Читать книгу Heron's Landing - JoAnn Ross - Страница 12

CHAPTER FOUR

ONE OF THE things Brianna loved best about her profession was that, on any given day, she never knew what was going to happen at work. Which typically was nonstop. She needed to be ready for any question, any request, because, as she’d discovered, any guest could ask her anything. This morning, as she arrived at her office, her assistant, Brad, was waiting with her coffee. Something she’d never requested, but since he’d started the habit his first day and was inordinately proud of his French press, she certainly wasn’t going to turn him down.

“The man called,” Brad said before she’d even sat down at the cluttered work desk guests never saw. Which, because she’d insisted she couldn’t work on something that looked as if Marie Antoinette might have chosen it, was simply painted a fresh, clean white. The Cape Cod style reminded her of her Honeymoon Harbor roots and helped keep things in perspective when she spent sixty hours a week in a gilded palace. “He asked to see you as soon as you got in.”

That, in itself, wouldn’t have triggered any concern. Hyatt Huntington, general manager of both the resort hotel and the casino, was even more of a workaholic than Brianna, often boasting that he had no trouble getting by on three hours of sleep a night. There were many days when she’d arrived early to find a stack of messages already waiting. She had, after several weeks of sleepless nights, convinced him that she didn’t have his superpowers and could do her job much better if he stopped texting her all night.

Still, she couldn’t miss the seeds of worry in Brad’s normally smiling blue eyes. “Sure. Would you let him know I’m on my way?”

“Of course.”

With his romance cover model looks, Brad could have made a bundle in tips if he’d chosen to work on the casino floor. But, as she’d once done, he’d opted to work his way up the ladder, learning the ropes at previous hotels before this one, that would hopefully someday earn him entry into the prestigious Les Clefs d’Or. It had been Brianna’s membership in the international organization of concierges at the pinnacle of the profession, along with stellar recommendations from previous employers, that had won her this job, which had been the most sought-after position in the city.

Grateful for the burst of caffeine before meeting with the high-energy hotel manager, she took a sip of the perfectly brewed coffee. Oh, yes, with his ability to anticipate every need, Brad had a successful career ahead of him.

“Did he mention what it’s about?” The general manager usually sent her a blizzard of messages every day. Ones that Brad, who had to triage them by importance, had taken to calling Huntington’s snowflakes.

“No. But he didn’t sound very happy.”

“Then it’s situation normal.” Brianna never got called to her boss’s inner sanctum to be rewarded for a job well done. She was expected to provide guests with perfection. Anything less was unacceptable. Wondering if her furious physician had followed through on his threat to report her, she paused before leaving the office.

“Would you please check the latest Yelp reviews?” she asked Brad. “And text me if we’ve got a new negative one?”

“Sure. Let me do it now. It’ll just take a sec.” Without missing a beat, not bothering to inquire why, he began tapping on his computer.

Hopefully he wouldn’t find anything. But it was always good to be prepared.

Unfortunately, the review was already there. As soon as she got back from her meeting, she was going to have to take several deep breaths, switch from coffee to more calming tea, and respond. Bad reviews were never a good thing. But letting them go unacknowledged suggested the hotel didn’t care about its guests, which was even worse.

Brianna buttoned her jacket over her ivory silk blouse, smoothed out nonexistent wrinkles in her black pencil skirt, and ran a hand over her hair, which she’d coiled into its usual tidy chignon. Then, after changing from the flats she’d worn for driving into her official work pumps, she squared her shoulders and headed toward the express elevator leading directly to the executive floor.

Her boss’s secretary waved her right into his private office. The sympathy in the woman’s eyes was not encouraging.

The office, which was spacious enough to hold Brianna’s entire apartment, was situated at the very top of the Vegas strip high-rise, which not only offered real-time viewing of all the hotel’s public places on the multiscreen TVs that were duplicates of the ones in the security offices, but also a stunning view of the entire valley out the glazed window wall.

“Brianna.” Hyatt Huntington didn’t get up from behind his huge, imposing desk. Having seen the invoice when the Louis Quatorze polished black desk covered in ornate gilded friezes of lions’ heads and acanthus leaves had arrived, Brianna knew that the cost had topped twenty thousand dollars. Paid for by gamblers like the angry, Yelp-reviewing physician. Not only had Hyatt not stood up, as he usually did, he hadn’t wished her a good morning.

“Mr. Huntington.” Her three-inch heels clicked on the miles of marble as she approached the desk. Then, unsure whether or not she should sit down, Brianna stayed standing in front of him.

“It’s Hyatt,” he said on an exasperated breath. “I told you when this place opened two years ago that you needn’t be so formal when we’re in here alone together.” His brows dove toward his blade of nose. “And would you please sit down and stop looking as if you’re on the way to the guillotine?”

