Читать книгу Skirting The Issue - Heather Macallister - Страница 10

THE APARTMENT WAS ON THE sixth floor. Just enough to get a modest workout, if Sam were so inclined. There were only three apartments on the floor and number 6C was at the end. Sam didn’t even have to look at the card. She could hear the crowd the moment she stepped off the elevator.

What was she doing here? This was hopeless.

But Sam had been in hopeless situations before—generally those including Josh Crandall…why couldn’t she stop thinking about him? Anyway, some of those had turned out to be not so hopeless after all because she’d persevered and that’s what she planned to do now. She’d persevere herself right into the apartment.

Sam opened the door. Why knock? No one would hear her.

The first thing she noticed was that the ratio of women to men was about, well, except for a couple of men who appeared to be brokers, the ratio was ninety-eight to two. The next thing she noticed was that there was a high percentage of blondes in the mix, including a woman with pink-blond hair and matching poodle.

Sam was very definitely not a blonde.

People were freely milling around, so Sam acted like she belonged there and milled as well. The apartment appeared to have three bedrooms, though one was currently being used as a combination office and video lair.

Definitely bachelor pad material. She looked upward, expecting mirrors, but apparently Tavish’s excruciating taste extended only to cowboy vests. Maybe a touch of overkill on the Western look—how many steer horns did a person need?—but, hey, this was great. Fabulous location, near the Metropolitan Museum of Art, generously spaced for a New York apartment, and she could always rent out the other bedrooms to help with the rent.

Would that be a sub-sublet? Was that more illegal than a regular sublet?

“Where is Tavish?” pouted one blonde.

One of the men stood on the staircase leading to a small loft. “Mr. McLain will be here momentarily.”

“I say we can start without him,” said another blonde. This one wore a black suit and nearly black lipstick, spike heels and had her hair in a French twist that not one strand dared to come loose.

Sam tucked her own windblown hair—that would be brown windblown hair—behind her ears and straightened her spine.

“My opening offer will be fifteen hundred,” the woman continued. She looked over the competition. “So anyone who can’t beat that is out of luck because the price will go higher.”

“But…but I don’t understand!” It was a redhead. The only one. “Tavish promised me the apartment for eight-fifty!”

“He promised me I could have it for eight hundred!” said someone else.

“Oh, honey.” The blond woman who’d taken charge shook her head. “He does this every year. Then a few of us spend the following year bribing him in hopes he’ll just forget this demeaning lottery and let one of us have the apartment for the summer.” She looked wistful. “I actually lived here one summer. It was…” She seemed to remember where she was and that a crowd of apartment competitors hung raptly on each word. “Just be prepared to ante up, kiddos.”

Sam had been mentally plundering her savings as the door opened and the two women she’d seen in the lobby entered the apartment. They must have known the password.

One of them, poor thing, actually was dragging luggage with her. She looked desperate. Desperate enough to bid a lot. Sam swept an assessing gaze over her. She didn’t look as though she had a lot to bid.

The woman next to her was an unknown. A blond unknown, though. Unsmiling, she looked like a woman with a mission—and Sam knew what the mission was. Sam watched her case the situation from the edge of the crowd, bracing herself for when they locked eyes.

Actually, it wasn’t much of a lock. Sam figured she didn’t come across as much competition when the woman’s gaze swept past her after the briefest hesitation. Probably because she wasn’t a blonde.

French Twist held a check high over her head. “Here it is, folks. Good faith money. Forty-five hundred dollars—three months—up front.” She walked over to one of the agents and tried to hand him a check.

“Hey!” someone shouted, and that pretty much set the rest of the potential renters off.

Some headed for the door and Sam got carried along with them. She didn’t fight too much because she wasn’t yet sure that staying would do any good. Just how much higher would she have to go? Though facing Central Park would be a kick, she didn’t need three bedrooms and there would be the hassle of trying to find roommates for just the summer—even assuming she could outbid French Twist.

The exodus toward the door backed up as the first of the crowd got held up at the elevator. Sam stepped out of the current of disappointed women and found herself next to the two she’d seen downstairs. The one with the luggage was sitting on her suitcase staring blankly at the crowd. The other one, the short blonde, was studying her checkbook and had whipped out her cell phone.

