Room Service

by Amy Garvey

  When she spoke, she sounded doubtful. “Okay. But I’m beginning to feel a little too much like the proverbial damsel in distress today.”

  “You can save me later, yeah?” He clambered up the ladder rung by rung. Bloody difficult to do in the dark, when he had no idea where the blasted thing would end. Or where, for that matter, the transom’s crank was.

  Then he banged his head into it.

  Muttering and hoping like hell he wouldn’t have a nasty goose egg later, he yanked on the thing. Painted shut, or rusted, most likely. It gave way with a groan a moment later, even though he had to smack at the transom a few times to get the thing open.

  “Got it,” he announced when the blasted thing had swung open as far it would go.

  “Well, be careful,” Olivia warned him. “Maybe you should just yell for someone instead of climbing through it.”

  Like hell. Any minute his bladder was going to explode, and that was hardly the way to entice a woman to give you a whirl.

  “I’ll be fine,” he said, twisting on the ladder and hanging onto the bottom edge of the window for dear life as he angled his first leg up and through it. A contortionist he was not, and he was already fairly certain the situation was going to require a bit more flexibility than he could lay claim to.

  So it wasn’t going to be easy, or graceful. It wasn’t as if Olivia could see him, as he was blocking most of the dim light coming through the open window.

  And that was truly a saving grace he realized a few minutes later, when he’d finally stuffed both legs through the window and wriggled backward in an attempt to slide through.

  Because he was stuck. Again.

  “Olivia.”

  “Yes?”

  He heard her foot hit the bottom rung of the ladder. “Love, I think it’s time you rescued me.”

  Chapter 5

  “H e didn’t really say that, did he?” Josie asked the next day as she and Olivia circled the empty ballroom on the second floor.

  “He really did.” Olivia smiled as she said it. By the time she’d finally shoved him through the window—where he landed with an ungainly thud—he was about ready to murder someone. Or maybe pass out. He’d barely opened the closet door before tearing off down the hall in search of a bathroom.

  She hadn’t gotten that information out of him very easily, although he’d come back just moments later to find her standing in the hall wondering where he’d gone.

  “But he wasn’t hurt?” Josie said now, striding across the floor to open the dusty drapes.

  “Just his ego,” Olivia assured her.

  At least she’d try to convince herself that was the case. He’d ridden upstairs in the elevator with her, slouched against the wall and looking as petulant as he was sexy, but he hadn’t even suggested coming into her apartment. Of course, he probably figured there wasn’t much point. They’d spent six and a half hours locked in a closet together, and the most action he’d seen was from a bucket and the ladder.

  “So…what is it you want to do in here?”

  Olivia glanced at Josie, who was drawing a heart in the grimy dust on the window with one fingertip.

  “I’m not sure,” she said with a frown. “Yet.”

  The huge space was kind of a mess. Actually, there was no “kind of” about it. It was closed up almost one hundred percent of the time these days, and she hated to waste the small housekeeping staff’s time with it when it wasn’t used. The parquet floor was dull and thick with dust, the molding on the walls needed to be repainted, and the drapes were…well, falling apart, she noticed as she walked over to the windows.

  It had been pretty once. Of course, it had also been filled with tables and chairs, and candlelight, and the wall sconces had all been polished. Every year it had been decorated with white twinkle lights and silver streamers for the New Year’s Eve ball and banks of roses for summer cotillions…Well, until about eleven years ago, it had.

  And then the swankier hotels had begun hosting bigger, more lavish New Year’s Eve parties, and the summer cotillions dwindled into memory as the East Coast debs discovered the Hamptons and the hip clubs in Alphabet City and the Village.

  Olivia rested her arms on the windowsill and stared down at Madison Avenue. A cabbie leaned on his horn as a hot dog vendor pushed his dented silver cart across the street. “We can’t really afford to do anything, can we?” she said to Josie, who was examining her thumbnail with interest. “Even if we charged the sun, moon, and stars for tickets to some kind of ball, we can’t afford the promotion and the catering costs beforehand. And if we didn’t sell enough tickets, we’d be out all that money.”

