by Nora Roberts
"I can do both."
"I'd rather you—" The door opened again, heralding the entrance of three laughing, chattering women. Kate grabbed Byron's arm in a steely grip. "Okay, I'm with you. You need my undivided attention. I'll give you ten percent off if you take up all my time until they leave."
"A real people person, aren't you, Katherine?"
"I'm a desperate woman. Don't screw with me." She kept her hand firmly on his arm as she steered him to a corner of the shop.
"Your scent's different again," he commented, indulging himself with a sniff close to her hair. "Subtle, yet passionate."
"Something Margo squirted on me when I was distracted," she said absently. This was her new life, she reminded herself. The old was gone, and she was going to make the best of what she had left. "She likes us to push the merchandise. She'd have hung jewelry all over me if I hadn't escaped." From her safe distance, she glanced back and made a face at her partner. "Look, she made me wear this pin."
He glanced down at the simple gold crescent adorning her lapel. "It's very nice." And drew the eye to the soft swell of her breasts. "Simple, classic, subdued."
"Yeah, right. What do pins do but put holes in your clothes? Okay, back to business. It so happens, there's this music box that might make you a hero again."
"Music box." He brought himself back to the business at hand. "Could work."
"I remember it because Margo just picked it up at an estate sale in San Francisco. She'd know the circa this and the design that. I can tell you it's lovely."
She lifted it, a glossy mahogany box large enough for jewelry or love letters. On its domed lid was a painting of a young couple in medieval dress, a unicorn, and a circle of flowers. The lid opened to deep-blue velvet and the charming strains of "Fur Elise."
"There's a problem," he began.
"Why?" Her back went up. "It's beautiful, it's practical, it's romantic."
"Well." He rubbed his chin. "How am I going to take up all your time when you've shown me the perfect gift first thing?"
"Oh." Kate glanced over her shoulder again. The three fresh customers were in the wardrobe room making a lot of female-on-the-hunt noises. Trying not to feel guilty, she looked over at Margo, who was expertly rebagging the tulle. "Want to buy something else? It's never too early to shop for Christmas."
He angled his head. "You've got to learn to gauge your clientele, kid. Here's a man coming in to buy a Mother's Day gift three days before the mark. A gift that he will now have to have shipped overnight to Atlanta. That type doesn't shop for Christmas until sometime after December twenty-first."
"That's very impractical."
"I like to use up my practicality at work. Life is different."
When he smiled at her, the creases in his face deepened. She liked the look of them, caught herself wondering how it would feel to trace her finger along those charming dents. Surprised at herself, she blew out a breath. Steady, girl.
"Then maybe you should look at something else, to like, compare."
"No, this is it." It intrigued him to see that he was making her uncomfortable, and that the discomfort was sexual. Deliberately, he put his hands over hers so that they held the box together. "Why don't I dawdle over the wrapping paper?"
That, she decided, was definitely a come-on. She'd have to think about whether or not she liked it later. "Okay, that'll work." She sent Margo a beaming smile as they crossed paths, then set the music box carefully on the counter.
Margo closed the door behind her now-satisfied customer and aimed an automatically flirtatious smile at Byron. "Hello, Byron. It's wonderful to see you."
"Margo." He caught her hand, brought it to his lips. The gesture was as automatic as her smile. "You look incredible, as always."
She laughed. "We just don't get enough men in here, particularly handsome, gallant ones. Have you found something you like?"
"Kate saved my life with a Mother's Day gift."
"Did she?" As Kate studiously boxed Byron's selection, Margo leaned over the counter, caught Kate by her red-and-blue-striped tie, and tugged viciously. "I'm going to kill you later. Excuse me, Byron. I have customers."
Kate kept her hot eyes on Margo's retreating back. "See, I told you. She wants me dead."
"One definition of family is a constant state of adjustment."
Kate lifted a brow. "From Webster's?"
"From De Witt's. Let's try the paper with the little violets. Margo's a remarkable woman."
