Would he be willing to share the ins and outs of his business empire with her, or would he act as if she couldn’t be trusted to understand the details?
And, after the initial honeymoon period wore off, would he stop working so much overtime so he could spend most of his evenings and weekends with her, or would she soon become just another one of his business acquisitions?
“We’re not even close to that stage yet,” Shannon said to Margaret. “Besides, I have a lot of exploring yet to do. If I do sell the inn, I want to see some of the world, but Bram’s plans could very well be quite different from mine.” She sighed, remembering their frustrating weekend in Madison and their inability to do anything outside of the B&B together without tension.
“Fair enough, my young friend. As I’ve advised before, just keep your options open. And never forget that you have a job waiting for you in any city where you can find an Ashland Hotel, okay?”
“Okay.” She hugged the wonderful lady who’d been her support, her guidance, her family, and she wished she could pledge employee loyalty to Margaret for life. But the truth was starting to dawn on her that, no matter how attached she was to her longtime friend, and despite her growing feelings toward Bram, doing the same things she’d always done but in a new city might not be the adventure she’d been seeking.
What would be?
Before she and Margaret made the trek to the ballroom to take a look at its transformation into “The New World,” the older lady posed one more question. “Do you know what you’d find about a four-hour train ride south of Madrid?”
Shannon shook her head.
“Seville. A city known for its flamenco dancing.” Margaret winked at her. “With Jake or with Bram—or without either—you ought to go there, sweetie. Take a chance...and dance a little.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Halloween
Shannon rose up another step on the ladder, her hands filled with the creepy remains of her old pal “Skeleton Sam.” Where to hang him up this year?
She considered the window in front of her. To the left? To the right? She stepped a bit higher on the ladder and held him from his bony, plastic arms in a number of unflattering positions.
Hmmm. No.
From the ceiling, maybe?
She looped her index finger through the thin rope at the top of Sam’s skull and let him dangle precariously, his emaciated body swaying as if in eternal limbo.
Yeah, she knew how he felt. If she didn’t get somewhere outside of these four walls soon and take a few serious strides in a new direction, she’d probably lose all her skin, muscle and sense of initiative, too. Frustration could do that to a person.
She reached into her pocket for the screw-in hook, attached Sam to the ceiling and felt an irrational pang of guilt for committing him to a weekend of suspended misery.
“Was he misbehaving?” an all-too-familiar voice asked.
She swiveled around on the ladder step, nearly losing her balance. “Bram! I didn’t hear you drive up.”
“Too busy entertaining another man, I see.” He grinned and strode toward her. “If he weren’t in such bad shape, I’d have to fight him for you. But, apparently, you’ve already punished the poor guy for his misdeeds.”
God, she’d missed her hotshot businessman. She jumped off the ladder and, a second later, he caught her in his arms, encircling her with tenderness. He was all warm skin, taut muscle, hot breath—nothing bony about him.
Well, okay. That wasn’t strictly true. Something decidedly solid and unyielding pressed hard against her, alerting her to Bram’s intentions, not that she was unwilling to comply. The delectable kiss that followed was a happy premonition of the erotic evening to come.
And amen to that. It’d been far too long since the last time. If only everything about their relationship were as simple, as straightforward and as satisfying as their sexual life.
She eyed his designer garment bag draped over his monogrammed duffle near the doorway. “So, what costume did you bring for the Masquerade Ball tomorrow night?”
He lifted a corner of his lips. “Not telling, sweetheart. You’ll just have to wait and see.”
“What? No hints?”
“Nope. Just deal with the mystery.” He paused as the mini grin morphed into one far more devious. “But don’t worry. You’ll end up in the right bed after the party. I guarantee it.”
She kissed him again, feeling the swirl of adventure that naturally surrounded him as it spiraled to encompass her, too. He brought that effortless sense of the unknown to every one of their interactions and, while it still made her pulse race with the sheer novelty of it, she couldn’t deny the thrill that this quality of his brought to her every time either.
“I’ll hold you to that,” she said. “But don’t think you’re the only one who can pull off a surprise, Bram. I expect to keep you on your toes this weekend, too.”
And she did. If all went well, she hoped to tell him about her plans to leave Door County soon and to begin challenging herself with experiences away from here. Surely, he’d be excited by a change like that. He’d appreciate her decision to broaden her staid, conventional world. Her interest in taking on a life that was a little more like his stimulating and sophisticated one.
“Promises, promises,” he said, as if disbelieving her ability to ever astonish someone as confident, suave and hard-to-ruffle as he.
Well, maybe she couldn’t compete with him on an adventure-seeking level, but she was so very ready for something new. She could face significant change, and she would.
She winked at him. “All I’m saying, Bram, is be prepared for anything. Surprising a surpriser can be very exciting.”
The look that crossed his face was intrigued but, if she weren’t mistaken, there was a flash of apprehension, too. This was the first time since they met that she felt she might just have the upper hand in something.
Interesting.
Maybe Bram Hartwick was no longer as stony-faced or as inscrutable as he’d once seemed.
***
They were nibbling on a late-night fruit platter in the Astaire Suite—post-coital, pre-dawn—when Shannon decided to drop her first hint.
