“If you have other ID on you, my assistant can verify your credentials over the phone.”
Her shoulders fell. “Actually, I don’t have ID with me, either.” She conjured up a laugh. “You see, my sister dropped me off to visit my fiancé. I, um, hadn’t planned an extended visit.” Her temperature raised with every mortifying word that seemed determined to spill out of her mouth for both men to hear.
The dark-haired man’s gaze dropped to her black high heels for a split second, then he lifted one bushy eyebrow. “I see. And how are both of you feeling?”
She squirmed and manufactured a you’re-not-going-to-believe-this laugh. “Well, it turned out that my fiancé isn’t here after all. He let another man have his room for the night. His best man. Our best man, that is. For the wedding.”
Mr. Oliver pursed his mouth, and put pen to paper. “The man’s name?”
“D-Derek Stillman.”
An amused smile crossed his face. “Is that with two D’s?”
The doctor looked completely lost. “Forgive me, but I’m a very busy man—”
“Wait, Dr. Pedro.” Janine looked behind her, relieved to see Derek was definitely out of earshot, then turned back and encompassed both men with the smile she’d been practicing for her wedding photos. “Perhaps I could at least get a separate room.” When the doctor hesitated, she added, “I barely know the man, and he’s exhibiting symptoms.” Two of many reasons for separate quarters.
Dr. Pedro made a sympathetic sound, then looked to Mr. Oliver. “Do you have any empty rooms?”
The general manager shook his head.
The doctor shrugged. “I’m sorry, Ms. Murphy.”
“Perhaps I can stay with the medics,” she urged, grasping.
Her face must have reflected her distress because his face softened into an indulgent smile. “No, but maybe we can arrange to place you with a female guest who isn’t exhibiting symptoms and who hasn’t been exposed to someone who is.”
She smiled, enormously cheered.
“Unless you’ve already spent time in the man’s room.”
Her smile dropped while Mr. Oliver’s eyebrows climbed. She considered lying, then glanced back to the doctor and nodded miserably.
“For how long?”
“About thirty minutes, total.”
He pursed his lips. “That’s not so bad.”
Hope resurrected, she smiled.
“But how close was your contact?”
Her smile dropped again. “Fairly close. I checked to see if he had a fever.” Among other things.
The manager must have read her wicked mind, because his lips twitched with suppressed mirth.
“Well, if that’s all—” the doctor began.
“No,” she broke in, exasperated with herself, but knowing she had to tell the truth. “Actually, I k-kissed him.”
Both men blinked.
“Completely by accident,” she assured them hastily. “I thought he was my fiancé.” She sounded like a raving idiot, but she couldn’t seem to stop, as if she needed to purge herself.
Dr. Pedro’s eyes widened. “Are the men identical twins?”
“N-no, but it was very dark.”
Looking completely baffled, he cleared his throat. “Ms. Murphy, if you’ve already been exposed, you simply must stay in the room.” He turned to the general manager. “Moving guests would make it impossible to identify whether the problem is isolated to certain areas of the hotel.”
Mr. Oliver nodded solemnly. “I’ll make certain my staff is aware.”
The man turned back to Janine. “I hope you understand, Ms. Murphy, why I cannot compromise the quarantine. I’m sorry if these circumstances put you in a delicate situation.”
She nodded, backing away, wishing a tornado would rise up behind her and spirit her away to Kansas. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Pedro. And please let me know if I can be of service somehow.” As if he would ask her now. He probably thought she was an escapee from the state loony bin. She certainly would if she were in his shoes. And right now she’d trade shoes with just about anyone in the building.
He nodded, his expression wary. “I’ll examine your, um, friend myself as soon as possible.”
“Thanks,” she said, then felt compelled to add, “But he’s not a friend, he’s just my best man.”
He stared at her as if she might be dangerous.
