Whoa. Chauffeur-driven limos generally did not make routine appearances on our street. That would be highly irregular even by Hannah’s affluent family standards. There had to be some mistake.
I cautiously opened the door. “Can I help you?”
“Hello, I’m here to pick up Nancy Delaney.”
I blinked twice. “Um, I’m Nancy Delaney, but I didn’t order a limo.”
The chauffeur adjusted his cap and cleared his throat. “I was sent here by the Ritz-Carlton concierge,” he said. “I have very specific instructions to pick up a Nancy Delaney at seven o’clock. I know I’m fifteen minutes early, but as I said, I have my instructions. I’ll be waiting for you in the vehicle, ma’am. Unless you have any baggage?”
“Um, no, I don’t think so. Excuse me for just a minute.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
I pushed the door shut, turned on my heel, and found Hannah was standing right behind me, her eyes flung wide. “He sent you a limo?” she cried. “Oh, wow. This is just above and beyond.”
“Above and beyond what, exactly?”
She cocked her head at me and smiled. “Oh, Nancy, you have got it made. Really. And by the way, I think you will have baggage. Pack yourself an overnight case. You are so going to need it. Trust me on this.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “What do you mean?”
“Nancy, when a guy goes to great lengths to impress a woman, it’s because he expects something in return.”
“You make it sound like I’m a cheap whore who will do anything for a nice dinner and a limo ride,” I shot back. “And besides, isn’t this sort of thing against your magazine’s policy? And I’m sure it’s against the Plain Dealer’s policy, too. Good grief, I cannot deal with all of this.” I pressed my fingers to my temples and took several long deep breaths. My heart was racing, the room was spinning, and I felt sweaty and breathless. Either I was having a panic attack, or I was seriously turned on.
And why wouldn’t I be turned on? A very attractive man was going to great lengths---and expense---just to impress me. Wasn’t that every woman’s fantasy? Still, it made me very uneasy.
“You know Nancy, you can easily skirt all those ethics rules if you just describe how he wined you and dined you in the articles. Make it a key part of the story. An illustration of what kind of person---and artist---he is. My own editors would love that. I’m sure the Plain Dealer would too, especially if they want you to dig up some dirt on the guy.”
“That’s all well and good, but then it would also make it impossible for me to date him,” I remarked. “Either I’d piss him off, or I’d still be in breach of the ethics policies if I got personally involved. It’s a no-win situation.” I swooned then as the world went blurry for a moment. I grabbed the edge of the breakfast bar for support. Good God, if I couldn’t date him, then I couldn’t sleep with him either, and the deep aches and cravings that were wracking my body would therefore never be satisfied.
My inner self glanced up with alarm. This will not do, she silently told me. You’ll just have to find another way.
“There is another way,” Hannah said, as if reading my thoughts.
“What’s that?”
“You just don’t tell anyone that you’re dating. Or fucking, if that’s all you’re doing. The two things are not necessarily related. Trust me, I should know. Rostovich is incredibly discreet, so you wouldn’t have to worry about him spilling the beans. If nobody knows about it, then nobody’s the wiser.”
“Rostovich has already told one person how he feels about me. He told Benny, my boss, that I was his girlfriend.”
Hannah scoffed. “Details. It’s not like Benny runs a newspaper.”
That still didn’t settle the issue. “But you would know. And you’re on staff at Art News Now. That alone would be a conflict of interest.”
“Sure, I would know,” Hannah replied. “But I would keep that information to myself. Your secret is safe with me. Cross my heart and hope to die, and all that.”
“But that’s unethical.”
“Not if I don’t think it would affect your work, which I know for a fact it wouldn’t. You’ve always done a good job of separating yourself from your writing, Nancy. You don’t take anything personally in that department. I only wish all professional writers were so grown-up. You’d be surprised at what I’ve seen happen at the magazine since I started working there full-time. Talk about divas---wow.”
That made me feel a little better, though not much. It was all just so much to take in at once. I hadn’t even graduated from college yet, for Chrissakes, and here I was contemplating all sorts of hypothetical ways I could derail my journalism career before it had even started. Plus there was the simple fact that I really wanted to get laid. And the object of my lust just so happened to be someone I was getting paid to write about. Was that really so wrong? Didn’t I deserve to have the same chance at happiness---or at least, sex---as anybody else? Why did I always have to paint myself into a corner where my love life was concerned?
“Maybe I should just cancel the meeting, cancel the assignments, and forget the whole thing,” I mused. “I can’t take this kind of pressure. No freelance gig is worth this.”
