Читать книгу Under The Mistletoe - Kristin Hardy - Страница 11

“You look like you’re having a good afternoon,” said Angie at the front desk as Hadley walked up.

She was smiling, Hadley realized. It was probably a sad statement on the state of her personal life that it took so little to cheer her up. “Any chance you’ve got my room ready now?” she asked. “I checked in earlier.”

“Let me see.” Angie leaned awkwardly toward her computer, trying to shift her stomach out of the way. She looked very pregnant, Hadley realized—like about ten months.

Hadley cleared her throat. “I don’t mean to get personal, but should you really be up and around at this point?”

“I know,” the receptionist said in amusement. “I look like I’m ready to drop any minute. Believe it or not, I’ve got another month to go. The doctor says Trot’s going to be our New Year’s present.”

“Trot?”

“My Hank’s a Red Sox fan. I wanted to name him Milo but I didn’t have a chance.”

“Maybe he’ll be a distance runner,” Hadley said.

Angie laughed. “Maybe.” She set the room folio on the polished maple counter. “So let’s see, you’re up on the third floor.” She passed Hadley a key on an ornate brass disk the size of a coaster and gestured at the wall of numbered pigeonholes behind her. “Just drop the key here on your way out and pick it up when you’re ready to head back to your room. Any questions?”

It was a quaint arrangement that Hadley had only seen in the older hotels of Europe. Something about it made her feel connected, cared for. “I’m all set,” she told her. “Good luck with Trot.”

Angie smiled. “The elevator is behind you. Enjoy your stay.”

Next to the elevator, the broad grand staircase swept down, all rich carpeting and curving elegance. Hadley could imagine couples descending for dinner back in the old days, the women’s gloved hands on the arms of their tuxedoed escorts, their silken skirts trailing behind them as they made their entrance.

And she found herself wishing she had someone to see it with.

The polished brass doors of the elevator opened to reveal a spare-looking elderly man. “Good afternoon, miss,” he said, pulling back the accordioned metal gate. “My name’s Lester. Where can I take you?”

“Third floor, please.” Hadley stepped on and watched him shut the gate. The control panel had no buttons, just a lever, right below the inspection certificate. “So just how old is this elevator?”

“Original to the building.” He beamed. “Mr. Cortland wanted all the modern conveniences when he built the hotel. Got his friend Tom Edison to wire it for electricity.” The car began to rise smoothly. “Hot and cold running water and fire sprinklers in all of the rooms, even. That was a big deal back then.”

“How long have you worked here?”

He considered. “Oh, about fifty years. I started when she was in her prime and saw her through some dark times before Mr. Stone bought her and started turning things right.”

She should have expected it, but the name still jolted her. “You mean Whit Stone?”

“The same. Top drawer, a prince of a guy. He spent a week here every summer for almost as long as I can remember. ‘Course, when he started, I was on outside staff.” He gave a raffish smile. “These days, I have to take it easy a little.” The car stopped at her floor and Lester opened the gate. “Enjoy your stay, miss. I hope to see you again.”

A prince of a guy. Top drawer. Not exactly the way her father described Whit. Hadley crossed the octagonal elevator lobby, her mind buzzing, and went through the double doors that led to her wing. Even the third floor boasted ten-foot ceilings and hallways twice as broad as any she’d seen at a hotel before. Antique fixtures on the walls cast a soft light over the striped wallpaper and rich floral hall runner. Brass plates engraved with room numbers in curling script adorned the doors.

Hadley unlocked hers to a spill of golden sunlight through the windows that ran across nearly the entire wall. The room was enormous, bigger than the living room in her loft at home. She caught the scent of freesias from a small clutch sitting in a little vase on the bureau. A feather duvet covered the bed. Again, attention to detail. Someone cared about the guests. And in some obscure way she felt comforted, and some of her soul-sickness ebbed as she settled into one of the overstuffed wing chairs by the window.

Gabe sat at his computer. The screen displayed the previous month’s occupancy charts, but he stared into space, remembering a pair of sober gray eyes sparking into laughter. Sometimes a small taste stuck with a person longest. Amid the quiet of snow and winterscape he’d talked with her just enough to know he wanted more.

And then there was that instant when her eyes had darkened and something flashed between the two of them….

He blinked and shook his head. What he needed was to finish preparing for his department heads’ meeting, not think about guests. Off-limit guests, he reminded himself firmly. And unless his little winter faerie had some pixie dust that would help bolster his midweek occupancy, she needed to be off his mind.

