Читать книгу Sweet Silver Bells - Rochelle Alers - Страница 12

Chapter 1

Destiny

Crystal Eaton took a quick glance at the navigation screen on the Ford Escape. She was thirty-three miles from Charleston, South Carolina, less than half an hour from her destination, and if she hadn’t had to drive down to Miami earlier that morning, she would’ve arrived much sooner. As she unclenched her teeth, the lines of tension bracketing her mouth vanished.

Her mother had called crying hysterically as soon as Crystal had maneuvered out of the parking garage at her Fort Lauderdale condo. She hadn’t been able to understand a word her mother was saying, and in a panic she’d driven south instead of north.

It wasn’t the first time in her life Crystal wished she hadn’t been an only child. If Jasmine Eaton hadn’t been able to reach her, then she would have been forced to contact her son and/or other daughter whenever she had an emotional meltdown.

If it had been a medical emergency, Crystal would have postponed her plan to meet with the owner of several luxury hotels, but she then discovered the cause of her mother’s latest hissy fit. Jasmine’s current boyfriend had refused to take her with him on a business trip to Las Vegas, leading Jasmine to accuse him of cheating on her.

Biting her tongue and instead of telling Jasmine she was too old for adolescent histrionics, Crystal smiled, issuing her usual mantra, “Mother, this, too, shall pass.”

This was followed by another crying jag until Crystal reminded her mother that her eyes were swollen and her cheeks blotchy.

It was as if someone had flipped a switch when Jasmine raced to her bathroom to examine her face, declaring no man was worth sacrificing her beauty.

Crystal knew her own reluctance to marry was because of her parents’ inability to form lasting relationships. Her fifty-four-year-old father had been married four times and her mother, only a year younger than her ex-husband, had had so many dates with a steady parade of men coming and going that Crystal stopped counting.

However, Jasmine was quick to inform anyone who labeled her a serial dater that she was very discriminating when it came to sleeping with a man. Jasmine’s gratification came from being seen on the arm of a handsome gentleman, not sleeping with him.

Crystal’s cell rang and she glanced at the number on the dashboard. Activating the Bluetooth feature, she said, “Hey, Xavier.”

“Where are you, Criss?”

“I’m about forty minutes outside the city.”

“Selena and I expected you hours ago.”

She’d promised her cousin she would stop and spend some time with him, his wife and their toddler daughter. “I would’ve been here sooner if I didn’t have to drive to Miami and check on my mother. She just broke up with her latest male friend, and that always sends her into drama mode. I believe she liked this one more than she’s willing to admit.”

“Isn’t she a bit too old to have tantrums?” Xavier asked, chuckling softly.

Crystal rolled her eyes, although her cousin couldn’t see her. “Please, Xavier, don’t get me started. My mother should’ve become an actress instead of an art dealer.”

Xavier laughed again. “Your mother is drama personified.”

Crystal frowned. “I don’t know why I mentioned her, because talking about my mother’s antics always gives me a headache. It’s too late to stop by tonight,” she said, deftly changing the topic of conversation, “so I’m going directly to the hotel. I have meetings tomorrow and Friday, but I’m free this weekend.”

“Why don’t you come spend at least Saturday or Sunday with us?”

“That sounds wonderful. I’ll call to let you know when I’ll be there. See you soon.”

“We’ll be here,” Xavier said.

Tapping a button on the steering wheel, Crystal ended the call. Crystal smiled for the first time in hours. She was about to embark on a project she’d dreamt about since decorating her first dollhouse. But this project wasn’t about dollhouses but two historic landmark buildings the owner planned to turn into an inn and a bed-and-breakfast.

The original owners of the three-story, early-nineteenth-century structures had used them as their secondary residences whenever they relocated their families from the cotton, rice and indigo plantations built along the creeks and marshes in order to escape the swamp fevers so prevalent at the time during the intense summer heat.

She knew she’d taken a big step when she left her position with a prestigious Fort Lauderdale architectural and design firm to set up her own company—Eaton Interior and Design. She’d come to the realization she’d been overworked, overlooked for promotions, underpaid for her expertise, all the while being subtly sexually harassed by one of the partners. Rather than initiate a lawsuit against him and the firm, she’d decided it was time to leave.

Despite Jasmine’s occasional histrionics, Crystal had to thank her mother for giving her the encouragement she needed to strike out on her own. Jasmine might have been impetuous when it came to her relationships, but she was the complete opposite when buying and selling art. Jasmine revealed that she, too, was thirty when she’d sold her first painting, so it would stand to reason that her daughter would start up her own company at thirty.

Two years later Jasmine opened a thriving and exclusive art gallery in an upscale Miami neighborhood with a growing clientele that included celebrities who wanted to decorate the walls of their sprawling mansions with works of art.