Sam spoke to the woman on the suitcase. “This is really something, isn’t it?”

“Not exactly what I expected,” the woman answered, motioning to the suitcases. “I was planning to move in here today. Now, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

Sam knew despair when she heard it. “This is your lucky day. I work for a hotel. Therefore, I can promise you won’t sleep on the street tonight. And you can treat yourself to a nice, hot bubble bath.”

“I can’t—”

“Oh, I got that part. You’d be in one of the unrentable rooms. No charge.”

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why would you do that? You don’t even know me.”

Oh, good grief. When had a good deed become a threat? “Because I can. Because helping the sisterhood was something my mother drilled into me. And, hey, I get off on warm, fuzzy feelings in my tummy.”

There was a crack of laughter from the other woman. “So do I, but they don’t come from giving away freebie hotel rooms,” the woman said with a smile.

Sam grinned down at her. “Samantha Baldwin.” She stuck her hand out at the exact moment the other woman stuck out hers.

“A. J. Potter. You sounded like a madam gathering the poor waif into her house of ill repute. I already made the same great impression. I think we scared her.”

“I’m not scared,” denied the other woman, still sitting on her suitcase. “Just fascinated by abnormal human behavior. Abnormal for a New Yorker, anyway.”

A.J. turned her attention back to Sam. “This place has three bedrooms.”

Ooo. She cut right to the chase. Sam liked her. “I don’t smoke. I can go eighteen hundred a month, but I don’t want to.”

“Non-smoker, I’m in for two grand.”

“You’d get the big bedroom, then.”

They looked down. “What’s your name?” A.J. asked the woman on the suitcase.

“Claire Dellafield. Why?”

Sam gestured to her. “Get with the program. We’re forming a rental coalition. You want in?”

Claire stood, revealing that she was as short as A.J. “You mean we’d room together?”

“Mental functions appear to be intact,” A.J. said. “You smoke?”

Claire shook her head. “But I can learn.”

Sam laughed. “She’s in for the entertainment value alone.”

“How much can you contribute to rent?” A.J. was displaying a practical side.

Claire drew a deep breath. “Eight hundred.”

“That’s forty-six hundred.” A.J. exhaled. “Surely the rent won’t go as high as that.”

They looked at the remaining women arguing with the brokers.

“Then again,” Sam began, just as the door opened and the men from the post office walked into the room.

“Tavish!” several voices squealed. Others snarled.

“Let this play out,” A.J. advised and Sam totally agreed.

The three of them watched women practically pawing at Tavish. Sam hoped one of them would paw off his green vest, but no such luck.

The more she watched, the more her hopes sank. Sam had spent years honing her negotiating skills and knew that the key to a successful deal was figuring out what the other guy really wanted and seeing that he got it. Tavish, she realized, wanted to be adored by his social circle—or the social circle he wanted to, uh, circle in. She remembered French Twist talking about bribing him during the year and remembered his summer itinerary—he was “guesting” everywhere.

Clearly, the key to this deal was more than money. Tavish would probably rent out his apartment even if he weren’t going anywhere for the summer.

Sam glanced at her two potential roommates. She liked A.J. already. Claire, she didn’t know as well, but she had potential. They needed an edge. Something to offer. Something to make them attractive renters to Tavish.

She was figuring out how much it would cost her to let Tavish throw a ritzy party in the flagship Carrington’s presidential suite when she refocused on the scene. All those beautiful blond women vying for his attention…he was lapping it up.

Though A.J. did have blond hair, Sam couldn’t see her as the fawning type.

Sam shifted her package to the other arm. The thing was so hot. She didn’t need to feel hot right now. She needed to be hot…

Sam stared at the wrapping surrounding the skirt. Yeah, sure it was supposed to be a real man magnet, but that was just a story, right? It didn’t really…

“Stand in front of me,” she said to the other two, as she tore off the brown paper.

Claire’s eyes widened as Sam unzipped her skirt. “What are you doing?”

Sam told them the gist of the skirt legend as she pulled it on.

“You’re kidding.” A.J. looked as though she wanted to reconsider rooming with Sam.

“Look, I don’t believe it, either, but it can’t hurt.” She handed her jacket to Claire and smoothed the skirt over her thighs.

It was a great fit. Must be another sign. They were meant to have the apartment.