The project to winterize the hotel for cold weather business five years before had cost a bundle. With Whit’s agreement, Gabe hadn’t tried to pay it off all at once, but continued to do the kind of necessary renovations a century-old building required. Whit had happily plowed most of his profits back into upkeep, hoping to rescue the Mount Jefferson from the decay it had been in when he’d bought it.

Who knew what the new owners had planned?

“Mr. Trask.”

Gabe glanced up to see his administrative assistant at the door. “Yes, Susan?”

“I just wanted to see if you needed anything before I go home.”

He glanced at his desk clock, stunned to see it was already after seven. “You were supposed to be off two hours ago.”

“What about you? You were here when I got in.”

Twelve hours and counting, to be specific. “Goes with the territory,” he said with a shrug and rose. “Anyway, I’m just about finished here. I’m going to do a quick walk-through and head out myself.”

“Mr. Trask?”

He turned in inquiry.

“You’ve lost your badge again.”

Gabe glanced down at his lapel and bit back a mild curse. He’d gotten the magnetized name tags to save wear and tear on clothing, especially his own. Unfortunately, they didn’t stick so well to jacket lapels if a person wasn’t careful about putting them on. And that afternoon, he’d been a little bit rushed and a little bit distracted by a pair of gray eyes. “Looks like the magnet flipped off again.”

Susan clicked her tongue and looked around the floor of the office for it. “Want me to see if the shop has another?”

“If no one’s turned it in by Monday. No sense in worrying about it now, though. I’m not likely to forget who I am. It’s Saturday night. Go home and relax.”

“Yes, sir.”

Someone had once said that the octagonal dining room was big enough that each end was in a different area code. It was Gabe’s last stop every night. There was something about the glow of the pale salmon walls in the soft light of chandeliers and candlelight, the semicircular Tiffany windows ringing the upper gallery where the orchestra had played back when the hotel was first open. When Gabe looked at the unapologetically opulent room, he forgot his ongoing struggle to find plasterers who could restore the complicated capitals of the pillars and the ornate ceiling medallions. He just appreciated the reminder of a more gracious time.

“Good evening, Mr. Trask,” said the maître d’.

“Good evening, Guy. How’s everything going? Full house?”

Guy’s Gallic shrug was expressive. “Eh, if I had a roomful of tables by the window, everyone would be delirious. As it is, they are merely very happy.”

“That’s the way we want to keep them.”

In the background, a four-piece combo played a complicated, syncopated tune to an empty dance floor. It wasn’t an easy composition; a tune more likely to inspire indigestion. Gabe looked over. “What exactly is that?”

“Miles Davis, I think.”

Gabe frowned as the trumpet player wandered off into a spiraling solo. While he could appreciate it as a music aficionado, he wasn’t crazy about it as a manager. “No one’s going to dance to this.”

“Just as well. Dancing…” Guy sniffed in disapproval. “People getting up, sitting down, complaining about overcooked meals because of the rewarming. We should stop it, you know.”

“Not a chance. There’s always been a dinner orchestra at the Hotel Mount Jefferson.” And there was nothing like walking in to the sound of soft music to make a guest truly feel transported, he thought.

He crossed to the bandstand as the combo finished its song and stepped down to take a break. “Richie,” he called to the trumpet player, “can you hold up a minute?”

“Sure, Mr. Trask,” said the ponytailed redhead. “We just thought we’d take five.”

“Sure. How’s it going?”

Richie shrugged and looked across the dining room. “Not too many takers tonight. They like the music, I assume—I hope—but it would be nice to get some people on the floor.”

Talented, Gabe thought. A bit temperamental and insecure, as all good musicians were. “Then you need to play dance music.”

He flushed a little and straightened his tie. “We started out with the usual. No one came up so we thought we’d just get a little of the rust off.”

“Do that on your midweek gigs,” Gabe advised. “You don’t have to play standards, but stick with something that’s got a beat people can work with.”

“Even if no one dances?”

“They’ll dance if you give them the music.” Gabe glanced across the room, resigned to working it a little before he left for the night. He’d stop at the tables, chat with the guests, suggest a turn on the floor. “Come back from your break and—” Suddenly he froze, staring at a table by the window.

“Mr. Trask?”

“Play something danceable,” Gabe said slowly, absently, staring at a woman with pale hair and gray eyes. “You’ll get your dancers. I guarantee it.”

