Room Service

by Amy Garvey

  He glanced around the bedraggled lobby. He felt as if he’d stepped back in time, but that wasn’t a point for the plus column in this case. Crikey, there was a vintage wall of mail slots behind the desk, fitted with tarnished brass doors and miniature keys. It had probably been built when the hotel first opened. Olivia should count herself lucky if her room had a loo instead of a chamber pot.

  And just then, as if he’d conjured her, she walked into view. Without thinking about why, he stepped behind a giant fern and watched her. She’d come not from the ladies’ room or the bar or the lift, but from a door behind the front desk. Strangest of all, she’d stopped there and reached for a piece of paper under the counter before pushing that cloud of glossy hair behind her ears.

  He strained forward to listen when the young girl at the desk, outfitted in a rather severe black jacket and a brass nametag, smiled at her. “Two new guests scheduled for this afternoon, Olivia,” she said.

  Olivia’s smile was sudden and surprisingly sunny. Her whole face lit up when she smiled, and something inside him warmed to the sight. “See?” Olivia said, with a happy little shrug of her shoulders. “I knew it. I’ve got a staff of worrywarts. Josie was just complaining about the registration numbers this morning.”

  A staff? The pretty little bird with the shy smile and the big eyes had a staff? He leaned in an inch too far, rustling the leaves on the plant, and had to grab them to silence the noise when Olivia glanced across the lobby in his direction. Sod it all. There was a reason he was a chef and not an MI6 operative.

  “It’s your hotel,” the desk clerk said with a firm nod of her head. “You’ll show ’em.”

  It was Olivia’s hotel? This time, Rhys was lucky he didn’t knock the fern over completely, because he stumbled forward in shock as a bell went off in his head.

  He frowned. Chances were it was an alarm. A “bad idea, mate” alarm.

  Didn’t matter, he thought, a grin spreading. So the place was down at heel, and he wasn’t at all looking forward to getting acquainted with that suspicious-looking lift. He’d stayed in worse places. But none of them had been owned by a soft, curvy woman with brown eyes and a mouth he wanted to taste about as much as he wanted to draw his next breath.

  Yeah, he’d just found his digs for the next little while. Right here in Olivia’s strange old hotel.

  Chapter 2

  T wo hours later, Olivia realized it was going to take a lot more than daydreaming about a flirty British guy to get through lunch. The way things stood at the moment, lunch for anyone was only a distant possibility.

  “Josef, it’s all right,” she said gently, patting her chef’s arm. Beside him on the long stainless steel counter were the ruins of a German chocolate cake. “Bake another one.”

  “Bake another one, she says.” The older man rolled his eyes to the ceiling, his bushy black brows meeting in a frightening line. “So simple, yes? No! Is not so simple!”

  Olivia cast a pleading look at Rick, Josef’s sous chef, but he was no help. Arms folded over his chest, he lifted his chin and snorted.

  “All right,” she said, vaguely aware that in the back of her mind something was knocking, only a faint, distant sound so far. Panic. She ignored it. If she ignored it, it would go away. There was no time for panic today. Anyway, Josef was simply in one of his moods. Happened all the time. “Why doesn’t someone tell me exactly what happened?”

  The cavernous kitchen exploded with voices. Josef, Rick, Jesus, one of the line cooks, Willie, one of the servers—all of them chimed in with their version of the Great Cake Disaster.

  “The man is insane. Like, certifiable. I’m just saying.”

  “Sous chef? This is what you call a sous chef today? Bah.”

  “You know, this kind of atmosphere is exactly the kind of thing that they write about when it comes to toxic workplaces.”

  “I didn’t know the butter was bad! Who left it out?”

  Olivia took a deep breath and stepped back as she checked her watch. Ten minutes to one. Uncle Stuart would be here any minute, and she had mutiny in the restaurant kitchen.

  Which wasn’t surprising, or even uncommon, but it was one more reason to put Monday—this one, at least—on the list.

