown fond of the incredibly beautiful historic port city and its friendly populace. He returned not as an attorney but as a farmer and an astute businessman. Although assigned to the legal department, he’d been groomed to eventually take over as CEO when Diego retired. His cousin failed to realize that Joseph preferred the legal component to running a company. Whether it was negotiating contracts or spending hours researching and interpreting international tariffs, law had become his jealous mistress.
He didn’t want to think about jealous mistresses or past relationships. His four-year liaison with Kiara Solis had run its course the third day into a two-week Hawaiian vacation when he’d tried to make the best of what had become a highly volatile situation.
Kiara had been under the impression they were going on a romantic holiday where he would propose, although he’d told her repeatedly he hadn’t been ready for marriage. At twenty-eight his life wasn’t stable. He’d just resigned his position clerking for a Florida appellate judge to join ColeDiz. He had also purchased land in Palm Beach with plans to build a home, but even that had been placed on hold until after he curtailed traveling.
Joseph’s father had lectured him about dating a woman for more than two years without committing to a future together. His father failed to understand that although he loved Kiara he hadn’t been in love with her. If he had, there was no doubt he would’ve married her.
Joseph swam the length of the pool, then pulled himself up at the shallow end. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling from the exertion. Picking up a towel from the stack on a wooden bench, he dried off before pulling on his shorts and T-shirt. Swimming was the perfect alternative to sitting up watching late-night infomercials.
Joseph walked to the bank of elevators. Living in the penthouse wasn’t a perk but a requisite befitting his lifestyle. He’d grown up privileged, and having the best life had to offer was something for which he never apologized. As a Cole and a member of the purportedly wealthiest African-American family in the country, he accepted everything that went along with the distinction.
Kiara had called him a “spoiled rich boy” and a few other epithets that he would never repeat to anyone, and it was her vicious and spiteful outburst that reminded him why he’d been reluctant to ask her to marry him. It hadn’t been the first time Kiara had gone off on him when she couldn’t get her way, but it was the last time Joseph decided to turn the other cheek. Although laid-back and easygoing, he wasn’t a masochist.
He was certain his parents had had their disagreements, yet he couldn’t remember a time he was privy to them. Joseph shook his head as he stepped out of the elevator car, and walked to his apartment, unlocking the door. He vowed to remain single until he met the woman with whom he felt he wanted to spend his life. After all, he was only thirty and in no immediate hurry to settle down and start a family.
Climbing the staircase to the second level, he str
ipped off his clothes, leaving them in a hamper, and then stepped into the shower. By the time Joseph got into bed, he had mentally prepared himself to oversee the project he’d been entrusted with. Despite his initial objection to setting up a tea garden, he knew failure was not an option.
* * *
Crystal woke rested and clearheaded. Her appointment with Algernon was scheduled for nine in the hotel restaurant; he’d informed her they would meet with the contractor in downtown Charleston to inspect the interiors of the recently restored properties.
When she first came to see the abandoned buildings, she’d found herself hard-pressed to contain her excitement. Despite the faded, peeling wallpaper, warped floors, weakened window sashes and the pervasive odor of mold, she was able to imagine the beauty and elegance of the renovated spaces. Algernon, or Al, as he insisted she call him, wanted the interior to replicate the furnishings of 1800s Lowcountry city residences.
After brewing a cup of coffee, she unpacked, putting everything away, then stepped into the Jacuzzi for a leisurely soak. The hands on the clock on the bathroom’s vanity had inched closer to eight-fifteen when she stepped out of the tub. At eight forty-five she entered the restaurant off the hotel lobby, the hostess greeting her with a friendly smile.
“Good morning, ma’am. Are you a guest?”
Crystal nodded. “Yes, I am.”
“What is your room number?”
“I’m in penthouse two.”
The hostess punched several keys on a computer. “Ms. Eaton?”
“Yes,” she confirmed. “I have an appointment to meet Mr. Beaumont here at nine.”
“Ms. Eaton, I don’t know if anyone told you, but as an elite guest you’ll take your meals in the private dining room. Mr. Beaumont will meet you there.” The young woman motioned to a passing waiter. “Patrick, please escort Ms. Eaton to Mr. Beaumont’s table.”
Crystal followed the waiter to the rear of the restaurant and to a door with a plaque reading Elite Hotel Guests Only. The space was half the size of the restaurant for other hotel guests and the general public, and furnished in the manner of a formal dining room with cloth-covered tables and place settings of china, silver and crystal. Classical music flowed from hidden speakers as waitstaff moved silently, efficiently picking up and setting down dishes.
Sweet Silver Bells Page 2
