Room Service

by Amy Garvey

  After a moment the room fell silent, and Olivia cleared her throat. Nine pairs of eyes stared up at her expectantly—and a little warily when it came to Josie.

  “All right then,” she said, surprised at how authoritative her voice sounded. “I want to make this happen, and we don’t even have four weeks to get it done. That means decorations, food, drink, publicity, tickets, entertainment, all of it. And we are going to stick with the zombie theme.”

  From his perch on the radiator at the far end of the room, Stanley Whitehead, Roseanne’s assistant, frowned. “Why?”

  Why? What would be a good reason? Did she need a good reason, when it was her idea, and her hotel? She folded her arms across her chest. “Well, because I say so.”

  There was a heavy beat of silence, and Stanley said, “Oh.”

  “Zombies are good,” Maribel said with a comforting pat on her arm. “Look what they did for Michael Jackson.”

  “Thank you,” Olivia said, pretending she didn’t notice Josie trying not to laugh. “I think.”

  “Is this why we were stripping the wallpaper in the ballroom yesterday?” Angel asked. He’d been checking his cell phone obsessively since the meeting began, and he’d done the same thing yesterday when Olivia had rounded up as many of the maintenance staff as she could find to attack the ballroom. Theresa, his wife, was due to have a baby any moment.

  Rhys, on the other hand, had been having a cow since Saturday morning. It probably wasn’t good form to kiss and run off to undertake renovations, but she couldn’t help it. If she was going to throw this Monsters’ Ball, she couldn’t wait until the novelty of sleeping with Rhys had worn off.

  She was pretty sure that would never happen in the first place.

  “Where are you going?” he’d demanded Saturday at lunchtime, after persuading her into the shower.

  “To the hardware store,” she’d told him, pulling on clothes and watching as he strode through her very small, very feminine apartment in all his naked masculinity, a damp towel knotted at his waist. “I need to start looking at paint chips if I’m going to get the ballroom done in time for Halloween.”

  “Surely it can wait till tomorrow,” he’d whispered, pulling her close and nuzzling her neck. “Or until after I’ve taken you out for a proper lunch.”

  She’d kissed him quickly and wiggled out of his arms. “It really can’t, not if I want the maintenance guys to begin tomorrow. I bet you have a million things to do anyway.”

  His reply to that had been an arched eyebrow, but she couldn’t help it if he was bored. Surely he could find something to do in a city the size of New York for one afternoon.

  And she would be wise not to depend on him eager for her company every minute anyway.

  According to the clippings Roseanne had left on her desk Saturday afternoon, Rhys had quite a reputation as a ladies’ man. There was a whole column of gossip printed from the L.A. Times Web site devoted to his appearance on that cooking show, Fork in the Road, which was apparently a huge ratings success and the talk of the Internet. She really had to watch some TV filmed in the current decade sometime.

  She was…lucky. That she’d knocked him over, instead of someone else. That he’d liked her enough to check into Callender House. Okay, that he’d liked her enough to want to make her dinner and, well, introduce her to the best sex of her life.

  But he wasn’t going to be around forever. That was a given. And somehow it wasn’t as easy to fantasize a happy ending now that he’d woken her up so thoroughly. At least not a happy ending that was more than a very enjoyable fling.

  And that was okay, she told herself, realizing with a jolt that she’d gone and done it again. She was standing in front of a roomful people, her employees, no less, daydreaming, just like she used to. And daydreaming about nakedness at that.

  Well, no one changed completely overnight.

  She cleared her throat again, fighting the blush on her cheeks, and announced, “Yes, we’re going to start by painting the ballroom and attacking those floors and drapes. We want that room, at least, to look brand new for the event. We’ll have to work on the second-floor restrooms, as well.”

  “And probably the lobby,” Josie said quietly. “That’s the first thing everyone sees.”

  “True.” Olivia frowned. “Let me think about that. In the meantime, Angel, round up your crew. The paint and supplies were delivered this morning, and I’ll be up to help as soon as I change my clothes.”