Crystal didn’t have a shop—not yet—but she did have recommendations from several of her father’s clients and one from her mother. Not once had she harbored any guilt about using her parents’ name to further her career. It was the least they could do for emotionally abandoning her as a child. She’d found herself competing with her father’s wives for his attention, while her mother had never recovered from losing her husband, the man she considered the love of her life.

Crystal spent more time at her cousins’ house than she did her own. Levi, Jesse and Carson Eaton were more than cousins. They had become her surrogate brothers.

The lights of downtown Charleston came into view as she listened to the automated voice issuing directions, driving through cobblestone streets lined on both sides with elegant homes still festooned in Christmas lights and decorations. It was the second week in January and it was as if the residents were reluctant to let go of the holiday.

Maneuvering up to the hotel’s entrance, she slowed, coming to a complete stop in front of a valet wearing a white shirt, red bow tie, black vest and slacks.

“How long are you staying, ma’am?”

“I’ll be here for a couple of months.”

“Are you Ms. Eaton?” the young man asked.

She nodded. “Yes, I am.”

The valet opened the driver’s-side door. “I’ll park your truck and have someone bring in your luggage.” Reaching into the back pocket of his slacks, he removed a walkie-talkie. “I need a bellhop out front.”

Crystal reached for her handbag and the tote with her laptop and then slipped from behind the wheel. She managed to smother a moan. Her legs were stiff and her shoulders ached. She’d driven nearly six hundred miles, stopping in St. Augustine to refuel and order a fruit salad. The entire drive had taken her nearly twelve hours.

What she wanted now was a leisurely bath before climbing into bed to sleep undisturbed throughout the night.

She made her way into the lobby and over to the desk to check in, admiring its sophisticated opulence. Marble flooring, several glittering chandeliers and a massive glass-topped table in the center of the lobby cradled an enormous hand-painted ceramic vase filled with fresh flowers. Queen Anne chairs were positioned at round pedestal tables for guests to sit and relax.

A woman with flawless brown skin, neatly braided hair and an infectious smile greeted Crystal as she approached the front desk. “Welcome to the Beaumont House. How may I help you?”

“I’m Crystal Eaton,” she said, “and—”

“Oh, Ms. Eaton, we’ve been expecting you,” the woman said. “Your accommodations will be handled by concierge.” She picked up the telephone, speaking quietly into the mouthpiece.

In less than a minute, a tall man in a black tailored suit approached the desk. There was something about his bearing that reminded Crystal of her father. Raleigh Eaton’s good looks, refinement, charm, and legal and financial acumen had made him a very wealthy man and a magnet for women regardless of their age.

Two years ago he’d divorced his fourth wife, and his current fiancée was thirty-five, only five years older than Crystal. Wherein Raleigh might have been unable to maintain a successful marriage of any duration, he wasn’t so reckless as not to have had his prospective wives sign a prenuptial agreement. The exception had been his first wife. The alimony payments deposited directly into Jasmine’s bank account like clockwork afforded the mother of his only child, coupled with her successful art business, a very comfortable lifestyle.

The concierge extended his hand, while offering Crystal a friendly smile. He lowered his gaze rather than let her see the admiration in his gaze. Crystal Eaton was stunning. Her pixie-cut hairstyle, unblemished face, the color of polished mahogany, radiated good health, and her dark brown wide-set slanting eyes, pert nose and full, sensual mouth were enthralling.

The perfection of her body matched her face: tall, slender and curvy in a pair of fitted black jeans, matching pullover sweater and leather flats.

“Welcome, Ms. Eaton. I’m John Porter, your personal concierge. Mr. Beaumont has asked me to take care of all of your needs during your stay.”

Crystal took his hand, finding it as soft as her own.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Porter.”

John reluctantly withdrew his hand. “Mr. Beaumont has arranged for you to stay in the penthouse. You will have the privilege of twenty-four-hour room service that includes laundry, dry-cleaning, housekeeping and meals.” He angled his head, smiling. “All of which are gratis. The penthouse staff is aware they’re not to accept tips from you. Don’t look so alarmed, Ms. Eaton,” he said when Crystal’s gave him a stunned look, her delicate jaw dropping. “They are compensated far beyond what the other employees earn,” he added when her mouth closed.

She forced a smile she didn’t feel at that moment. “That’s good, because I wouldn’t want to take advantage of their services.”

John cupped her elbow, directing her to the bank of elevators, and stopped in front of one with a sign indicating floors 8-PH. “Mr. Beaumont treats all of his employees quite well. I’m going to give you two room card keys. The red one will permit you elevator access to your floor and the green to your apartment.”

He handed her an envelope with her name, punched the button and waited for the doors to open. Crystal walked into the car. He entered behind her and, reaching into the pocket of his suit jacket, removed a master key and inserted it into the PH slot. The doors closed, and the car rose silently.