Resisting mentioning that the furnishings brought to mind all those executions after the French Revolution, Brianna sat down in the neoclassic reproduction chair on the visitor’s side of the desk. His own high-backed baroque chair with its red velvet upholstery could have belonged to the Sun King himself.

He might not be about to chop off her head, but the fact that he hadn’t offered her coffee and his hands were folded tightly atop the gilt leather desktop told Brianna what was coming. But rather than volunteer and risk telling him something he might not yet know—like that damn Yelp review—she folded her own hands and waited.

“I received a call first thing this morning,” he said.

Still she waited.

“From a guest. Does the name Dr. Aaron Michaelson ring a bell?”

“Yes. He was unhappy about a less than satisfactory experience he had at Bombay Spice.”

“Which he says you highly recommended.”

“No.” Brianna was not going to back down on this point. “He came to me with a printed-out page of reviews. As you undoubtedly realize, online reviews only reflect that one diner’s experience. I told him that Bombay Spice was one of the better Indian restaurants in the city. Then, after asking him what his favorite restaurants back home were, in order to get more information on his personal tastes, which turned out to be all steak houses, I recommended a few of those, as well. Including our own Chops, but I could tell that his mind was already made up when he arrived.”

“He was angry because there wasn’t any meat on the menu.”

“It states quite clearly on the restaurant’s website and the menu that it’s vegetarian. Perhaps he’s never heard of the concept of sacred cows?”

Realizing she’d come off snarky, Brianna held up her hand and took a deep breath. “Sorry. Did he happen to mention that I offered him a free meal here?”

“On a day he was checking out.”

“If he’d first complained when he’d returned from Bombay Spice, Greg, the night concierge, would have done the same thing.” He’d even have had his overpriced dry-aged prime steak delivered to the doctor’s damn room, which could have prevented him losing a bundle on the tables out of pique.

“I get your point. But he’s insisting you owe him fifty thousand dollars.”

“To which you told him, ‘No way,’ right?”

“Of course. The idea is ridiculous. You didn’t drag him down to the casino and force him to keep throwing his chips around the roulette table.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. Not that she’d expected Hyatt to take that complaint seriously, but it was encouraging that he found the idea as ludicrous as she had.

Her relief was short-lived.

“We came to a compromise.”

Her knuckles whitened from the pressure of her hands being squeezed together so tightly. “Oh?”

“I offered him the Golden Treasure suite, on the house, the next time he’s in town.”

“I assume he accepted.” King Midas himself might have found the suite blindingly overgilded. Which undoubtedly would suit the status-conscious doctor and his apparently privileged wife to a T.

“He did. After I assured him that you’d write him a note of apology.”

“What?” Brianna crossed her arms. “No. Period. Way.”

He arched a blond brow. It was not often that they were at cross-purposes. And never, in her two years of working together, had she ever refused a directive.

“He called me a bitch.”

“That’s unfortunate. But it was obviously in the heat of the moment. He was a guest. And the single most important tenet of any business, but especially hospitality, is that guests are always right.”

“No, not always.” This one had been rude, sexist and wrong.

“Give me a break, Brianna. The guy might be an asshole, but he also just happens to be one of the biggest whales in this town.”

That she hadn’t known. Not that it made a difference in the treatment she would have provided. Still, while all the elderly men and women who came on the chartered buses to add some excitement to their retirement brought in a nice bit of change, it was the high-stakes gamblers, aka the whales—who couldn’t stay away, who’d keep betting, even when they were losing—that kept all those chandeliers lit and indoor fountains flowing. Not to mention paying her salary.

“Why didn’t I know him?”

She was familiar with all their regulars. She created files for every one with all their likes and dislikes. She never missed sending birthday or anniversary cards (not always easy to keep up with, considering the number of divorces many went through), enclosing vouchers for chips. Some took advantage of their status to the point her dentist had warned her that if she didn’t stop grinding her teeth, she’d end up eating baby food.

Others, more reasonable, nice ones, Brianna had become close with. Enough that she’d spent part of her Christmas holiday in Florence, shopping with a bond fund manager’s wife and taking care of their children while they’d gone on a Tuscany wine tasting tour. All expenses paid, of course, along with a nice check and a gold mesh bracelet the wife had insisted on buying her at one of the shops on Florence’s Gold Bridge.

“You don’t have him in your book because he’s from Des Moines and usually stays at Wynn Tower Suites or the Mansion at MGM Grand. Which, given his tendency to jump back and forth, suggested that he might be induced to make us his home base when in town.”