  She couldn’t get angry. Not really. Josef Vollner had been the head chef at the Coach and Four since she was ten, and she had more experience sneaking into the kitchen for pieces of Linzer torte and leftover pasta than in treating him like an employee. He was pushing seventy, he was notoriously sensitive, and for a man who claimed he would never feel at home anywhere but Berlin, he loved Olivia and the restaurant with remarkable loyalty.

  “I didn’t do it,” Rick was saying, shaking his head. “I don’t do pastry. That’s Jesus’s job.”

  “Hey! I don’t make the frosting, I just put it on the cake!”

  “Amateurs!” Josef railed, stomping his foot so hard Olivia jumped. “Forty years in this business, and I work with amateurs!”

  “Forty?” Rick snorted as he leaned against the counter. “Try fifty. Plus.”

  Panic was being a little more insistent, pounding instead of knocking now, but Olivia straightened her spine and ignored it. “Gentlemen! I’m ashamed of you all. Now can’t we—”

  A crash from the dining room cut off her plea for cooperation, and a moment later Helen, one of the waitresses, flew through the swinging doors. Her face was as white as her starched shirt.

  For a moment, she simply gaped at them, her mouth moving without emitting any sound.

  “Helen?” Olivia urged.

  “The chandelier…” She shook her head slowly, eyes still wide. “I…it …fell.”

  Panic had given up knocking and barged right in, Olivia realized as a shiver of alarm buzzed up the back of her neck. “Fell? Down?”

  Helen nodded, and Olivia pushed past her, heart pounding, and into the dining room.

  Where the central chandelier that had hung in the restaurant’s main dining room just this side of forever lay on the carpet, its brass and crystal bones scattered over the floor and the nearest tables.

  “I have crystal in my soup,” an older woman in a bright purple suit said in amazement before she fished out the broken piece with her spoon.

  “Don’t eat that,” Olivia said. Her voice sounded far away even in her own ears. It was a ridiculous thing to say, but chandelier carnage moments before her uncle was due to arrive for lunch was even more absurd. Of all the luck, she thought to herself, watching as Willie, who had followed her out of the kitchen, knelt to brush some of the glass into a pile with a dust broom. She had always liked that chandelier, too.

  A man across the room stood up, smoothing down his tie. “I’d like a refund. This is unacceptable. Dangerous. Really, when you think of what—”

  Olivia held up a hand to stop him. “Not a problem, sir. The maitre d’ will help you with that.” The man was seated miles away from where the fixture had fallen, but she didn’t care. It wasn’t acceptable to have pieces of the restaurant committing hari-kari while you were finishing your Chicken Veronique and house salad. She didn’t want to talk about it, though. If she could just stand here, frozen and more than a little numb, maybe the whole mortifying situation would end up being a dream.

  Wait, make that a nightmare. Heart sinking, she managed a weak smile as Uncle Stuart strolled into the dining room.

  “Here we are, sir,” the porter said cheerfully as he opened the door to Rhys’s room. Setting the suitcase on the luggage rack, he crossed the room and hauled open the drapes. “The sunshine’s free.”

  Rhys lifted an eyebrow at him, but he smiled anyway. Bloke was trying, at least, although he hadn’t stopped chattering all the way upstairs in the creaking lift.

  “Phone’s here,” the porter said, pointing unnecessarily at the telephone on the ancient maple desk. “And this is the bathroom.” Opening a door beside the closet, he poked his head inside to find the light. “You can always call for more towels if you need them. And the menu i
s in the drawer in the desk.”

  “Menu?” Rhys said absently. He was testing the mattress, which most likely had a good five years on him. The bedspread alone looked to be vintage 1950.

  “Yes, sir.” The kid beamed. “Our restaurant is an institution here in the city. The Coach and Four. We don’t offer room service, but the restaurant is open for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. There’s a menu in the drawer.”

  No room service, eh? Rhys found the menu and scanned it. Crikey, even the food was from another era. Chicken Veronique? He thought that had gone out with girdles, black-and-white TV, and party lines. And French onion soup? Holy hell. He’d have a word with Olivia about that posthaste.