"I've never known a man who didn't think so. No, that's wrong," she said as she measured wrapping paper. "Laura's ex-husband couldn't stand her. Of course, that was because she's the housekeeper's daughter, and he's a puss-faced snob. And I think it was because he wanted her. Men do. And it irritated him."
Intrigued by the brisk way she worked, the almost mathematical manner in which she aligned the box and folded corners on the gift wrap, he leaned on the counter. Her hands were really quite lovely, he noted. Narrow, competent, unadorned.
"How did he feel about you?"
"Oh, he hated me, too, but that didn't have anything to do with sexual fantasy. I'm the poor relation who has the nerve to say what she thinks." When her stomach jittered, she glanced up and frowned. "I don't know why I told you all that."
"Could be repressed conversation urges. You don't talk to people for long periods, then you get caught in a conversation and forget you don't like to talk to people. I told you, it can be a pleasant hobby."
"I don't like to talk to people," she muttered. "Most people. You want purple ribbon or white?"
"Purple. You interest me, Kate."
Wary, she looked up again. "I don't think that's necessary."
"Just an observation. I assumed you were cold, prim, rude, annoying, and self-involved. I'm not ordinarily that far wrong with people."
She jerked the ribbon into a knot, snipped off the ends. "You're not this time, either. Except for the prim."
"No, the rude and annoying probably stick, but I've been reevaluating the rest."
She chose a large, elaborate bow. "I don't want an evaluation."
"I didn't ask. It's another hobby of mine. Gift card?"
Frowning again, she found the one to match the paper and slapped it on the counter in front of him. "We can overnight it."
"I'm counting on it." He handed her his credit card, then took out a pen to write on the card. "Oh, by the way, I made an offer on the house you recommended. Like the music box, it's exactly what I was looking for."
"Good for you." After a brief search, she found the shipping form, set it down beside the box. She suppressed the urge to ask him about it, the house, what had appealed to him, the terms. Damn conversation.
"If you'll fill in the name and address where you want it shipped, we'll have FedEx pick it up in the morning. She'll get it with twenty-four hours to spare and save you a whining phone call."
His head lifted. "My mother doesn't whine."
"I was referring to you." Her smug smile faltered when two more customers came in.
"Isn't that handy?" Byron dashed off his mother's name and address. "We're all done, just in time for you to help some new customers."
"Listen, De Witt. Byron—"
"No, no, don't bother to grovel. You're on your own." He pocketed his card, the receipt, then tore off his copy of the shipping form himself. "See you around, kid."
He strolled toward the door. The sound of "Miss, could you show me these earrings?" was music to his soul.
Chapter Six
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Byron didn't like to interfere with his department heads, but he knew—and wanted them to know—that at Templeton problems rose to the top. His interest in hotels and all their crosshatched inner workings had begun during a summer stint at Atlanta's Doubletree. Three months as a bellman had taught him more than the proper way to handle a guest's luggage and had earned him more than enough cash to buy his first vintage car.
He'd learned there were dra
mas and tragedies playing out daily, not just behind the closed doors of rooms and suites, but behind the front desk, in sales and marketing, in housekeeping and engineering. In fact, everywhere within the buzzing hive of a busy hotel.
It had fascinated him, had pushed him toward sampling other aspects, from desk clerk to concierge. His curiosity about people, who they were, what they expected, what they dreamed of, had given him a career.
He wasn't the doctor his parents had not so secretly hoped he would be. Nor had he been the travel-weary trust-fund kid his circumstances could have made him. He had a career he enjoyed, and the constant variety of life in a big hotel continually intrigued him.
He was a problem solver, one who considered the individual as well as the big picture. His choice of moving into the Templeton organization had been a simple one. He'd spent a great deal of time studying hotels—the luxurious, the opulent, the small and tidy, the chains with their brisk pace, the old Europeans with their quiet charm, the Las Vegas ones with their flash and gaudiness.