“You know, I’m thinking of taking some time off to visit Milwaukee. The Phantom of the Opera is going to be performed there soon,” she informed him. “I can’t remember which theater, but the show is set to run for several weeks, and I’ve always wanted to see it.”
He gave her a blank look.
“Don’t you like musicals?” she asked.
“They’re okay.” He snagged a couple of red grapes, popped one in his mouth and rubbed the other against her bottom lip until she opened to receive it.
“Mmm, thanks,” she said, chewing. “But Andrew Lloyd Webber’s songs are amazing. Wouldn’t it be fun to see one of his best shows performed live onstage?”
He shrugged. “Depends. Is it a community theater production or a touring Broadway show?”
She had no idea and said so, then added, “Does it matter?”
He laughed briefly. “Well, yeah, Shannon. There are good and bad actors everywhere, but usually the Broadway standards are higher and more exacting than your average community theater ones. The voices in a Broadway cast are exceptionally well trained and can handle the dramatic musical range necessary to pull off a score like Webber and Hart’s. Sure, you can find loads of young talent in any city across America, but aspiring actors and singers flock to New York City for a reason, especially if they’re serious about their craft. As the saying goes, ‘If I can make it there…’”
“‘I can make it anywhere,’” she finished for him.
Having always had to work, either to help her parents out at the inn or to manage things at Margaret’s hotel, she’d rarely gotten away for a weekend. She’d only seen a handful of musicals at her nearby college and, one memorable Christmas, The Nutcracker with her mom in Milwaukee. She’d enjoyed each show tremendously, but maybe they weren’t as good as
she’d thought. Maybe she didn’t know the difference.
“So, you’d recommend seeing only a Broadway production?” she asked him.
“If you want to count on it being excellent, yes, a touring Broadway show brought in to Milwaukee or Chicago would be a strong bet. Although, you couldn’t go wrong with a West End performance either—but they tend not to tour around here.”
“West End?” She’d heard that term before. Where was that? Los Angeles? San Francisco?
“London’s theater district,” he clarified. “That’s where I saw Phantom the first time. The cast was phenomenal.”
She raised her eyebrows. He saw Phantom in London? The first time? Meaning: One of many times. God, she was so far out of her cultural league here it was frightening.
“I guess that would be especially great. I suppose I should try to go there sometime, huh?” she told him, reaching for a strawberry and ripping off the green stem and leaves.
Heck, she’d have to go to the top source on everything now just to converse with him. Forget about small-town art shows, if it wasn’t the Louvre in Paris, it didn’t count. Why bother with any old dance performance if it couldn’t be the Bolshoi Ballet or a troupe of real flamenco dancers in Seville?
She bit into the strawberry and watched as Bram grinned at her. “Hey, why don’t I take a look at what’s playing in London and New York,” he suggested. “Maybe we can steal away for a long weekend after the holidays and catch a few shows. I can show you around a bit, too.”
She nodded but had a hard time swallowing the fruit. His indulgent smile was like that of a world-weary parent looking down at an impressionable child. Just because she hadn’t had the opportunity to have these cultural experiences didn’t mean that she was a dumb kid incapable of learning about life on her own. She just needed a little time to catch up.
He leaned back against his pillow and speared a melon chunk with a long toothpick. “Ahh, so peaceful here,” he whispered, almost to himself. “I think I could stay in this relaxing place forever.”
Boy, not her.
But she didn’t tell him that, let alone mention the possibility of selling the inn, because something vague and unsettling had grown clearer: He might like her, a whole lot even, but it was Holiday Quinn that he loved.
She cringed thinking about it. Yes, he kept coming back here but not so much because he wanted to see her. Instead, it was because of this place she ran. This quiet environment he’d grown so attached to was a haven of sorts for him. When they were together in Madison, but away from the inn, it hadn’t been the same, had it? Now, unfortunately, she knew why.
She decided to test out her theory. “Well, there’s no rush to get away,” she told him. “It’s nice to spend time together right here.”
“Exactly,” he said with a contented sigh, kissing her on the nose then slinking down further into his pillow and closing his eyes. “Nothing’s better than this.”
Precisely what she was afraid of.
As Bram drifted off into dreamland, she put the fruit platter back in the kitchenette’s refrigerator and snuck out of the suite, certain she was equally unnecessary to him now that he’d fallen asleep.
And the pain she felt at that realization shocked her by being almost as strong, almost as powerful as the death of a loved one. She tiptoed back to her own room to grieve the loss.
***
Bram adjusted his mask in the hallway mirror and let his long, black cape swirl behind him as he descended the staircase toward the ballroom.
He’d arrived at the inn with all the accoutrements to transform himself into a fearsome Count Dracula but, after Shannon’s professed interest in The Phantom of the Opera last night, he’d managed to make some slight alterations.
Discarding the vampire teeth he’d brought along, he’d escaped this morning to one of the party shops in the next town over and procured a white, half-faced mask à la Phantom style to complete this newest incarnation of his costume. He hoped Shannon would be pleasantly surprised by the result.