Janine managed a tight smile for Mr. Oliver and turned to join the exiting crowd. Maybe she had already contracted the mysterious disease and didn’t realize it. How else could she explain her leaking brain cells and runaway mouth? Of course, exhaustion could have something to do with her state of mind, she reasoned as she waited at the end of the line to climb the stairs to the eighth floor. Stairwells were confining even without the swell of bodies to deal with, so she hung back.
When she leaned against the wall, she spotted a curtained door at the end of the perpendicular hallway. There had to be a way out of this place, she decided suddenly, then squared her shoulders. It was dark, she was wearing black … she could walk the half mile to the convenience store on the main road and call Marie.
After making sure no one was watching, she slipped down the hallway and opened the curtain an inch. The solitary office was neat and whimsical, but the best part was that the neat, whimsical person had left open one of the three high windows. The cool night air beckoned. She could climb up and over the windowsill, then drop the eight feet or so to the ground and be gone in a matter of minutes.
Stacking a sturdy stool on a chair beneath the window gave her enough height to reach freedom. Cursing her bulky coat, she carefully climbed up and steadied herself on the stool, then reached up and grasped the sill. While propelling herself up on her elbows, she kicked over the stool, which crashed to the floor, taking the chair with it. Janine looked down and made a face. Nowhere to go now but up unless she wanted to drop back to the marble floor. Ouch.
But going up wasn’t as easy as she’d thought, because she’d overestimated her upper-body strength. After a few seconds, she’d managed to chin herself up to the sill, only to drop back and hang by her hands when her arms gave out. Then both high heels dropped to the floor, leaving her hanging shoeless, suspended between the window and the floor, too weak to go up, and too fond of her anklebones to go down. On hindsight, maybe trying to escape hadn’t been one of her brighter ideas.
“Well, if it isn’t Ms. Murphy,” a man said behind her. She craned around, hanging on for dear life, to see Mr. Oliver standing in the middle of the room, his arms crossed.
She gave him her most dazzling smile. “Hi.”
“You neglected to tell me and the good doctor that you were also Bat Girl.”
“Um, it slipped my mind.”
“Do you need a hand back to earth?”
She nodded, her chin rubbing against the wall. “That would be good.”
He was tall, and had no problem assuming her weight from below. When he set her back on her feet, he gave her the tolerant look of an older, wiser brother. “Have we learned our lesson?”
Rubbing her arms, she nodded, then picked up her high heels. “I think I’ll be going back to my room now.”
He nodded. “Sweet dreams.”
She found her way back to the stairwell, stinging from her failed jailbreak, and dragged herself up the flights of stairs. At last she reached the eighth floor and retraced her steps to room 855, surprised to see Derek waiting in the hall, his face a mask of concern. “Where did you go?”
Janine frowned at his impatient tone, not about to admit she’d been caught trying to escape. “I told you I was going to talk to the doctor.”
“Oh, right,” he said, his voice contrite. He pushed his hand through his hair. “Sorry, I’m a little punchy, I think.” Then he turned and extended his right hand to her. A peace offering, she thought, absurdly pleased. She smiled and put her small hand in his for a friendly squeeze, and her heart pitched to the side. “I hope we can be friends when th
is is over, Derek.”
But his smile seemed a bit dim. “That seems highly unlikely, Pinky.” He extracted his hand and wriggled his fingers. “The room key?”
“Oh.” Her cheeks flamed at mistaking his gesture. Was she destined to forever embarrass herself in front of this man? She shoved her hands into her pockets, hoping she might also find money she’d left the last time she’d worn the coat. One pocket produced a quarter and two pennies and a half a pack of chewing gum. From the other she pulled an ancient tube of lipstick and—she stared, incredulous—a brand-new strip of lubricated condoms. Marie. She groaned inwardly and slid her gaze sideways to see if Derek had noticed. He had.
“All the necessities, I see.”
“But these aren’t mine,” she began.
“Okay, okay—whatever. Just … give me … the key.” His smile was pleading and his hands were shaking. “Please, can you do that? No talking, just the key.”
She swallowed and fished deeper in her pocket to remove a parking ticket, a lone glove, and finally, the room key, which he plucked from her hand.