When she agreed to the terms in the contract between Beaumont Hotels and Eaton Interior and Design in which the owner of the hotel chain would provide lodging for the duration of the project, Crystal had expected to occupy a suite, not a penthouse apartment. She knew Algernon Beaumont was anxious for her to decorate the two boutique hotels before spring and the influx of tourists to the Lowcountry, and because she wasn’t married, didn’t have a fiancé, boyfriend or children, Crystal was able to accept the commission that would take her away from home for weeks at a time.

The elevator doors opened and she stepped out into a carpeted hallway.

John remained in the elevator. “You’re in penthouse two, which is on the left,” he informed Crystal. “The bellhop will bring up your luggage. If you need anything, please dial fifteen and either I or someone from my staff will procure it for you.”

Crystal smiled at the very formal man. “Thank you. I doubt if I’ll need anything tonight.” All she wanted was a bath and a bed. Anything she did need would wait until the next day.

John nodded. “Good night, Ms. Eaton.”

“Good night, Mr. Porter.”

She walked the short distance to the door labeled PH 2, opening the envelope and taking out one of the card keys.

Crystal’s hand halted as she caught movement out the corner of her eye. She stole a glance at a tall, slender man dressed in a pair of cutoffs, a T-shirt and flip-flops closing the door to the other apartment as he walked toward the elevator. The contrast of the white shirt against his olive complexion was attention-grabbing. He was like a bronze statue come to life.

After several seconds Crystal realized she was staring when their eyes met and held. Even from the distance she noticed the perfection of his features.

“Good evening, neighbor,” he said.

She went completely still as a shiver of awareness swept over her body. The man’s voice was deep and as utterly sensual as he appeared to be. “Good evening,” Crystal replied, smiling.

“Are you checking in?” She nodded. Closing the distance between them, he extended his hand. “Joseph Cole-Wilson.”

Shifting the card key to her left hand, she took the large, groomed hand with long, slender fingers. “I’m Crystal.”

“It’s nice meeting you, Crystal.”

Nodding, she withdrew her hand from his loose grip. “Are you Joseph or Joe?”

He smiled, drawing Crystal’s gaze to his sensual mouth and the slight cleft in his strong chin. “I’ve always been Joseph. I’m not going to hold you up settling in, but I just want you to know I’ll be next door if you need anything.”

Crystal wanted to tell Joseph that if she did need anything, all she had to do was pick up the telephone and dial two digits. She didn’t know if Mr. Drop-Dead Sexy was attempting to come on to her, but at present his mojo definitely wasn’t working. She was much too tired to carry on an exchange of witty repartee with him, and the reason she was in Charleston took precedence over any-and everything in her life.

“Thanks, Joseph. I’m sorry, but I have to get some sleep or I’m going to fall on my face.”

Joseph’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. Light from a wall sconce illuminated the face of the tall, slender woman with the killer body. Only those in his family knew his legal name: José Ibrahim Cole-Wilson. His mother had always called him Joseph, so the name stuck.

Crystal put up her hand to smother a yawn, and it was then he noticed her exhaustion.

“I’m sorry to hold you up. Have a good evening.” That said, he turned and walked to the elevator.

Crystal stared at him until he disappeared into the car. Then she inserted the card key into the slot, waited for the green light and pushed open the door.

If the furnishings in the lobby reflected a bygone era, it was the same in the penthouse. The chairs, tables, lamps, wall mirrors in the living and dining rooms were uniquely art deco, one of her favorite decorating styles.

Dropping her handbag and tote on an oversize ottoman, she walked into a modern, state-of-the-art kitchen with double stainless steel sinks, cooktop stove, double oven, eye-level microwave, dishwasher, French-door refrigerator/freezer, trash compactor and cooking island. There was also a fully stocked wine cellar with three dozen bottles.

Crystal opened the refrigerator stocked with dairy products, the vegetable drawers with fresh fruit and salad fixings. The freezer was also filled with packaged and labeled meat. The shelves in the pantry were stocked with everything she would need for breakfast, lunch and dinner. A door off the kitchen revealed a half bath.

She continued her tour, mounting a flight of stairs, discovering two bedroom suites with adjoining baths. Each bedroom was constructed with sitting and dressing areas. Wall-to-wall silk drapes were open to offer an unobstructed view of nighttime Charleston and a lit rooftop deck.

She returned to the first floor at the same time the bell chimed throughout the apartment. She opened the door and the bellhop carried her bags up the staircase, leaving them in the hallway outside the bedrooms. He returned, gave her a slight bow and then left, closing the door behind him.

Crystal turned off all the lights on the first floor with the exception of the table lamp in the entryway. Her footsteps were slow as she climbed the staircase for the second time, wondering if she would remain awake long enough to take a shower.

After a hot shower, she crawled into bed, pulling the sheet and comforter up to her neck.

She hadn’t drawn the drapes. Daylight coming in through the windows would become her alarm clock. Eight hours of sleep would give her everything she needed to face the day and the most comprehensive commission of Eaton Interior and Design thus far.