  Josie shrugged, but her eyes were sympathetic.

  “I can’t figure out why we don’t have more guests in the first place,” Olivia continued, and pushed away from the window to pace. “It’s impossible to get a room in this town half the time, and our rates are really low compared to a lot of other hotels, aren’t they?”

  Josie held up a hand to stop her. “We’re filling rooms. Mostly. But we’re not offering much aside from the basic room, so we’re just breaking even. Guests would spend more money here if we offered something else, like room service or massages or, I don’t know, a gift shop.”

  “But we never did that before!” Olivia protested. In the huge space, her voice echoed with frustration. “Why isn’t it enough to have a lovely room?”

  Josie shook her head, her ponytail swinging back and forth in sympathy. “Honey, we need to get you into the twenty-first century. Nothing’s ever good enough anymore. The American Way can be summed up in one word: More. High-speed Internet, hot towels, concierge floors, minibars…. Are you getting the picture? More.”

  Olivia expelled a noisy sigh. “But we have antiques! And atmosphere! And…and Mayor LaGuardia used to eat here!”

  Josie blinked at her. “I’ll be sure to spread that last part around.”

  “Spread what around?”

  Olivia glanced over her shoulder at the sound of Rhys’s voice and found him slouched in the double doorway, arms folded over his chest, one eyebrow arched in curiosity.

  Josie answered him before Olivia could find her tongue. “The dangers of broom closets.”

  “Where were you yesterday?” Rhys drawled, and walked into the room. His boots echoed on the bare floor. And the sight of a pair of black leather pants on his long, lean legs and narrow hips made an entirely different noise—a voice in Olivia’s head that whispered, Oh my.

  “Yesterday I was safe and sound in my own bed,” Josie retorted with a mischievous smile. “With the bathroom just steps away.”

  Olivia felt the blood drain from her face as Rhys turned a murderous gaze on her, but all he said to Josie was, “There’s a busload of Japanese tourists down in the lobby, love. Better scarper off to see to them.”

  “Be still my heart,” Josie answered, and they both laughed as she strode out of the room, ponytail bouncing behind her.

  “Telling tales out of school, are you?” Rhys asked, pinning her against the window with his arms outstretched on either side of her. His eyes were the color of smoke this morning, but at least they were smiling.

  “Maybe one or two,” she admitted. Fibbing wasn’t an option when he was so close, his gaze pinning her as surely as his forearms were.

  “I think you need to pay for that.” He leaned even closer—his forehead was practically touching hers, and she could feel the heat of his body. In fact, his mouth was right there, those gorgeous lips curved in invitation. All she had to do was close her eyes and tilt her head up just a little bit and they would be kissing…

  “Take me on a tour of your hotel,” he said.

  She blinked and stumbled forward a step as he straightened up. “A tour?”

  “Show me around, yeah? All the best bits, all your favorite things.” He winked at her. “But no more broom closets.”

  It was silly to feel as if the most popular guy in school had asked her to the prom, Olivia told herself as
she led Rhys into the library across from the ballroom.

  Silly, but there it was anyway. Rhys flirted, she melted. Like a sixteen-year-old who had never been kissed on the arm of the boy all the girls drooled over. He was even wearing leather pants, for heaven’s sake. And she’d bet money he owned a motorcycle, or at least knew how to ride one with style.

  She’d had fantasies like this. Well, not exactly like this, but close. Her, a gorgeous guy, a dimly lit, romantic room…

  An eagle-beaked old man peeking out from behind the wing of a brown leather chair.

  Rhys started, and she touched his arm. “Hello, Mr. Mortimer,” she said brightly. The room was dimly lit, that was for sure. Only one lamp was burning on the library table against the far wall, and the drapes were closed. In the gloom, Mr. Mortimer’s unfortunate nose and long, bent neck looked alarmingly vulturelike. So much for romance.

  “Good morning,” the older man said, turning back to his newspaper.

  “Who’s he?” Rhys whispered into her ear.