Hannah rolled her eyes. She grabbed my shoulder and gave me a not-so-gentle shake. “Nancy, for the love of all that is holy, just go pack yourself an overnight bag and get in the fucking limo.” She was losing patience with me, and I couldn’t say that I blamed her. “Nobody is saying you have to sleep with this guy. Nobody is saying you have to do anything. It’s a free country, you’re an adult, and you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. But mark my words, if you chicken out on this, you will regret it for the rest of your life.”
I went to my room, threw a change of underwear and some toiletries into my press bag---I didn’t bother to switch it out for Hannah’s pricey briefcase---and headed out to the limo.
The chauffer was waiting for me on the sidewalk, standing at attention and stiffly holding the passenger door open just like in old Hollywood movies. He raised his eyebrows slightly at the sight of my beat-up denim knapsack against my otherwise posh outfit, but otherwise didn’t comment. I settled into the plush, heavily cushioned backseat of the limo and found that there was a fully stocked bar at the ready, complete with a glass of iced Pellegrino with lime waiting for me on a marbled walnut table that jutted out from the upholstered wall. The sweating glass sat on a monogrammed Ritz-Carlton cocktail napkin, and beside it stood a polished silver candy dish filled with peach-colored sugared almonds.
There was a selection of hard liquor mixers too, but I never drank anything stronger than red wine, so that was out. And I sure as hell didn’t want to go into this meeting tipsy. I needed to keep my wits about me. But as the downtown Cleveland skyline whizzed by the tinted limo windows, somehow I thought I might have already lost them.
SEVEN
I’d been in the Ritz-Carlton lobby once before, when my mother and I attended high tea there when she’d come to visit me on campus my freshman year. I’d gotten a bad case of the flu the week before second-semester exams, and since my mom was on a research sabbatical at the time, she’d flown out to take care of me. She’d spent the week sleeping on my dorm room floor, walking around campus chasing down all my professors to get final assignments and lecture notes so I could study in my room. She took me to the infirmary and carried back sick trays from the cafeteria, did my laundry, even played solitaire and videogames with some of my suitemates. Hannah had been my resident advisor that year, and we’d gotten to be good friends. It was actually Mom who suggested we move in together off-campus for the next school year.
“This dorm is such a dump,” she’d remarked on her second-to-last day visiting. “I won’t pay for you to stay here next year.”
“You already aren’t paying for it, Mom. My scholarship covers this.” I was mostly feeling better by then, though I was still tired from being sick and cramming for exams.
“Never
mind. There’s a Ritz-Carlton downtown. I’m taking you there for high tea. Put on something nice.”
I’d donned my one nice dress and heels, Mom had worn her best wool suit, the one she used for presenting sabbatical research to the board of trustees at Beverly, and we’d gone to the Ritz for tea. I’d been drugged with flu meds and groggy from lack of sleep, so I didn’t remember much about it other than how odd it was to eat cucumber sandwiches with no crusts, and the fact there was a well-dressed maid in the bathroom who’d handed me a warm towel and offered me a selection of complimentary hairsprays and perfumes. Then I’d gone home and crashed and almost slept through my history exam the next morning. Luckily Mom knew my professor from the labor history conference scene and got him to agree to let me start the exam late. They’d ended up going out for coffee together while I sat in an empty classroom and wrote my exam essay in a Blue Book.
Mom was always good for that sort of thing. She could be a real pain in the neck sometimes, but she was great in a crisis. Not only that, her affluent upbringing came in handy when it came to things like manners and etiquette, especially in high-class settings.
“Stand up straight, dress impeccably, and always look the help straight in the eye,” Mom had said as she’d guided me through the Ritz’ posh lobby, which was decked out in plush gold and earthtones. “Mind you, you have the right to demand good service, especially in a place like this. But don’t ever think for one minute that you’re better than they are, because you’re not.”
My mother, the upper-class labor activist with five-star tastes. She was a walking contradiction.
Her words rang in my ears as I stepped through the polished brass revolving door of the Ritz-Carlton’s lobby. The place was mostly as I remembered it---plush upholstery, soft chairs, simple-yet-elegant earthtone décor, a tinkling Steinway grand piano played by a tuxedoed man in the fair corner---but it was much busier, with lots of people hustling and bustling about on Friday-evening business. Mom and I had come for high tea on a weekday afternoon, when the well-heeled guests had probably been away at business meetings and spa appointments. Now it was as if anyone with a seven-figure bankroll within three states was here at once, chatting on chaise lounges, tapping away at laptops, scrolling through iPhone and tablet messages. A young mother in a red velvet evening gown fussed over her two young children, scolding them that this was no way to behave if they expected to be ready to meet their father at the opera in time for the overture.
I was out of my league here. Part of me wanted to turn on my heel and run for the hills. But who knew when I’d have another opportunity like this? I’d come this far, I might as well go all the way.