“He’s a doctor. Granted, it’s a good profession, but he’s not exactly the type of gambler either one of those places or we would be vying for.”

“Ah, but he’s a doctor who happens to have established a national chain of for-profit medical clinics and is part owner in three more hospitals in Miami, Phoenix and Honolulu. The guy’s rolling in dough. Which, as last night proved, he’s more than willing to throw around. We want him throwing it around at our tables.”

It made sense. And surely Doctor Dick hadn’t been the first rude or even obscene guest she’d dealt with over the years. But, as she sat across from this man she knew to be the son of two high school teachers in Mesa, Arizona, Brianna realized the incident yesterday was close to becoming her last straw.

“What happens if I refuse to write the letter?”

“Of course I can’t force you.” She could tell that Hyatt wasn’t enjoying this any more than she was. One difference was that she was single, responsible only for herself. While, with two kids in college, one of whom was currently in Italy, studying for her PhD in art history, her boss had a great deal more to lose if the gambling doctor went over his head to Midas’s owner, a billionaire who always ranked in the top fifty on the annual Forbes richest list.

“Not that you’d ever try,” she allowed. Hyatt was a good guy who, through no fault of his own, had landed in an untenable situation. Which was only one of the reasons she decided to help him out. “But you would accept my resignation.”

He stared at her for what seemed a full minute. Then dragged his hand down his face. “Oh, hell. You don’t want to do that.”

The idea hadn’t occurred to her as she’d taken the elevator up to this floor. Neither had it crossed her mind as she’d made the long trek across the ocean of pink marble and sat down in the fake antique chair. But as soon as she’d heard the words leaving her mouth, Brianna knew it was exactly what she wanted to do. And fortunately, thanks to a recent surprise inheritance from another favorite guest whose family she’d become personal friends with, she could afford to walk away.

“Yes,” she said, “I do. I assume you’ll want me to leave immediately, so you can assure Dr. Michaelson that I no longer work here. Hell, tell him you fired me. That should gain you points over the MGM Grand and Wynn.”

“Does it matter that I don’t want you to leave?”

“Yes.” He did not, she noted, insist that he wouldn’t play the fired card. She watched the tension in his shoulders, clad in a suit that she guessed cost as much as either of his parents’ annual salaries, loosen slightly. “It matters a great deal and I appreciate it. But it doesn’t make any difference, Hyatt. It’s not the first time I’ve felt that I’m not the best fit here at Midas. So I think it’s for the best.”

He blew out a breath. Then finally stood up, went around the desk and, instead of shaking her hand, surprised her with a hug. Not a creepy boss-copping-a-feel hug, but the kind two close friends would share. “I’ll miss you,” he said.

“Back at you,” she said, meaning it. He’d been not just a mentor, but a friend. Perhaps, she’d often considered, because they’d both come from similar middle-class backgrounds.

Her second thought, coming right on top of the first, was that although she was friendly with many people, she no longer had anyone she could consider a true friend. At least not the kind she could share secrets with, or who’d play designated driver while you got drunk because you’d been dumped by some guy your always loyal friend would assure you was a tool who’d never been, and would never be, good enough for you.

Zoe had been that type of friend. But now, although she’d have been the first person Brianna would have called, she was gone. Forever. And although Brianna had exchanged emails back and forth with Seth for the first few months after the funeral, their correspondence had drifted off when he’d stopped responding, suggesting he’d moved on with his life.

“You’ll be impossible to replace,” Hyatt said, breaking into her thoughts.

She laughed at that and felt the tension inside her melt away, like one of the glaciers on Mount Olympus back home at spring thaw. “You know that’s not true. No one’s irreplaceable.” Except possibly George Clooney. “You might take a look at Brad,” she suggested.

“Are you sure he’s ready?”

“He’s young,” Brianna allowed. “But he’s been in the business since he was eighteen and has worked hard to learn the job along the way. He’s also eager to please and is a natural at this business.” She knew he had three younger sisters and had often thought that when they’d played tea party, he’d have been the one setting up the table and pouring the pretend tea. “If you move Greg to days, Brad should be able to handle nights. Especially with Greg to act as a mentor.”

“I’ll give it a thought. Thanks for the recommendation.”

He’d already mentally moved on. As he should.

“You’re welcome.” She patted his arm. “Take care. I’m off to write a polite, gracious response to the not-the-least-bit-truthful Yelp rant, pack up my desk and be on my way.”

“I’ll write a glowing referral. Just let me know where to send it.”

“It’s not necessary.”

Again an arch of the brow. “You already have a new place in mind?”

“I do.” The answer was so obvious she was surprised it wasn’t flashing in neon bright lights over her head. “I’m going home.”