He ran his fingers across the top of his heavily gelled hair to make sure it was still slicked back, as it should be. He spotted a werewolf, a lady villain in black bodysuit (Catwoman?), a Queen Elizabeth look-alike and some unfortunate guy with the ears and complexion of Spock, but none of them resembled Shannon, whatever her choice of costume.
Would she be dressed as a princess? An historical figure? A sexy librarian, maybe?
He allowed himself a slight smile at the thought. Or, perhaps, she really was a burgeoning theater aficionado and dressed up as a stage character. If her interest in musicals was more than just a passing fancy, he would look forward to taking her to a major production someday. Hell, he could fly in a halfway decent cast to perform for her in Holiday Quinn’s ballroom if she so desired.
Anything to make her happy.
But, what if this weren’t enough? What if this latest cultural interest wasn’t really about spending time with him but more about getting away from here? From several of the remarks she’d been making recently, he’d begun to worry this might well be the case.
Last night she was fascinated with seeing musicals in some other city. But that hadn’t been all.
In one of her e-mails at the beginning of the month, she’d written about wanting to learn the art of Tuscan cooking. In Italy.
Then she’d made a handful of comments on the subject of wildlife photography and asked him nearly fifty questions about African safaris and how someone might go about studying this. As if he, Former Crowned King of the Workaholics Guild, would know anything about the pursuit of such a hobby.
Then, on the phone last week, she came out with some craziness about flamenco dancers in Seville. Why would she suddenly want to go to Spain to start dancing? It was just plain bizarre.
As he strode into the ballroom and scanned the crowd of early revelers for his auburn-haired lady, a thought crossed his mind that stole his breath: What if she was saying these things only because of him? What if she thought these were the types of activities that he, as a big businessman with global interests, would want to participate in?
He felt the corners of his lips tilt upward another notch. He’d just have to reassure her yet again that this wasn’t the case. That there was nowhere he’d rather be than with her in her beautiful inn. Maybe then she’d relax a little about this whole sophistication thing. God knew, she was intelligent and adorable just the way she was.
And he was falling in love with her and with the possibility of sharing a life together right here in the Midwest.
Yep. That was the honest-to-heaven truth. Just like Bill Murray’s character in the movie Groundhog’s Day, he was coming to realize that he didn’t have to “get ahead” anymore. He could live in a small, unassuming town like this and fly out to the Twin Cities for business a day or two each week. On the other days he could work via phone and Internet. The idea mesmerized him with its appeal, and Shannon was bound to love it, too.
Wasn’t she?
Bram convinced himself that, yes, she sure was.
Then he spotted her. Finally. A vision in wisps of blue tulle that matched her eyes. A silver fairy wand in her hand. Long, elegant wings fluttering behind her as she walked across the floor. Petite ballet slippers on her feet.
And Jake the Prick by her side.
Bram clenched his jaw and increased his pace.
Jake, dressed appropriately as a court jester, raised a brow at him when he approached the two. “Well, well, Tinkerbell,” Jake muttered to Shannon, though loud enough for Bram to overhear. “The Phantom is crashing our Masquerade Ball. How original.”
The Prick’s sarcasm wasn’t lost on Bram.
Shannon’s eyes widened as she took in his Phantom costume. “I’m impressed,” she whispered, but he’d had to read faces at international business meetings for too many years to be fooled. He got the distinct sense that some other, less enchanted reaction lay behind her words. He tried to dismiss the thought as paranoi
a, but he couldn’t.
“I hoped you’d like it,” he told her anyway, ignoring Jake but not quite able to block him out of his consciousness. The assistant edged his way closer to Shannon. To retaliate, Bram reached for her hand and tugged her toward him. “You look beautiful, Tinkerbell.”
A small grin played along the curve of her lips. “Thanks.”
Bram saw Jake grimace, tap her shoulder and motion her close to him again. She took a step in Jake’s direction, and The Prick pulled her the rest of the way.
“We still need to decide when to announce the winners,” Jake said. He shook his head so the bells on the pointed ends of his jester’s hat jingled. The guy looked bloody ridiculous but, for some reason, Shannon laughed at his antics.
Bram hadn’t thought it possible, but he now hated Jake even more.
“There’ll be prizes for Best Costume tonight,” Shannon explained to Bram, “in the categories of Scariest, Cutest and Most Authentic.”
He nodded and made a show of glancing around the room. “Well, you’ve got a lot good outfits to choose from. Who’ll be doing the judging?”
“The Bakers.” She pointed to the older couple he remembered from the Easter Egg Hunt back in the spring, and he was flooded with memories of the desire that had come to a head between him and Shannon that day.
He looked her in the eye as best he could, given the constraints of his mask, and projected his most smoldering gaze her way. He wasn’t sure why it felt so necessary tonight, but he needed to remind her of the passion they’d shared. And, yes, on an admittedly primitive level, to remind her that she was his woman. Not Jake’s.
Jake, of course, refused to take the hint and just bug off the way a second-place loser-man should. Instead, he draped his arm—his arm!—around Shannon, leaned in close, as if making a pretense of discretion, and said, “Shall we say ten o’clock?” He looked beyond where Bram was standing and nodded in the Bakers’ direction. “That should give them plenty of time to make their final selections.”
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