Holiday Man

by Marilyn Brant

  Bram tossed his cell phone on the bed, kicked off his dress shoes and twisted open the complimentary split of champagne chilling in the white plastic tub on the table. He took a few swigs and shrugged off his coat, letting the residual snowflakes fall where they may. Then off with his jacket. Next he loosened his tie, imagining Scarlett Johansson—wait, no, that auburn-haired woman downstairs with the huge blue eyes and the soft voice—what was her name?

  Shannon.

  Imagining Shannon pulling the tie off from around his neck and letting it float to the floor. Then, with those delicate, creamy fingers, unbuttoning his shirt.

  When his shirt billowed open, he rubbed his chest with his palm. Would Shannon do that? Would her touch be light and teasing or firm and decisive?

  He didn’t know, but he’d gotten a good look at her chest and, if she were here with him right now, that cutesy hearts sweater she was wearing would be on the carpet mingling with his tie. So would her bra.

  Visions of her covered with Sin-amon Spice and Valentine’s Day red-hot candies danced through his mind. Mmm.

  He loosened his belt, unzipped his pants and let them drop to the floor, too. His fingertips skimmed the waistband of his boxers as his mind drifted back to Shannon. She was the inn’s owner, not—as he’d first thought—a subordinate of that glib jerk standing next to her downstairs. A woman full of surprises.

  Maybe his scheming friends weren’t so wrong to insist he come away on this weekend after all. Maybe he’d just need to make a little time to get to know the inn’s attractive owner a bit better. He’d look for her tomorrow. Ask her some questions.

  Then Bram’s hands dipped lower but, as he closed his eyes, it was Shannon who touched him.

  ***

  Shannon perused the guests at the High Tea Mix-n-Mingle the next afternoon. Everyone had been served in the Crosby Room and, adding a splash of milk to her Earl Grey, she stirred her drink and kept a watchful eye on the crowd.

  “These lemon teacakes are scrumptious,” Darlene Baker purred, springing across the parquet floor to Shannon and planting a wet kiss on her cheek. “Keith has eaten four of them already. Somebody make him stop.” She paused, raised a thin, white eyebrow. “I want there to be some left for me.”

  Shannon grinned and leaned in to whisper in the older woman’s ear. “Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve got two more trays in the kitchen.”

  Darlene Baker gasped then giggled.

  “No whispering allowed here,” her husband’s voice boomed with good-natured irritation. “I know you’re telling tales about me to our favorite hostess. Said I’d start that damned diet on Monday, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, honey,” his wife replied with a smile in Shannon’s direction.

  “I’m so glad you’re enjoying the Tea, Mr. Baker. How are your accommodations this weekend?”

  “Wonderful, as always, Shannon dear,” the man replied. “And, for the three-hundredth time, enough with the ‘Mr. and Mrs. Baker’ nonsense! Call us Keith and Darlene.”

  “Yes.” His wife turned on her, too. “We know no one can top your professionalism, but we insist. We practically live here these days. Heck, we’re almost like your relatives.”

  Shannon felt a pang of longing in her chest—loss entwined with an unexpected strand of hopefulness. The Bakers spoke the truth. They visited the inn often enough to be both well known and well loved by the Holiday Quinn staff, and they reminded her enough of her parents to almost always break her heart when she saw them. The two couples shared the same warmth of spirit.

  “I’d be honored,” she admitted to them. “And thank you.”

  She was about to ask the Bakers their plans for the rest of the afternoon when, out of the corner of her eye, a tuft of jet-black hair snagged her attention.

  Mr. Bram Hartwick. Seemingly unchanged since last night. Still tall, dark and intense.

  Also unchanged since last night were her growing fantasies of the man. How, in her midnight dream—manufactured for personal arousal—she imagined those strong arms encircling her. The stubble on his chin burning a trail along her cheek. The press of his lean hips against hers as the two of them tumbled between the silky sheets of the Astaire Suite…

  She felt a bolt of white heat rush through her just from the memory of that dream.

  Darlene Baker tapped her shoulder. “Are you okay, dear? You seem to be blushing.”