“Follow me, ladies.” As Sam walked forward, the black fabric whispered over her legs and she found herself changing the way she walked in order to accommodate it.

She imagined herself walking in slow motion, hair rippling over her shoulders, her eyes on the prize—Tavish.

As she drew closer, the women moved to one side, eyeing her and the two behind her. Sam cut right through until she was standing directly in front of Tavish, the two brokers, and French Twist.

“Hello,” she purred.

Three pairs of male eyes swiveled her way.

“I’m Samantha Baldwin.” She held out her hand and Tavish stepped forward to grasp it.

“Tavish McLain.” He took her hand and held it, never once blinking.

The two brokers attempted to introduce themselves, but Tavish wouldn’t relinquish Samantha’s hand.

Propelling Claire with her, A.J. stepped into the breach and occupied the brokers.

“You have the perfect apartment,” Sam cooed. All this cooing and purring was new to her, but it was amazing what it did.

“I c-call it home,” Tavish stuttered, still holding Sam’s hand.

“I’d like to call it home, too—for the summer at least.” She sent him a limpid gaze and squeezed his hand.

“Well, I…well, I’m sure—”

“Just a minute! I’ve given you a check for forty-five hundred dollars!” French Twist wasn’t giving up.

“Roger, give Meredith back her check,” Tavish instructed.

“So I’ll give you another for six thousand.” Boy, the woman was persistent.

“Would you want all the rent up front?” Sam asked.

Tavish creased his brow. “Oh, no, no, no. Not if it wouldn’t be convenient for you.”

Sam still held Tavish’s gaze. He still held her hand. She was going to have to blink soon or her eyes would start watering, but he seemed utterly entranced by her and she wanted to take advantage. What she really wanted to do was quickly scribble out a check.

Fortunately, A.J. had grasped the situation. Sam heard a rip and a blue rectangle appeared in Sam’s peripheral vision. With her free hand she took the check and offered it to Tavish.

“Here you go…two thousand dollars.” Two thousand? A.J. should have tried for fifteen hundred. Still two thousand a month split three ways was within all their budgets.

Tavish smiled. “So you want to pay all the rent up front, after all?”

All the rent? Sam’s heart picked up speed.

Tavish stuck the check in his vest pocket. “The perfect tenant, wouldn’t you say Roger?”

“I’d say so.” One of the brokers inched closer.

“But wait, I thought that was just for—ow!” Claire broke off.

“That should be tenants.” Sam gestured behind her. “My roommates.” She risked breaking eye contact to glance at them. A.J. waggled her fingers. Claire gave a tight smile and rubbed her arm.

“Gentlemen, which one of you has the papers we should sign?” A.J. tried to get the brokers’ attention.

“Papers?” One spoke but he was looking at Sam.

A.J. snapped her fingers in front of his face. “An indemnity clause? Terms of lease? Liability release?”

That’s right—get that laughably low rent in there before Tavish came to his senses.

“Uh, right here.” The broker fumbled in his breast pocket.

Claire linked her arm around the other broker’s. “You and I are on crowd control. Thanks for coming everybody!” she called and waved them toward the door.

“Hey!” French Twist wasn’t budging.

“Ta-ta, Meredith. Just think, you won’t have to walk Cleo.”

“I would have hired a walker for that damn poodle, and you know it!”

“As you did last time. Mrs. Higginbotham said that Cleo was very stressed.”

Poodle? Was dog sitting part of the deal? Sam blinked. She couldn’t help it. Fortunately, breaking eye contact didn’t seem to diminish her strange power over Tavish. “Do you have a dog?” she asked in a breathy voice.

Tavish shook his head.

Okay, then. Things were just hunky-dory. A.J. was handling the contract and Claire was making everybody leave.

Sam’s hand was sweating. Or it could have been Tavish’s. Probably both. How was she supposed to extricate herself? She now not only believed, she thoroughly understood the “magnet” part of the skirt’s legend. Except how did she turn it off?

“I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU DID IT!” A.J. gave her a high five, which Sam was glad she could high-five back, because she thought she’d never get her hand back from Tavish. Then Claire high-fived her. Then they high-fived each other—or low-fived, since they were both so much shorter than Sam.