  “Miss Olivia!” Hector protested. He was wringing the hem of his flannel shirt as he spoke. “You don’t have to do that! You were in there all day yesterday, Angel said.”

  And Rhys had been none too happy about that, either. “You’re going to scrape woodwork? All day?”

  “I want to supervise,” she’d told him, pulling an ancient Oxford of her father’s out of a storage bin and buttoning it over her oldest pair of jeans. “Anyway, I can use a little exercise.”

  “I know a million ways we can exercise together right here,” he’d said, approaching like a tiger on the prowl, his eyes dark with desire.

  How she’d walked away from that offer was still a mystery. What wasn’t was her sore muscles, but she wasn’t about to let that stop her from wielding a paintbrush today. The staff needed to know that she was serious about this—and other changes that kept springing to mind from out of nowhere—and that she wasn’t asking them to do anything she wasn’t willing to do herself.

  Except for anything involving the sewage system. That was Angel’s problem.

  “I like to paint,” she told Hector now, with a gentle smile. “And if someone brings a radio, it’ll practically be a party.”

  “But no Randy Travis!” Angel and another of the maintenance guys shouted in unison. Hector sulked, but he slunk off to find a boom box anyway.

  “Good luck.” Roseanne patted her on the shoulder kindly as she picked up her coffee mug and left the room. Her eyes were twinkling when she said, “Wait until you hear what Angel and Mike like to listen to.”

  “I want one bourbon, one scotch, and one beer,” Olivia muttered as she pushed the button for the elevator seven hours later. “Actually, just the bourbon will do.”

  George Thorogood. That’s who Angel and Mike listened to. For hours. Same seven or eight songs over and over again. Next time she signed up for something like this, she was going to bring a Yanni tape and some earplugs and see how they liked it.

  Her arms ached, and her legs weren’t quite as steady as they should have been. Painting seemed like such a sedate activity, but when you were climbing ladders and wielding rollers for hours on end, it certainly took a toll. She hadn’t eaten anything since a sandwich sometime around one, but she wasn’t sure she had the strength to hold a fork at the moment. As long as she could manage to run herself the hottest, bubbliest bath in history, she’d survive.

  She hoped.

  The bell for the elevator dinged, and when the brass doors slid open she found Rhys smiling at her in surprise.

  “Hello, love. I was just looking for you.”

  The smooth caress of his tone was enough to make her stumble against him in relief. When the doors closed behind her, she let him tug her close. “You have paint on your nose. It’s quite fetching, actually.”

  “I probably have paint everywhere,” she admitted, and looked down at her clothes. Splotches of sky blue and a creamy eggshell white dotted her jeans, her shirt, even the tops of her sneakers. Oops. “Is it in my hair?”

  “Well, it’s not in your eyelashes,” Rhys said carefully, and ran his finger along the top curve of her cheek. “Oh, wait, I take that back.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Were you painting all afternoon?” he asked as the elevator stopped at her floor. “I was waiting for you in the bar for a bit, talking to Tommy, and then I sweet-talked Josef into letting me into the kitchen.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “What for?”

  “You’ll see.” His hand resting comfortably on t
he small of her back, he steered her down the hall, waving at Delancey Pruitt on the way.

  “Well, hello there, Rhys,” the other man said with a smile that bordered on a leer. Olivia might have pulled Rhys closer if she didn’t know for a fact that Delancey had been living happily with his lover, Frankie Garson, for fifteen years. “Olivia, honey, you look awful! Let the nice man fix you up.”

  Her mouth dropped open in outrage, but Rhys propelled her smoothly down the hall and stopped at her apartment—where he produced a key and proceeded to open the door.

  “Hey!” she protested. “Where did you get that?”

  “It wasn’t easy,” Rhys grumbled as they went inside. “Roseanne actually asked for my birth certificate.”

  “She didn’t!”

  Rhys laughed. “Well, no, she didn’t, but she came close. I had to promise I would return it tonight, no exceptions. And she only agreed after I told her why I needed it.”

  Something smelled delicious. Olivia sniffed the air with a smile. “And why was that?”