Templeton had appealed to him because it was family-run, traditional without being stodgy, efficient without sacrificing charm, and above all, personable.
He didn't have to make it his business to know the names of the people who worked with and under him. It was simply a part of his makeup to take an interest, to retain information. So when he smiled at the woman currently checking in a guest, called out a casual, "Good morning, Linda," he wasn't aware that her pulse picked up several beats or that her fingers fumbled on the keyboard as she watched him pass through on his way to the offices.
Another section of the beehive was here. Ringing phones, clicking faxes, humming copiers, the clack of keyboards. He passed stacks of boxes, crowded desks. He exchanged a few greetings as he went, causing several pairs of shoulders to straighten and more than a few female employees to wish they'd checked their lipstick.
The door to his destination was open, and he found Laura Templeton with a phone to her ear. She offered him a harried smile and gestured to a chair.
"I'm sure we can arrange that. Mr. Hubble in Catering… Yes, yes, I understand how important it is. Mr. Hubble—" She broke off, rolled her eyes at Byron. "How many extra chairs would you like, Ms. Bingham?" She listened patiently, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "No, of course not. And I'm sure you'll have plenty of room if you make use of the terrace. No, I don't believe it's calling for rain. It should be a lovely evening, and I'm sure your reception will be elegant. Mr. Hubble—" Now she gritted her teeth. "Why don't I talk to Mr. Hubble for you and get back to you? Yes, by noon. I will. Absolutely. You're welcome, Ms. Bingham." She hung up. "Ms. Bingham is insane."
"Is she the orthodontist convention or the interior decorating?"
"Decorating. She has decided, at the last minute, that she simply must give a reception tonight for sixty of her closest friends and associates. For reasons I can't explain, she doesn't trust Bob Hubble to pull it off."
"Templeton," Byron said and smiled at her. "The trouble is, your name is Templeton. Which puts you in a lofty position."
You wouldn't know it from her office, he thought. It was tiny, cramped and windowless. He knew she'd chosen the position and the work space herself when she had decided to squeeze out time for a part-time job at the hotel.
Byron didn't know how she managed—her family and home, the shop, the hotel. But she seemed to him to be the soul of serenity and quiet efficiency. Until you looked close enough, at the eyes. There, shadowed in their lake-gray depths, were doubt and worry and grief. Remnants, he thought, of a shattered marriage.
"You didn't have to come down here, Byron." She finished scribbling notes to herself as she spoke. "I would have made it up to your office this morning."
"It's all right. Problem with the tooth soldiers?"
"You'd think orthodontists would have a little decorum, wouldn't you?" With a sigh, she pulled papers out of a file. "We've had complaints from both bars, but that's nothing I can't handle."
"I've yet to come across anything you can't handle."
"I appreciate that. But there's a delicate situation. One of the doctors apparently was having a, let's say, intimate moment with one of the other doctors when her husband decided to pay an unannounced surprise visit."
"God, I love this job." Byron settled back. "It's like a long-running soap opera."
"Easy for you to say. I spent an hour this morning dealing with the penitent woman. She sat where you are, spilling out tears and the whole sordid story of her marriage, her affairs, her therapy."
Weary with the memory, Laura pressed her fingers to the inside corner of her eye, almost relieving the tension that was living there. "This is her third husband, and she claims to be addicted to adultery."
"She should go on Oprah. Women who are addicted to adultery, and the men who love them. Do you want me to talk to her?"
"No, I think I sent her off steady enough. Our problem is, the husband wasn't too thrilled to find his wife and his"—she winced—"his brother-in-law wrapped in matching Templeton robes."
"It just gets better. Don't stop now."
"The husband popped his brother-in-law—who, I should add for clarification, is married to our heroine's sister—in the mouth. Knocked out several thousand dollars' worth of caps and so forth. There was some damage to the room, nothing major. A couple of lamps and crockery." She waved that away. "But our problem is that the guy with the broken mouth is threatening to sue the hotel."