  “Harold Mortimer,” she whispered back. “He’s lived here for years. He likes the library.”

  “I can see that.” Rhys lifted an eyebrow. “Is he a vampire? This place is putting me in mind of the broom closet.”

  She frowned at him and took his hand to lead him back to the doorway. Disturbing Mr. Mortimer wasn’t a good idea. He’d never lost his temper, as far as Olivia could remember, but the steely glare in his faded blue eyes if his crossword puzzle was interrupted had always been enough to give her a chill.

  She blinked as she glanced back at him, head bent over his neatly folded edition of the New York Times. He had it delivered daily, along with his groceries. Maybe he was a vampire. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him venture outside the building.

  “Olivia?”

  She glanced back at Rhys with an embarrassed smile. “Sorry. I hate to interrupt him. He usually spends part of every day in here, with the newspaper. He does the crossword.”

  “A pensioner, yeah?” Rhys raked a hand through his tousled hair, eyebrows raised. “I hope you don’t have too many kiddies in the building, love. That lots scary.”

  “He’s harmless,” Olivia assured him. “He’s been here…well, forever. I think…” She stopped as a half-forgotten bit of information surfaced and had to bite her lip to restrain a nervous laugh. “I think he used to be a funeral director.”

  “Please tell me you’re kidding,” Rhys said, and then took her arm and steered her toward the elevators. “Let’s revisit the library another time, yeah?”

  “Oh, but I wanted you to see the books,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “We have a whole set of vintage encyclopedias. And it’s a lovely room, really. I spent a lot of time there when I was growing up.”

  “That was prior to the grim reaper moving in, I assume.” Rhys punched the UP button, and the doors opened almost immediately. “Well, there’s service,” he said, ushering her inside.

  “Aren’t these nice?” she said as the doors shut behind him. She pushed the button for the fourth floor before running her hand over the smooth brass wall. “They’re original.”

  “I guessed as much.” He made a face and slouched against the rail as the car began its ascent.

  She blinked. That reaction wasn’t part of any fantasy she’d ever had. “What does that mean?”

  He shrugged. “I can see they’re original, love, but they’re a bit creaky, yeah? In need of some polish? Or possibly replacement?”

  “Replacement?” Gaping wasn’t a pretty expression on anybody, really, but she couldn’t help it. “They’re…original!”

  His brow shot up again. She was beginning to want to rip it off and step on it. “Olivia, they’re old.”

  “They’re charming,” she argued, folding her arms over her chest. “Vintage. Romantic!”

  “They’re a bit worse for the wear, old, and creaky,” he said with a shrug as the doors opened on the fourth floor. “But if you like them…”

  “Of course I like them,” she said as she stepped off the elevator in front of him. “They’re part of the hotel’s history and appeal.”

  And she planned to illustrate just how charming Callender House was. That was the point of the tour, wasn’t it? Showing off her home to someone who was actually interested in it—and her, if she wasn’t mistaken. She didn’t think she’d ever had a chance to do that before, not really.

  And there was so much to show off! The rooms celebrities had stayed in over the years, the supposedly haunted pantry on the seventh floor, the room where Margaret Mitchell had once purportedly begun work on a second book. There were a million stories to tell before she even got around to her own memories of the place. Everyone always wanted to hear about the mess Picasso had made in the suite on the sixth floor.

  But the elevators were a little creaky. Just a little. She’d allow that, she thought as she led him down the hall to Suite 406. Rhys was simply being honest, and she couldn’t fault him for that.

  “Wallpaper’s peeling,” he said, pointing to a curling seam.

  She gritted her teeth. “Thank you. I’ll get right on that.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  She resisted the impulse to smack him and fished in her pocket for the master key. “This is one of our biggest suites,” she said as she opened the door. “Greer Garson stayed here for a month in 1955 when she was filming an episode of Star Stage.”

  Rhys nodded as he walked in and ran his hand along the top of the walnut dresser. “Greer who now?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Greer Garson. Film star of the 1940s? Had the lead in Mrs. Miniver and Pride and Prejudice?”