  “So I could make up for the dinner I ruined the other night.” He had begun peeling her clothes off as he spoke, unbuttoning her shirt and unhooking the barrette that held her hair, sort of, in place.

  “You didn’t ruin it,” she murmured, enjoying the feel of his hands as he smoothed them over her back in search of the clasp on her bra. “The sprinklers did.”

  “Semantics.” He opened the button on her jeans as he ran his tongue lightly over her aching shoulder and across her collarbone. “You’ve got shrimp and crab bisque, parmesan crisps, and a piece of gorgeous rare filet with roasted potatoes waiting for you.”

  So much for not being hungry. Her mouth was watering already. “Am I eating naked?” she managed, melting into him as he pushed her jeans over her hips.

  “Maybe later.” He helped her step out of the pants and then turned her toward the bathroom. “I think what you need is a long, hot bath first.”

  “But your dinner will be ruined,” she protested. Weakly, but still. The idea of hot, bubbly water was too good to pass up at the moment—and when she walked into the bathroom, she saw that the tub had already been run. The steamy water had left a film on the mirror, and candles were lit on the back of the toilet and the edge of the sink.

  “Are you psychic?” she said as Rhys tugged off her panties and left a naughty kiss on her backside.

  “Not quite, love.” He grinned. “Roseanne said you were a bit worse for the wear when I called downstairs looking for you.”

  “But dinner…”

  “Will heat up good and proper when the time comes.” His tone was firm. As she sank into the hot bubbles, she groaned a little bit, and looked up to find his eyes smoky with appreciation.

  “Feels good, does it?” he said.

  “So good. You have no idea.”

  “I haven’t taken a bath in years,” he admitted, and took a step closer to the tub, inhaling the scent of the bubbles. He was dressed in his usual uniform, a pair of jeans that looked to be about twenty years old and hung just right on his narrow hips and a long-sleeved black T-shirt that fit snugly across his chest. “I’m strictly a shower man after all those years in the tub as a lad. We never had enough hot water.”

  She sat up in the water, batting bubbles away as she tried to hold back a smile. He wasn’t very sly about hinting. “You can join me if you like.”

  “Oh, well, it’s your bath, love…”

  She shrugged and closed her eyes, sliding into the steam once more and heard a blurted, “But if you insist.”

  His boots hit the floor with twin thumps, then his jeans, the belt buckle pinging against the tile. She opened her eyes to find him gloriously naked in the candlelight, the gentle flames casting a warm glow on his skin.

  “Slide forward?” he asked, and when she did he climbed in behind her. A moment later he pulled her between his legs, and she rested her head against his chest. The water was still blissfully hot, the bubbles were her favorite Night Garden mix, and the solid feel of his body behind her was a surprising comfort.

  “I should have asked if you wanted a drink,” Rhys murmured into her hair.

  “I think I’ve had quite enough bourbon, scotch, and beer for one day, thank you,” she said with a laugh.

  “You’ve what now?”

  She twisted her head to look back at him. “I was just kidding. This is plenty relaxing, believe me.”

  “Relaxing is what you need, love.” He kissed the top of her head. “All that painting. You must be exhausted. I should have helped.”

  “There weren’t enough rollers.” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded drowsy and faraway. He was rubbing her shoulders just hard enough to ease out the kinks, and the soapy water made the sensation of his fingers on her skin hypnotic. “And anyway, I keep telling you, you’re a—”

  “Guest. Right. I know, love.”

  She twisted around to look at him again. “Don’t be mad. I can’t imagine checking into a hotel and then being handed a paint roller.”

  He leaned down to give her a lingering kiss, and she melted just a little bit more at the heat of his mouth. “No worries, love,” he said when he dragged his lips away. “Just lie back and relax.”

  “I’m not sure I can relax if you keep doing that.” His arms had come around her waist, and his hands had found her breasts, caressing them lazily in the soapy water.

  “Try,” he murmured, and rubbed his thumbs across her nipples.