Then Sam took off the skirt. They were alone after having made enemies of a significant percentage of the blondes in New York City, but Sam didn’t care. She’d found an apartment—and for a ridiculously low rent. Don’t ask her how that happened.

A.J., who’d turned out to be a lawyer—and how handy was that?—had put the amount right into the rental agreement.

“I’ve got to get back to the hotel,” Sam called, hating to abandon her new roommates before getting to know them. She’d been really lucky there. The three of them appeared to be on the same wavelength, which was reassuring considering how many different wavelengths there were in New York City.

Carefully folding the skirt—she wasn’t mailing it anywhere after today—Sam put it on the top shelf in the second largest bedroom and put her suit skirt back on. “Let’s have dinner together here,” she called.

“I’ll get takeout,” A.J. offered.

“Sounds fab. If I can, I’ll see if the pastry chef has an extra Sacher torte and contribute that.”

“What’s Sacher torte?” Claire asked.

“Think dense chocolate. Sin on a fork.” Sam grabbed her purse. “I hate to leave you guys like this, but I really need to get back to work.”

“Like I’m going to complain after you rescued me,” Claire said.

“Ditto.” A.J. shooed her away. “Go.”

And Sam went. She was on top of the world. She didn’t know if it was fate, or the skirt, but Tavish had practically given them the apartment.

The other potential renters hadn’t been pleased, to understate matters, but Sam didn’t care. She’d taken a chance and look how it had paid off.

Today, she was invincible. Invulnerable. Triumphant. The promotion was as good as hers.

Humming—it was the Beach Boys, but who cared after the day she’d had—Sam strode into the lobby of the Carrington and punched the button for the executive offices. The doors parted immediately. It was just that kind of day.

Going to the top floor without stopping—she was on such a roll—the doors whisked open. Sam stepped into the foyer of the executive offices half expecting a general hush followed by a trumpet fanfare.

Look out world, Sam Baldwin has arrived. She strode, yes, strode, toward the skimpy temporary office she was using. She should really ask for something better. With her luck today, she’d probably get a corner office.

“Tiffany, any messages?” She’d always wanted to say that.

Tiffany, the receptionist, gave her an annoyed look, completely failing to notice Sam’s aura of power. “I don’t know—check your voice mail. Oh, actually, you might go see Mr. Hennesey. He was looking for you right after lunch.” Tiffany pointedly looked at her watch. “Like, about an hour ago.”

“Too bad he wasn’t looking for me at seven-thirty this morning when I was at my desk.”

Tiffany was clearly going nowhere. She’d be singing a different tune once Sam was promoted.

Sam went in search of Mr. Hennesey. Odd. She would have thought he’d still be in the meeting. But no. She could hear him talking with someone in his office.

“Mr. Hennesey?” Sam knocked on the open door before stepping inside. “Tiffany said you were looking for me. If it’s about the profit comparison for Happy Hours with and without complimentary buffets, I came in early this morning and finished the report. I left it with Tiffany.”

“Great. I’ll check with her in a bit.” Mr. Hennesey leaned against the corner of his desk, clearly in no hurry.

So much for early-morning brownie points. Sam felt her aura dim just a bit.

“Actually, I was looking for you because I understand you’re acquainted with our new sales consultant.”

Sam’s neck tickled as the hairs on the back stood up. It was her only warning that her roll had ended, splatting right into the figure she hadn’t noticed sitting in Mr. Hennesey’s leather love seat.

Her aura tarnished.

Her luck came up snake eyes.

Her good mood fizzled.

She slid off the top of the world.

Slowly, she turned her head, something within her already knowing the identity of the man, the one aura-tarnishing person she knew…

Josh Crandall.

He grinned—no, leered…no, it was a smirk. Definitely a smirk. “Hiya, Sam. How’s tricks?”

How’s tricks. Nobody said that anymore—nobody outside of Mr. Hennesey’s generation. Doing a little intergenerational bonding, Mr. Crandall?

On the other hand, being tricky was Josh’s modus operandi.

He didn’t bother to stand because that would show respect and heaven forbid Josh Crandall should show respect for anyone he didn’t have to.

Sam would rise above the situation, which meant she could lower herself and still be above him.

“Mr. Crandall.” What was he doing here?