“I’m all finished,” Hadley told the waiter, gesturing to her nearly full plate.

“Was there something wrong, madam?” he asked.

Hadley shook her head. She’d eaten little, but she chalked that up to her state of mind, not the food or the menu. Dinner had actually been a pleasant surprise. She’d anticipated stodgy French or chophouse surf and turf, not an intriguing fusion menu that would have done any pricey Manhattan restaurant proud. Seared ahi tuna and Thai lobster spring rolls side by side on the menu with pecan-crusted pork loin and duck in huckleberry reduction suggested someone creative was at work. And the guests were tucking in with gusto.

Conversation stayed at a low buzz, a tribute to good acoustics. Women in evening dress smiled and toasted with their escorts. Jackets required. How long had it been since she’d dined anywhere with a dress code? How long since she’d dined in a room so permeated with luxury? Sure, there were plenty of stylish restaurants in New York. None, though, that so vividly brought back the memory of another era.

And the sharp longing for someone to share it with.

Turning her head to ward off the thought, Hadley stared out the dining room window at the snow that had begun drifting down outside. Across the way, the lights of the conservatory bled out into the frozen night. She’d sat in countless hotel restaurants on her own during one business trip or another. It had never bothered her before. Probably it was the romance of the place that was getting to her. The Hotel Mount Jefferson was a haven for romantic getaways, a place where couples could glide across the dance floor and toast to love at their tables.

But she wasn’t part of a couple. She wasn’t part of anything, just a solo person trying her damnedest to stay out of the funk she’d been fighting for days. She didn’t need anyone, she reminded herself. She’d seen what it brought.

So how was it that all she wanted just then was to be held?

“Having a nice evening tonight?” asked a voice behind her.

Hadley turned her head to see not a waiter, but the stranger from the afternoon. And her funk was forgotten.

He’d made an impression in the cold light of afternoon. Now, he jolted her system into awareness. No jeans and sweater this time. Instead, he wore an exquisitely cut gray suit that only made him look taller, leaner. Cuff links gleamed at his wrists. A silver chain made a graceful sweep across his blue patterned tie. He looked as if he belonged in a plush VIP lounge somewhere, swirling a balloon glass of brandy while he talked high finance.

“You’ve dressed up, I see,” she said, wishing for those moments in the afternoon when she’d had him to herself.

“So have you.”

She’d worn a drape-necked tank in cream silk jersey. Paired with a narrow black skirt, it had seemed demure enough. Until he stood looking down at her. Goose bumps that had nothing to do with the temperature rose on her arms. She glanced at the windows. “Your snow has started, I see.”

“Good thing you decided to come inside. We’d have had to send a Saint Bernard out looking for you.”

“With a keg of brandy as my prize?”

“You can get a brandy in here if you want it, with no risk of frostbite.”

“The benefits of civilization.”

“Indeed.”

There was something in his eyes, a light, an invitation to fun. She felt a little flutter in her stomach and glanced down. She should be more disciplined; she wasn’t here to play around and he was probably with someone. But it was so tempting to for once not think about work, to be just Hadley, just a woman.

Too tempting. “Don’t you have to get back to your party?” she asked abruptly.

Gabe didn’t answer right away, trying to avoid staring at the pale gleam of her throat in the soft light. He’d worked his way across the room to her, stopping at a number of tables to greet the guests, chat a little, charm a lot. And the whole time, he’d been utterly and completely aware of her as she stared out at the night, that wistful look back on her face.

He wanted to wipe it away. He wanted to see the spark of fun again, the spark of heat, the expressions that brought that delicate face alive. Just for a moment he’d stop by her table and chat with her, as he had the other guests. Harmless.

And then he registered the bare tablecloth across from her. “I don’t have a party to get back to. I saw you and thought I’d stop by and say hello.” And to look at her one more time. In the candlelight, she was luminous, the extravagance of bare shoulders backlit by falling snow. “Mind if I join you?”

She nodded to the bottle of wine on the table as he sat. “Would you like some wine? It’s a very good cabernet.”

“No. Thank you, though. So how was the rest of your day?”

“All right. I wandered around for a bit, caught up on work. How about you?”

“Wandered around, caught up on work.” Thought about you.

“Doesn’t sound too fun to me.”

“You’re one to talk. I thought you were here for a break before work heated up. What is it, a business conference?”

She shook her head. “Just some meetings next week.”