“Where’s your key?” she asked tartly as she returned the trinkets to her pockets. Then, remembering she sometimes stuffed cash in the inner pockets, she turned away, unbuttoned her coat and reached inside. Dammit—nothing.
“I didn’t think I would need a key, so Steve took it with him.”
Which made Janine wish she hadn’t even asked, because Steve’s name triggered another avalanche of emotions—dread, shame, remorse. She closed her eyes and moaned. Not in her wildest dreams could she imagine what else could go wrong.
“Janine Murphy, isn’t it?”
She whirled and stared blankly at the attractive woman walking by in designer pajamas.
“Maureen Jiles, sales rep for Xcita Pharmaceuticals,” the woman said.
Her memory clicked in, and she pulled a smile from somewhere, realizing she knew the woman from the clinic. Maureen Jiles was the buzz of the doctors’ lounge—with her exotic looks and plunging necklines, she couldn’t have been more suited to peddling one of the industry’s new impotence drugs. And judging by the way she was eyeing Derek and licking her chops, her reputation as a man-eater had been well earned.
Janine bristled, not because the woman was ogling Derek, of course, but because she apparently ogled every man. “Maureen. Sure I remember.”
“You were going to marry that yummy plastic surgeon, weren’t you?” As she spoke, the woman perused Janine’s outfit beneath the gaping coat, from her shiny bustier to her black-stockinged feet.
Janine nodded and jerked her coat closed, then leaned over to slip on her shoes despite her aching, raw heel. “The day after tomorrow here at the resort,” she said, smiling wide. “Well, isn’t this quarantine the most crazy turn of events?”
But Maureen had eyes only for Derek. “Oh, I don’t mind being confined … with the right person. Janine, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”
“Derek Stillman,” he said, stepping forward.
“And we’re not friends,” they said in unison.
Maureen looked back and forth between them.
“He’s my best man,” Janine offered.
Maureen’s eyebrows drew together.
“And if you ladies don’t mind,” Derek said in a tired voice, “I’d like to go to bed now.” He nodded to Maureen, then picked up his bags and disappeared inside the room.
“He’s ill,” Janine offered in the ensuing silence, then lowered her voice to add, “and probably very contagious.”
The woman made a sympathetic sound. “Too bad. So why are you at the resort?”
“Oh, you know, taking care of last-minute wedding details,” she sang. “Are you staying on this floor?”
“I’m right here,” the woman said, gesturing to the door directly across from theirs.
Her empty stomach lurched. “Oh. That’s … lovely.”
“Where is your room?”
The door behind Janine opened and Derek appeared. He was naked to the waist, and barefoot. Splendidly so. “Here’s the key,” he said. “I’m going to take a shower.”
Janine took the key he shoved into her hand and stood rooted to the floor after the door closed again. Interminable seconds later, she lifted her gaze to find Maureen’s eyebrows up to her hairline. Everyone she worked with, including Steve’s associates, would know about the sleeping arrangements in a matter of hours unless she thought of something fast.
“It’s n-not what you think,” she said hurriedly. “I came to see my fiancé, b-but he planned to be out all night for his bachelor party, and he’d given his room to Derek b-because he wasn’t feeling well, and now there aren’t any rooms available, and, well…” She swallowed, desperate. “Derek is gay.”
Maureen’s smile fell and she grunted in frustration. “All the cute ones are!”
Janine sighed and shook her head. “I know.”
Dejected, the woman turned and unlocked her door. “Well, good night, I guess.”
She gave her neighbor a fluttery little wave. When Maureen’s door closed, Janine leaned heavily against the wall, mulling over the events of the past—she checked her watch—three hours? Geez, it seemed a lifetime had passed since she and Marie were in her bedroom, joking, planning her sexy adventure.
Whatever happens, Janine, this night could determine the direction of the rest of your life.
Janine sighed again. She’d always had a terrible sense of direction.