  Shannon brought a hand to her face. Damn her fair skin. “Oh, I’m fine. Fine. Thanks. I’m just, um, a little warm. From the tea.”

  Keith Baker scanned the room and his gaze came to rest on Bram, who was standing near the door. Keith turned back to Shannon. “Well, that’s as good an excuse as any, but to me it looks like the stirrings of young love.”

  Shannon shook her head to deny such an embarrassing notion.

  His wife rolled her eyes. “You’re such a romantic, Keith. Don’t you know that not every woman spends her days lusting after men?” She shot a glance at Bram. “Even really, really handsome ones?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. But men sure lust after lovely women.” He paused. “Shannon here doesn’t know about our Tommy yet, now does she?”

  “Who’s Tommy?” Shannon asked, mostly to be polite. She couldn’t seem to keep her gaze from straying to Bram, who held his high-tech cell phone up to his ear with one hand and rolled a chocolate dipped pastry between the fingers of the other. He caught her glance and, for a split second, the air between them sizzled.

  “Our youngest son,” Keith explained. He then began telling her the story of how their “little” boy’s commitment-phobic heart finally got captured for good by a pretty lady in Arizona. “Just when he thought he was safe from the wiles of women, he goes on this wilderness hike, and who should be the trail guide? Why, none other than Mary Ellen. The girl he’d had the hugest crush on back in seventh grade!”

  “See, she’d moved away from Wisconsin when they were in junior high, but Tommy had never forgotten her,” Darlene said. “They recognized each other right away—I don’t know how, but they just knew. He asked her out, and they’ve been together ever since.”

  Keith leaned toward her. “And every time she looks at him, she blushes. Still.”

  Shannon laughed faintly. “That is romantic. But I’m, um, not in the same situation. At all.”

  The Bakers grinned as though they didn’t believe her, and why should they? No matter what Bram Hartwick’s feelings were toward her, her feelings were about as romantic…or at least erotic…as they came.

  Why the hell was he still staring at her?

  He had the cell phone away from his ear and attached to the holster at his belt. He popped the pastry in his mouth and reached for a cup of tea from the table nearby. Before he lifted the cup to his lips, though, he raised it slightly in her direction. A salute of sorts. Then he grinned.

  She felt her cheeks flush warm again.

  “If you’ll excuse us, dear,” Darlene said with a saucy smile. “I do believe I need another teacake.”

  “Oh, me, too,” Keith insisted.

  They stepped away before Shannon could utter a sound, and they deliberately steered a path that left plenty of room for the dashing Mr. Hartwick to get through. Darlene winked at Shannon over her shoulder.

  Bram took three strides in her direction before stopping in his tracks and grimacing. He put down his teacup on a nearby tray and raised a silent hand at her. What was this? Charades? She hadn’t planned any games for the High Tea, but she didn’t feel the lack of activities had left the guests wanting.

  Then she saw him reach for that blasted cell phone at his hip, which, even from a distance of a couple yards, could be seen to be vibrating.

  “Hartwick,” she heard him say into the receiver as his long legs carried him out the door.

  Well, so much for romance—erotic or otherwise. Bram Hartwick had attractiveness going for him, sure, but he was clearly a workaholic, and nothing seemed capable of pulling him away from that damn phone. The only interac
tion the two of them would probably have this weekend would be the imaginary face-to-face contact in her mind, featuring him as the lead in her nighttime fantasies.

  Not that this was all bad. But the tiny, adventure-seeking side of her had begun, irrationally, to hope for the real thing.

  ***

  Shannon ladled a few more glasses of pink, champagne-spiked punch into crystal goblets and placed them on the refreshments table for the dancers. The song “Playing with the Queen of Hearts” resonated clearly from the speakers, while newfound couples laughed and made small talk throughout the room. The evening’s singles’ dance looked to be a success. Too bad she wished herself to be elsewhere.

  She couldn’t help it. She wanted to be dancing, too, but somewhere more exotic, like on a romantic cruise down the Seine with Paris as a backdrop. Or, on a sandy Caribbean beach, the sun sinking into the water in thunderbolts of gold. Or, maybe—

  Jake bustled up to her, interrupting her latest daydream, and reached for a goblet. “The DJ said he was thirsty.”