  “Anything else I can do for you, sir?” the porter asked. He was shifting from foot to foot, hands behind his back. If he was trying not to look too eager for a tip, he was failing miserably, Rhys thought. Not that he blamed him. He hadn’t seen anyone else in the lobby or in the halls on the way upstairs. Tips must be few and far between at Callender House. And the kid had already recognized him as one of the contestants on Fork in the Road, with a blurted, “Hey, you’re that British chef on the TV show!”

  He pulled a five out of his jeans pocket and handed it to the kid. “Thanks for the help.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Just short of bowing and scraping, the porter backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  Rhys turned in a circle once he was alone. Then he sniffed the air. Musty, just a bit. As if the room had been shut up for too long. Someone should tell Olivia to have housekeeping air the place more often. Better for business all around.

  Dull green and blue, stripes on the walls and flowers on the bed, a Renoir print over the bureau and a telly that would have looked more at home with rabbit ears. The room was really a bit shabby, wasn’t it? Vintage or not, the coverlet was threadbare, and the rug underfoot wasn’t much better. Once upon a time, the furniture and fittings must have been the height of style, but that time was far in the past. As in, decades. The cornices and cross-and-bible doors—old solid wood ones, he bet—were a brilliant touch, though. Probably wouldn’t find them in the new hotels, unless they were made of MDF.

  It was a bit sad, really, he thought as he pulled out the desk chair and sat down. The room seemed to know it had been neglected. The armoire was practically cringing in embarrassment, and the curtains were stiff as a dowager at the vicar’s Sunday tea.

  Bloody hell. He ran his hands through his hair restlessly. No more metaphors, man! He’d gone absolutely barking mad. What was he doing? Callender House, shabby or not, was none of his affair.

  But it was a bargain, he told himself as he dumped the contents of his suitcase onto the bed and rummaged through his things for a clean shirt. He was amazed tourists weren’t banging down the doors to take advantage. It was a wonder that Olivia didn’t look into advertising, a few mentions on a travel Web site or two…

  There he went again. He grunted as he pulled off his sticky shirts and replaced them with a new one. He wasn’t the sort to let a cabbie run down some innocent woman, but following her into a hotel? Checking into that hotel? Ticking off all the ways she could save said hotel from ruin, if not bankruptcy? He was no knight in shining armor. He snorted at the idea as he tossed clothes into the bureau drawers. And as far as he knew, Olivia wasn’t a damsel in distress.

  Even if she looked a bit like one. Soft around the edges, like a full-blown rose, round and sweet. Even if it was beginning to feel a bit like fate had drawn him to that very spot on the sidewalk this morning, to her. He could still hear the bell going off in his head, a happy silver peal, as if his wandering had come to an end.

  “Oh, bloody hell,” he barked into the silent room, slamming his suitcase shut. He really had gone mad. He didn’t even know her, for Christ’s sweet sake.

  But there was always the chance that he would see her if he strolled down to the restaurant for a quick meal. And that was the point of it, wasn’t it? He wanted to see her again. Wanted a chance to actually talk to her, when he wasn’t covered in mocha and facing the strewn contents of his suitcase on the sidewalk.

  That was all. A bit of flirtation. A welcome-to-New-York meal with a pretty girl. Nothing more.

  Shaking his head at himself, he pocketed his room key and walked into the hall—and nearly collided with a tiny little woman in a hot pink turban and enough lipstick to coat the walls of his room.

  “Oh dear,” she murmured, pressing a hand to her breast and batting a pair of frightening false eyelashes at him. “You almost knock me over, young man.” Almost was pronounced with a very Russian Z.

  “My apologies, ma’am,” he said, backing up against the wall when she drifted closer, a trio of scarves fluttering at her throat.

  “Yelena Belyakova,” she said, grasping his hand before he could snatch it away. When he didn’t respond quickly enough, she added, “Madam Belyakova, formerly of the Ballet Russe and the Joffrey.”

  He shook her hand, which was little more than a bundle of bird bones weighted down with several heavy silver rings. Good God, was he supposed to kiss it? He pumped it instead, and flashed his most charming smile. “Rhys Spencer. Formerly of…London.”