  “Never saw ’em,” he said with a cheery grin, and sat down on the bed, which he patted. “Well, the mattress is sound, at least. Join me?”

  “I think not,” she replied primly, but she had to bite back a smile as she turned toward the door. “Come on, there’s more to see.”

  “And a dripping faucet, as well, love,” Rhys pointed out as they passed the bathroom.

  She restrained an irritable sigh. “I’ll let Angel know.”

  “Building this size, this old, plumbing must be bloody difficult to maintain.” Hands jammed in his pockets, head tilted to one side, he was the picture of innocence as she locked the door behind them. Down the hall, Katja, one of the housekeeping staff, pushed a cart out of a guest room and waved.

  Olivia waved back, then steered Rhys firmly toward the elevator. He was just making conversation, after all. Not particularly tactful conversation, but he couldn’t have any idea how much it stung for her to hear criticisms of the hotel. She’d take him to the seventh floor and tell him about the ghost. He couldn’t criticize that, at least. Any hotel worth its salt had a ghost or two.

  “How’s the wiring, love?” he said as the elevator dinged to a stop and the doors opened. “It’s been updated, yeah?”

  Maybe the hard knot of frustration in her chest would loosen if she pushed him into the elevator and kissed him senseless. At least then he’d stop talking.

  The thought made her blush as she pressed the button for the seventh floor. How weird was it to want to hit him over the head with something—hard—and kiss him at the same time? It was worrisome enough that she was fantasizing about kissing him at all. He was a guest here, no matter how flirtatious he was, and getting involved was a bad idea.

  Tempting, but bad.

  “Olivia?”

  She glanced up at him to find those gray eyes gone smoky and intense again beneath an unruly fringe of dark hair that had fallen over his forehead. “Sorry, just…thinking.”

  “You do that a lot, love,” he said, and took her hand as the elevator bumped to a stop on the seventh floor. “Regular woolgatherer, you are.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.” Why was it so hard to think when he was touching her? She’d held hands with men before. She’d slept with men before! Not many, but she wasn’t exactly a trembling virgin. />
  Until Rhys held her hand and she was suddenly sure that no one anywhere had linked fingers with such promise, such comfortable sensuality, such…

  Ding. The elevator doors opened, and she cleared her throat as they stepped off the car together. Next lifetime, she was going to cure blushing, no question. If Rhys wanted an idea what she was gathering wool about, her cheeks were a dead giveaway.

  “What’s up here?” he asked. He ran his thumb over the back of her hand, and every nerve ending in her body reacted with a racy tingle.

  “The lady in gray,” she said, trying not to shiver when he let go of her hand and rested his against the small of her back. It was such a vulnerable place, so rarely touched unless someone touched it purposely. Her shirt suddenly felt very thin, an almost nonexistent barrier between her skin and his hand.

  “Who’s the lady in gray?”

  “Our resident ghost,” she answered, stopping in front of the door to the service pantry at the end of the hall.

  When the hotel was built, the pantry had been used for the guests’ personal staff, if they had one, to make tea or coffee or light meals—there was a pantry like it on floors five through eight, as well as very small guest rooms that had been reserved specifically for those servants, she explained to Rhys.

  “And in 1916, one of the ladies’ maids who was here with her employer took arsenic in this pantry,” she said, opening the door. Inside, the tiny room was barely eight feet square, with a long counter on one side. The cupboards above were empty now, and the gas rings once used to boil water were long gone.

  “Bit dusty, yeah?” Rhys said, squinting into the dim space.

  “That’s not the point,” Olivia said carefully. Heavens, he was infuriating. “The room isn’t used anymore, so of course it’s dusty. The point is that for years guests and staff have reported seeing a crying young woman in a gray dress and white apron in this spot.”

  “Why’d she off herself, then?” This asked as casually as if inquiring what kind of jam was available for breakfast.

  “There are a lot of different stories, but the most common one is that she was distraught because her employer claimed she was going to let her go without a reference after finding her talking to one of the grooms here at the hotel.”