  She shook her head and stilled Jake’s hand. “I’d be happy to get him any kind of soft drink he’d like but, please, no alcohol for him tonight. He’s got to drive back in an hour and the roads are treacherous.”

  “Fair enough.” Jake set off toward the kitchen, grinning at all the single ladies littering the dance floor. Waving. Winking seductively. The usual.

  Jake’s ease with women was infamous in these parts. He even went as far as to proposition her again this weekend. Jake was cute. He was “a catch,” of sorts. And some nights the loneliness of not having a real lover left her tempted. Just not tempted enough.

  “Why are you always standing on the sidelines, Ms. Quinn?” a deep voice near her said.

  She swiveled toward it, her heart rate picking up speed. “Mr. Hartwick. H-How are you? How are you enjoying your stay?”

  “Hmm. Answering a question with more questions. That’s not the answer I was looking for.” He appraised her appearance again, as was his habit, his hazel eyes twinkling as he took in her cream-colored, floor-length evening gown with the gold spaghetti straps. One of the few outfits she felt actually flattered her. “You, of all people, should be out on the dance floor.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re the loveliest woman in the room.”

  Her breath caught at these words, but she forced herself to show no overt reaction. God, she hoped she succeeded. Instead, she replied coolly, “You presume too much. This is a singles’ dance, Mr. Hartwick. It’s for those men and women who are looking for love.”

  He took a purposeful step closer. “And you’re not?” Those serious eyes bored into her, ready to disagree. “Tell me, are you the queen of your own heart or has some lucky man already claimed it?”

  A smooth line but, she had to hand it to him, though it might have sounded silly coming out of anyone else’s mouth, Bram Hartwick somehow managed to sell it with style.

  “Mine isn’t a quick or easy heart to claim,” she replied. “But there are plenty of other ladies out there who may feel differently.” She pointed toward a couple of especially pretty guests, both of whom had stolen not-so-subtle glances at him during this little chat.

  He grinned. “I never said I needed either ‘quick’ or ‘easy,’ Ms. Quinn, and you deflected my question yet again.” He scanned the room then focused those sharp eyes on her. “I’ll be more blunt this time. I’d like to dance with you, but I don’t want to step on another man’s toes or offend your sense of propriety. If you’re not free, just say so. But if you are, I hope you’ll honor me with the next slow dance.”

  Direct, wasn’t he? Shannon cleared her throat and battled a cocktail of emotions. Sure, she desired him, but he was a weekend guest from another state. How likely would it be that she’d see him again? Not very. And his whole ultra-polished, International-Man-of-Mystery air was slightly on the intimidating side…and, also, a little intriguing.

  Okay, a lot intriguing.

  Still, he wasn’t proposing marriage. Just a dance. Only a three- or four-minute dance.

  She cleared her throat again. “I’d be delighted to dance with you, Mr. Hartwick.”

  He smiled. “Bram,” he said, reaching for her hand.

  “Bram,” she repeated. “And, please, call me Shannon.”

  His smile broadened. “I will.”

  He led her onto the dance floor as the next slow song began to play. And while Barbra Streisand belted out “My Heart Belongs to Me,” Bram caressed her shoulder with his palm and drew her a few inches closer to him. Shannon knew her heart may well belong to her alone but, goodness, her body cast its vote for the dashing Bram Hartwick.

  As her skin tingled from his firm but soothing touch, conversation between them ground to a stop. She mentally sifted through their two prior meetings for some clue as to what to ask him. At first, all she could come up with was When did you learn to speak Italian? And How many hours do you spend on the phone every day? But then she remembered.

  “Your friends, the Wainwrights,” she began. “Are they enjoying their weekend getaway? I’ll confess, I haven’t seen them once since they registered.”

  He laughed. “Well, no, you wouldn’t, would you? Not unless you tried to spy on them from their balcony window. They warned me about their plans before we left Minnesota.” He leaned in close and whispered in her ear. “They’re doing a Lennon-and-Yoko-like ‘Love In’ this weekend.”