"Another victim." If he hadn't been so amused with the scenario, he would have sighed. "What's his rationale?"
"That the hotel is responsible for letting the husband in. He—the husband—called room service from a house phone, ordered champagne and strawberries for his wife's room. He had a dozen roses with him," she added. "Then he waited until the wine arrived, slipped into the room behind the waiter, and—well, the rest is history."
"I don't think we've got any real problem here, but I'll take the file."
"I appreciate it." Relieved, Laura passed the torch. "I'd talk to the man myself, but I get the impression he's not. too keen on women in authority. And, to be honest, I'm swamped. The orthodontists have their banquet tonight, and the cosmetic people are coming in tomorrow."
"And, of course, Ms. Bingham."
"Right." She checked her watch and rose. "I'd better get down to Catering. There was one other little thing."
Standing up himself, he raised an eyebrow. "The decorators are wrestling in the atrium?"
"Not yet." Because she appreciated him, she smiled. It was second nature to Laura to hide nerves. "It was an idea I had for the shop, but since it involves the hotel, I wanted to run it by you."
"Laura, it's your hotel."
"No, at the moment I work here, and you're the boss." She picked up her clipboard and passed it from one of her hands to the other. "Last fall we put on a reception and charity auction at the shop. We intend to do it every year. But I was thinking we could plan another event. Straight advertising, really. A fashion show, using clothes and accessories from the shop, during the holiday season. The White Ballroom would be ideal, and it's not booked for the first Saturday in December. I thought we could feature gala attire, formals, ballgowns, in addition to accessories, all from the shop. We'd advertise it in both the hotel and the resort, with percentage-off certificates issued to Templeton employees and guests."
"You've got marketing in the blood. Listen, Laura, you work conventions and special events." He put an arm around her shoulders as they left the office. "You don't need my goahead."
"I like to dot my i's, so to speak. After I've talked it over with Margo and Kate, I'll work up a proposal."
"Fine." She'd given him the opening he'd been hoping for. "So how is Kate?"
"She's holding up. Of course, she occasionally drives Margo and me crazy. A born salesman Kate isn't," Laura said with feeling. "But she's competitive enough to make it work." Her smile softened, spread. "And if Margo or I so m
uch as breathes on the books, she hisses. So that's a blessing. Still…"
"Still?"
"They damaged something inside her. I don't know how seriously yet, but she's too together, too controlled. She won't talk about it, won't even discuss what should be done. Just closes up when any of us try to draw her out. Kate used to be a champion tantrum thrower."
Now her fingers fidgeted restlessly, tapping a pencil, plucking at papers on her clipboard. "She's taking this without a fight. When Margo's career blew up and she lost her spot as the spokeswoman for Bella Donna, Kate wanted to organize a protest. She actually talked about going down to L.A. and picketing on Rodeo Drive."
Remembering put a smile back on Laura's face. "I never told Margo, because I managed to talk Kate out of it, but that's the way she is. She spits and claws and slaps when she's up against a personal problem. But not this time. This time she's pulled in, and I don't understand it."
"You're really worried about her," Byron realized.
"Yes, I am. So's Margo, or she would have strangled Kate half a dozen times by now. She wants us to fill out a sheet in something called a columnar pad every day."
"Once an accountant," he said.
"She carries one of those electronic memo pads in her pocket all the time. She's starting to talk about co-linking and getting on-line. It's terrifying." When he laughed, Laura caught herself and shook her head. "Ask a simple question…" she began. "Does everybody dump on you this way?"
"You didn't dump. I asked."
"Josh said you were the only man he wanted in this job. It's easy to see why. You're so different from Peter—" This time she didn't just catch herself, she clenched her teeth. "No, I'm not getting started on that. I'm already behind schedule and Ms. Bingham's waiting. Thanks for taking the orthodontists off my hands."
"My pleasure. You might not hear it very often, but you're an asset to Templeton."
"I'm trying to be."
As she walked away, Byron turned in the opposite direction, studying her careful and precise report as he went.