“Oh, take the ruler out of your—” He shifted and unrepentantly cleared his throat, his meaning crystal clear. “I told Bill, here, we were buds.”

“Professional buds,” Sam clarified, though Josh didn’t have a professional bone in his body and she was no more his “bud” than…better not go there.

“If you insist.” His grin widened and he winked.

Sam wished she had a really good set of fingernails so she could scratch that grin off his loathsome face. Even so, she could feel what fingernails she had digging into her palms. In a couple of short sentences, he’d completely changed Bill Hennesey’s picture of her—and not for the better. Too much was at stake for Sam to allow Josh to get away with it.

“I do insist, as you well know.” She sent a deliberately casual smile toward Mr. Hennesey. “Josh and I have crossed paths on the convention circuit the past couple of years. He’s very good at what he does.” But what he does isn’t very good.

She congratulated herself on her word choice. Outwardly, it was a compliment. Maybe Josh would reciprocate.

“Why thank you, Sam. Glad to hear you didn’t have any complaints.”

Or maybe not.

Naturally, Mr. Hennesey chuckled. “Yes, he is, which is why we’re delighted to hire his company to train our staff.”

What company? “You mean Meckler?”

“Josh has left Meckler Hotels and has started his own sales training company.”

Josh leaned forward and dangled a business card from his fingers. Sam had to walk over to him and reach over the tiny coffee table in order to take it.

If Mr. Hennesey weren’t there, she would have ripped it into confetti and thrown it in Josh’s face. But Mr. Hennesey was there, more’s the pity, so Sam politely took the card, and looked at it. Josh Crandall, Perfect Pitch Sales Seminars.

Now what? With her back to Mr. Hennesey, Sam eyed Josh suspiciously. Was this another of his slick tricks? Devious ways? Underhanded maneuvers?

Josh gave her a blandly innocent smile which Sam didn’t buy for an instant.

Mr. Hennesey apparently did. “Josh has been so successful in convention sales—” Sam winced, knowing at whose expense a few of those successes came, “—that I was eager to give him the opportunity to share some of his secrets.”

“You’re actually willing to go on record?” she said to Josh.

“For a price.”

“Well, we always knew you had a price.”

“Everybody’s got a price, chickie, even you.” He threw one of his casual smiles at Mr. Hennesey. “Finding a person’s price is one of the strategies I’ll cover in my seminar.”

Slick, slimy and smooth. Vintage Josh. Sam gritted her teeth.

Mr. Hennesey was clearly mesmerized by him, but then most people were. Young, old, male, female. Everybody liked Josh. He made them feel good when they were with him which made them want to please him so he’d stick around. So they’d please him by giving Meckler Hotels their convention business. But then he’d leave anyway. Didn’t they get it?

He had a gift, Sam acknowledged, and she knew it wasn’t anything he could teach others.

“…know him, Samantha…” She quickly tuned back into Mr. Hennesey. “…so I’m putting you in charge of organizing the training sessions with Josh.”

No. No, no, no, no.

“Start with personnel here this week, then bring in the others from the eastern region.”

Nooooo. Except this was exactly the type of job the east coast manager would do. She should be thrilled that she’d been given the opportunity to prove what she could do and not one of the other candidates.

Except now she owed Josh.

“See to it that he has everything he needs,” Mr. Hennesey instructed expansively.

Josh’s eyes gleamed.

“He means equipment,” Sam snapped.

“My equipment is just fine.” He grinned. “Some have said it’s the best they’ve ever seen.”

“Then they haven’t seen much.”

Josh let her words hang in the air. “And you have, of course.”

How was it possible to loathe a human being as much as she loathed Josh? Belatedly conscious of Mr. Hennesey’s gaze ping-ponging between them, Sam once again prepared to salvage the situation. Turning to the man she hoped would become her permanent boss, she explained, “I’ve always made it a point to be familiar with the audio visual inventory of the hotels I recommend to organizations’ meeting planners. Carrington can be justifiably proud of owning and maintaining first-rate AV equipment.”

To Josh, she added, “As a start-up company it would be understandable if your equipment was…lacking.”

Their gazes locked.

Sam could see the muscle work in Josh’s temple and was silently congratulating herself for finally getting to him, when he spoke, “Bill, if you can spare Sam for a couple of hours, I’d like to show her my equipment.”