  Now it was Shannon’s turn to laugh. “I believe I like your friends, Bram.”

  “Yeah, me, too. They can sure be—”

  “Excuse me, Shannon, I need your help.” Jake stood just to their left, his jaw tight and his eyes narrow. Something must really be wrong.

  She broke away from Bram’s grasp. “What is it?” she asked Jake. “Is there a problem with a guest?”

  He pursed his lips. “I should speak with you privately. If you’ll excuse us, Mr., um…”

  “Hartwick,” Bram supplied. “And, of course. Perhaps I’ll have the pleasure of another dance with you later in the evening, Shannon?”

  “I’d like that,” she told Bram before Jake dragged her away. She’d really like that.

  “What’s going on?” she asked him when they were in the backroom.

  “The chocolate hearts aren’t here,” he informed her. “I checked the kitchen twice, and the candy platters are nowhere to be found.”

  She squinted at him. “Is that all this is about?”

  He gave her a grim look tinged with anger.

  Oops. Now she’d offended him. “I mean, there’s nothing to worry about, Jake. I thought I told you this, but maybe it slipped my mind. We’re doing the candy distribution differently this year and giving out the chocolate hearts at the Valentine’s Morning-After Breakfast instead of at the dance. Margaret hired a special chocolatier at The Ashland, and she’s bringing over a batch for us at seven a.m. tomorrow. Everything’s under control.”

  Jake shrugged. “Oh. Okay then.” He gave her another odd look. “Are you all right, Shannon?”

  She laughed. “Yeah, I’m doing great. No problem. How about you?”

  “Fine, of course,” he said stiffly.

  “Well, that’s…good to hear. So, I’m going to head back into the dance now. If anything important comes up, please let me know.”

  “Oh, I will,” he said, his voice weirdly serious. Jake was in a mighty strange mood tonight.

  “Super.” And, with that, she dashed back out to the dance to see if Bram was still there.

  He wasn’t.

  And the disappointment she felt surprised her with its potency. She’d wanted that second dance, and not just because it was Valentine’s Day. Not just because she was lonely. But because, in spite of herself, she kind of liked him.

  Her imagination had always been stronger than her nerve. Time for that to change.

  ***

  Bram watched Shannon scurry after that assistant of hers—that man with the shrewd eyes and
the pesky manners—and he wanted to throttle the guy.

  Jake Whatever-The -Hell-His-Last-Name-Was lusted after Shannon—that much was clear. Shannon’s feelings toward the assistant were more difficult to ascertain, but Bram would figure it out. He always did.

  Why? Because she’d caught his interest. Even if anything beyond tonight was an exercise in futility.

  He marched around the perimeter of the dance floor, trying to imagine his ex-girlfriend at a weekend affair like this. Angie would’ve wanted to hit every activity. Not miss a single second of excitement, whatever the latest thrill might be. She absolutely exhausted him when they were together, but not because he couldn’t handle the events she threw his way.

  No. He could handle anything.

  But her insatiable need for diversion drained him. It felt like a reflection on him. Made him fear his inability to keep her entertained. And he’d hated that.

  Pretty-faced women dotted the dance floor. Several looked at him with those eyes filled with feverish anticipation, an expectation that a love match might be imminent. Well, Bram knew better. Relationships were fine as long as they were kept in their proper place. Something hot. Something short-term. Something with boundaries. Try to make them your top priority and everything else in your life would get shot to hell.

  He shuddered, flooded by a need to get away from the hopeful expressions etched on the faces of those single women.

  So he strode out into the hallway and lingered by a display cabinet featuring, among other things, a curvy stained-glass vase. It was European. Mid-Twentieth Century. Delicate yet intricate. Colorful but in a tasteful, not discordant style.

  Funny. In an odd way it reminded him of Shannon.

  Now there was a woman whose company he’d admit to enjoying. But, let’s face it, she wasn’t exactly available to him. If he were being honest with himself—and he’d made a habit out of doing just that—perhaps this was part of his fascination.