Numbly, she turned and faced the door, her mind reeling. She couldn’t bring herself to go in because even after everything that had happened, she had the strangest feeling that things would only get worse before they got better. She wasn’t sure how long she’d stood there before a security guard came by and asked that she return to her room to keep the hallways clear.
She nodded and inserted the key, then opened the door and walked inside. Derek stood by the phone with a towel around his hips, his skin glistening, his hair wet and smoothed back. Her pulse kicked up in appreciation, but she acknowledged that her body was so shell-shocked, it no longer knew how to respond appropriately. She was suddenly so tired, she wanted to drop on the spot and curl into a fetal position.
Derek looked up and held the phone out to her. “It’s for you.”
“At three o’clock in the morning? Who is it?” she asked wearily, taking the handset, thinking Marie had tracked her down for more details.
He shrugged and stretched out on the bed, still wearing the towel. “She says she’s your mother.”
*
6
« ^ »
Derek had heard of being too tired to sleep, but he thought he might have reached the point where he was too tired even to breathe. He lay still on the bed, eyes closed, waiting for a burst of energy that would allow his lungs to expand. Meanwhile, he listened to the perpetually frazzled Janine murmur and moan and otherwise fret up her nerve to speak to her mother. Unfortunately for him, hearing was the only one of five senses that required no energy whatsoever.
“Mom?” Her voice squeaked like a cartoon character’s. “I’m fine—yes, I’m sure. I just walked back into the room. Uh-huh.”
She must have a decent relationship with her mother, he noted, else she wouldn’t be so eager to reassure her.
“How did you know I was here? Oh, I forgot about your police scanner. You called Marie? And she told you I was here. Ah. Hmm? Yes, we’re definitely under a quarantine.” She cleared her throat. “Yes, we might have to consider p-postponing the wedding.”
A staticy screech sounded through the phone. He opened one eye to find her holding the handset away from her ear. When the noise subsided, she pulled it closer. “Mom, I said ‘might.’ I’ll know more in a few hours. Right now I really need to go to bed.”
An unfocused thrill rumbled through his beleaguered body at her words—a base reaction to a woman’s voice, he reasoned. Any woman’s voice.
Her gaze lowered to meet his, and she blanch
ed. “I m-mean, I really need to get some rest, Mom. Not necessarily in bed. A person doesn’t have to be in bed in order to rest. Hmm?” Her eyes darted around. “The man who answered?”
He might have laughed at her predicament if he’d had the energy. As it was, he was having trouble keeping the one eyelid half-open.
She was staring at him, chewing on her lower lip. “That was, um, the, um…”
“Best man?” he prompted, barely moving his lips.
She scowled and turned her back. “That was the … be—ll man. Yes, the bellman.”
He wondered briefly what the bellman’s job paid and how it compared to advertising.
“Why am I here?” Another fake laugh, except this one sounded a tad hysterical. “I’ll tell you all about it later, okay?” She bent over, still talking as she moved the handset closer to the receiver. “Good night, Mom. Okay … okay … okay … bye.” She jammed the phone home with a sigh, now the only sound in the room the faint whir of the air conditioner, which he’d turned up. He closed his one eye. Man, was it hot down here in Atlanta.
“I assume you requested a cot.”
His eyes flew open at the accusing tone in her voice. She still wore that black raincoat, rendered even more ridiculous because he knew what lay beneath it. Her arms were crossed, and with her blond hair falling in her eyes, she looked like a cross between Rapunzel and Columbo.
He closed his eyes again to summon enough strength to speak. “Yes.”
He’d nearly drifted off to sleep when she broke in again. “And are they sending one up?”
Sigh. “No.”
“Why not?”
She was like a pesky fly, and he was too tired to flick his tail. “They were out,” he mumbled. The haze of sleep was claiming him again. “Okay, you can get up.”
He jerked awake and cast his weary gaze in her direction. “Excuse me?”
“I said you can get up.”
He scoffed—a tremendous feat—and shook his head.
“I’m not about to share this bed with you,” she said, her voice laced with indignance.
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