“But right now it’s the weekend. You should be relaxing. I don’t know…going to the spa for a massage.” Naked on the table, her back smooth and gleaming.

“No one to play with, I guess.”

“That’s a tragedy,” he said softly. “We really need to do something about that.” The candlelight threw shadows in the hollows of her cheekbones.

She swallowed. “Do you have any ideas?”

In the background, there was a thump of bass and the snick of brushes on snare as the combo tuned up. Gabe remembered his assurance to Richie. “I can think of one. Do you dance?”

“Dance?”

“Yeah, like to music.” He rose and held out an arm.

It was on the tip of Hadley’s tongue to say no. She never danced. On her very rare nights out, she might go to a ballet, but that was about as close as she came. Certainly, she wasn’t in the habit of taking to an empty dance floor in front of a roomful of people. Somehow, though, she found herself pushing back her chair and rising.

She had to look up at him, even in her heels. Amusement flickered in his eyes. In the subdued light, they looked darker than before. Hadley hesitated, then tucked her hand through the crook of his elbow, feeling the fine-weave wool soft against her fingers. She was far more aware of the hard solidity of the arm beneath the fabric as they threaded their way between tables. He smelled of something clean and woodsy and completely male.

On the polished wood of the dance floor, he stopped and turned to her. “Do you know how to waltz?”

From somewhere in the distant sands of time, she dredged up cotillion lessons. “I did when I was thirteen.”

He laughed and took her hand to pull her into dance position. “It’s like riding a bike. Just hold on and go where I lead you.”

Heat sang up her arm at the shock of palm against palm. In defense, she rested her left hand against his shoulder. He was close, so close. Close enough for her to see faint flecks of gold in his green eyes.

Close enough to kiss.

“The count is one, two, three. Back, side, touch, basic box step. Smile,” he said. “It’ll be fun.”

The song was “Moon River,” dreamy and slow. His hand pressed against her back; if he pulled just a bit more, they’d be embracing. Suddenly, it felt as outrageous, as daring as dancing must have back in the eighteenth or nineteenth centuries, when women and men barely touched in public.

At first, he counted the steps for her, but with the urging of his hands the old motions came back. The awkwardness evaporated and they began to move, dipping and flowing around the floor. Hadley laughed aloud. “This is wonderful.”

“Didn’t I tell you? You should trust me.” Expertly, he led her into a whirling turn. Then several other couples drifted onto the floor. Aware of the people behind her, she stiffened, stepping forward when she should have gone back, stumbling on his sleek leather shoes.

He stopped for a minute and leaned toward her. His eyes darkened.

Adrenaline sprinted through her veins. A touch? A kiss?

“Look at me,” he murmured instead, his mouth just a breath away from hers. “Trust my lead.”

This time, when they started again, they moved as one. It was like floating, she thought, anchored by his eyes, the light press of his fingertips at her back. When she’d walked into the hotel she’d felt as if she was stepping into another world. And she had. This wasn’t her, this woman being swept around the floor in the arms of a handsome stranger. The rest of the room ebbed away until only his face mattered. The rest of the world—the rest of her life—was irrelevant. In that moment, that glorious moment, all she wanted was him.

She didn’t notice when the music ended. She couldn’t look away. It was as though she was diving into him, seeing the answer that he wanted as much as she did. When he leaned his head toward her it seemed completely natural. Her lips parted. Just a taste, just a touch. She held her breath—

“You are extraordinary,” he murmured. And bowed.

Blinking, Hadley realized the band was on to a new song, a swing tune, and he was leading her off the floor.

It was over.

“You should tell your parents to tip your cotillion teacher,” he said as they walked back to her table. “You did well.”

“Was that before or after I stepped on your toes?” His arm under her fingertips felt natural now. She didn’t want it to end.

“It’s always hard with a strange partner. You slid right into it.”

“You were pretty good yourself,” she said, sitting in the chair he pulled out for her. “Where did you learn all that?”

“During the swing dance craze I dated a woman who wanted to learn ballroom.”

“And you indulged her?”

“We aim to please.”

“I’d like—”

“Nice moves, Mr. Trask,” commented a waiter walking by with a silver-domed tray and Hadley froze.

She knew the name, dear God she knew the name. “Your name is Trask?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

“Gabriel Trask,” her dashing stranger confirmed, holding out a hand. “I suppose I should have confessed earlier. I’m not just a dance host. I’m the general manager of the hotel.”