  “Beautiful city,” she said, and slipped her arm through his. “I have lover there once. And what brings you to New York?”

  A lover. Right. Aware that his mouth was hanging open, he snapped it shut. “I’m a chef, ma’am—madam.”

  “You cook?” She smiled up at him from beneath a layer of heavy blue eye shadow. “I love a man who knows his way around kitchen. I will teach you to make blini.”

  It was a declaration, not a suggestion, so Rhys wisely didn’t argue.

  Madam Belyakova had led him down the hall, he realized with a start, tottering on a pair of heels he wasn’t at all sure it was sensible for a woman of her age to wear. Not that he intended to argue that point, either.

  “What brings you to the city, then?” he asked when she gazed up at him expectantly. Anything to keep cooking lessons out of the conversation.

  “I live here, silly boy.” Her laugh was a rough bark, full of gravel.

  She lived here? Then why was she wandering about this hotel, way up here on the ninth floor? He searched for something else to say, but she beat him to it.

  “My apartment is on tenth floor,” she said with a sage nod. “Almost thirty…well, many years now. I like to walk in the halls sometimes. Is easier than the streets. So many brash young men out there, with their falling-off pants and their big radios. Is not music, what they play. Music is Stravinsky and Mozart.”

  Rhys was trying to keep up, with her words if not her pace—they were practically crawling along the hallway. “You live here …in the hotel?”

  “Why yes, silly boy.” She laughed again, another grating rasp. An old-school smoker, he bet. “Top two floors are for residents. Have been always.”

  He lifted a brow as he considered this. Maybe meeting Madam Belyakova was a blessing in disguise. “You must know Olivia then.”

  She gave an artful shrug, and fluttered one of her scarves with her free hand. “Olivia Callender? Of course, darling. I know her since she was child!”

  “Really now.” That was a convenience he would be a fool to pass up, wouldn’t he? He gave the old woman’s arm a companionable squeeze. “I’m sure you don’t like to gossip…”

  “Gossip? Bah. I am too old for such things.” But her hot pink smile was sly.

  “Of course, it wouldn’t really be gossip to tell me, say, if Olivia was married, now would it?”

  “Married?” Amusement echoed in her laugh. “Oh no, not our Olivia. I tell her she must find young man—or older man, for they are sometimes better, you see—but she say she is too busy here. Too busy with hotel, too busy dreaming her life away. Is a shame, really. She is lovely young woman. She does not have dancer’s body, but lovely nonetheless.”

  Rhys bit his lip to hold back a snort of surprise. Olivia’s body was lovely, all right,
dancer or not.

  And she was single. Too busy for men, Madam Belyakova had said. Brilliant.

  Well, not brilliant, really, because it meant she might decide she was too busy for him, he realized with a stab of alarm. Then he remembered the flash of heat in her eyes when they shook hands, and smiled to himself. He could persuade her to make time for him. Show him around her city, perhaps.

  In the meantime, though, maybe Yelena could be persuaded to not gossip some more.

  “Madam Belyakova?” He stopped at the ancient brass doors to the lift and pressed the DOWN button. “Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to lunch?”

  Clearly, she was still asleep, Olivia told herself as she stood at one end of the Coach and Four’s dining room, Uncle Stuart beside her. It would certainly explain the crooked nameplate, the cake debate, and the fallen chandelier. Not to mention the sexy Brit who’d rescued her from certain maiming, if not death, via taxi cab.

  It was, quite simply, a nightmare. A nightmare with one very pleasant interlude, but who could explain dreams, really? The subconscious was a strange place.

  And hers had apparently had a nervous breakdown.

  “If this is a typical afternoon around here, you’re in more trouble than I thought.” Stuart arched a brow and waved at the chaos. Most of the diners were huddled at the maitre d’s station, clamoring for refunds. Willie and Helen were arguing over the best way to clean up the remains of the chandelier, and in the kitchen, Rick and Josef were apparently still arguing, oblivious to the newest disaster.

  For a dream, it was uncomfortably realistic.