  She wasn’t sure she could relax anyway. Aside from the urgent flicker of arousal, her brain was hissing warnings every few seconds. It won’t last. He’s leaving in three weeks. How many other women has he bathed with?!

  She wasn’t used to this. She wasn’t used to a man who rode in to her rescue out of the blue, even when she didn’t know she needed rescuing. She’d never dated a man who cooked, or who had such a wicked grin and an even wickeder sense of humor, or who apparently liked her enough to sit and listen to her babble incoherently about a work problem she’d only just figured out.

  She’d never ever dated a man who could make her insides melt with just one knowing look, and who seemed to consider it a personal challenge to make sure she had so many orgasms she lost count.

  But she had dreamed. She’d spent years dreaming, she realized now, holed up in her own little castle here in the middle of the city. Dreaming of the past and the people she missed, and sometimes, at night, in bed, dreaming of the future.

  Dating hadn’t ever been her strong suit, but it didn’t mean she didn’t want a relationship. Okay, a husband. Someone who knew her inside and out, who loved her, someone she could love completely, someone she could share her life with, good and bad.

  And she’d dreamed of someone like Rhys so often, his unexpected arrival in her life was a little disconcerting. Okay, not exactly like Rhys, because who could have imagined someone so unique and fascinating and, frankly, gorgeous? But she’d thought about meeting a man who worked for himself—an architect maybe, or a photographer, or even a chef. Someone who would appreciate the hotel, who could work from the hotel, who would live here with her, in one of the bigger residential apartments, becoming a part of the place, making himself a home here and loving it as she did.

  And Rhys fit that bill so well. On the surface, at least.

  Well, he didn’t really appreciate the hotel—yet—but that could change.

  It was the rest of it that was so dangerous. Fantasizing about having him here at the hotel every day, sharing lunch with him or stealing off to a midday movie when it was slow. Coming home to him, to his smile, his touch, his slow, sensuous kisses, forever…

  Even if she hadn’t already known that Rhys was scheduled to fly back to L.A. in a few weeks, he didn’t stick around. She’d gathered that much from the little she had asked him, and from the hints Roseanne and Josie and even Gus seemed determined to drop, even if Gus seemed to share them reluctantly. As far as she knew, this was just a fling for Rhys. An enjoyable on
e, she didn’t doubt that, but a fling nonetheless.

  She wanted to enjoy herself, too. Give herself up the fun of Rhys’s company and the novelty of having a lover and the sheer oh-my-goodness of the sex. But it was so hard, too, because every time Rhys was kind, and generous, and heartbreakingly good to her, and she let herself revel in it, she knew that the day he left would be that much more difficult.

  “Are you asleep?” he whispered now, nuzzling the top of her head as his hands slid lower, stroking across her belly and down to her thighs.

  “Not yet.” She let him part her legs and groaned when his fingers slid into her folds, combing through the wet hair teasingly. “Nope, I don’t think I’m going to nod off now.”

  His erection was pressed against her behind, and she wriggled backward experimentally. “You’re clearly not sleepy, either,” she added.

  “Not a bit.” His words were a rough growl against the back of her neck, and he pushed his erection against her bottom.

  Once, it would have been so easy to disappear into the fantasy, let him thrust inside her without thinking about the consequences. Of course, once, this sensual little interlude would have been nothing more than a fantasy as she lay in bed dreaming.

  Not now, though.

  “You don’t have a condom in here, do you?” she whispered.

  For a moment, he paused so completely that the room rang with the silence. Then he sighed, his breath tickling her nape.

  “Nope, no condom, love.” He licked water off her shoulder, and his tongue felt cool and slick in comparison to the heated water. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t have a bit of pleasure, yeah?”

  Her “yeah” emerged on the heels of a groan as he thrust his fingers inside her, pumping in rhythm. Oh, God, it felt so good.

  Seize the moment. That was what everyone said, wasn’t it? Well, she was going to seize every moment she had with Rhys—even if there would never be as many as she wanted.

  Chapter 10

  “K idnapping,” Rhys said gloomily, staring into the gin and tonic Tommy had poured for him days later. “It’s the only way.”