I teetered up to the concierge’s desk, unsteady on my high heels. Or rather, Hannah’s high heels. She’d insisted I wear a pair of her platform Ferragamo slingbacks instead of the modest flats I would have selected from my meager shoe collection. I hadn’t worn heels since my last visit to the Ritz three years earlier, let alone the twin towers I now balanced myself on. It was like trying to walk across toothpicks.
The concierge was a well-groomed African-American man with designer glasses, a Movado watch, and an impeccably tailored suit. “May I help you, madam?”
“Yes, I’m here to see Peter Rostovich in his suite.”
He smiled and gave me a polite nod. “Of course. You must be Nancy Delaney. Our chauffeur George just radioed that you’d be coming in. Mr. Rostovich’s suite is on our private executive floor, twenty-six. I’ve been asked to escort you there personally. May I offer you some refreshment before we make our journey upstairs?”
Journey? He made it sound like I was crossing the Sahara, not taking an elevator ride. “Um, can you just show me where the restroom is?” I sort of remembered it was close to the high tea lounge, but I didn’t know how to find it without looking hopelessly out of place. Plus there was the small matter of those heels. One false move and I’d end up doing a faceplant on the polished marble floors.
“Of course. Follow me and I’ll take you there. By the way, George has already sent your baggage up to the suite.”
That took me aback. I’d been so caught up in the stress and anticipation of the whole experience that I’d forgotten my press bag in the limo. I’d just now realized the mistake, but it seemed in a place like this, people just magically appeared out of the polished woodwork and took care of things like that for you before you even knew what happened.
So this is how the other half lives, I thought as I followed the concierge---his name was Julian---down a teak-paneled hallway to a restroom. He handed me a brass key. “This is one of our private restrooms, reserved for our executive suite guests and their visitors. Enjoy. I’ll be waiting just outside should you need anything.” He gave me a subtle bow, just as the limo driver had. It was getting hard not to feel like royalty.
The bathroom had a uniformed attendant, just like the one I remembered from high tea. But I had her all to myself. “Good evening, Miss Delaney,” she said with a gold-toothed smile. Wow, she even knew my name. Apparently the staff here had been expecting me. How on earth did they do that? I figured that there must be an entire department dedicated to updating staff on how to handle things when eccentric artists have their budding journalist girlfriends come to visit them in their suites.
Girlfriend. Wow. I was even thinking of myself that way now. It was strange just how much I’d changed in twenty-four hours. What did that make me, some kind of kept woman? I hadn’t even done anything with Rostovich yet besides have some cryptic conversations, and yet I already felt like I belonged to him.
I took care of my business and went to freshen up a bit at the mirror. The bathroom attendant stepped off her stool and handed me a fresh warm towel. “Miss Delaney, my name is Laverne, please let me know if I can assist you in any way. I am here to serve you.”
“Uhhh---“ I stammered. “I really don’t know what I need right now, to be quite honest.” A lie. I knew exactly what I needed right now. But Laverne wasn’t the person who could provide it.
She gave me a once-over, including a gentle cleaning of my shoulders and sleeves with a lint brush she retrieved from a mirror-paneled drawer. “You’re going up to visit with Mr. Rostovich, yes? How about a little spritz of perfume? Your makeup already looks lovely, and your outfit is spic-and-span, so I think all you need is a little scent.”
I mulled that over for a moment. Hannah had offered me a spritz of her expensive Anais Anais, but I’d turned her down. I’d never been much of a perfume person; it always just made me sneeze or ended up making me smell awful instead of nice. Still, I figured Laverne must know what she was doing. I had a feeling her job wasn’t an easy one to get. It required special talents. “Okay,” I said. “But I don’t know anything about perfume. It always ends up smelling funny on me.”
“It’s all about choosing something that goes well with your body chemistry,” she replied, dusting invisible lint off my sleeve cuffs. “Just because something smells good on someone else doesn’t mean it will work on you.” She opened another mirror-paneled drawer, a deeper one this time. It was filled with dozens of tiny perfume bottles. Her hand hovered over the selection, then honed in on a cut-glass bottle with a simple label and black lid. “Someone like you probably needs a single-note scent,” she said. “This is essence of lavender. Nothing fancy, just very simple and elegant.” She sprayed it on a small paper card and handed it to me to sample. I took a whiff and found it subtle, yet sweet, and not overpowering at all.
“That’s nice,” I said. “I’ll take it.”
She smiled her acknowledgement and sprayed small amounts on my pulse points, my neck, even my ankles. “Let it settle a bit before you go back out,” she advised. “The scent works best when you give the alcohol a chance to evaporate first.” She stood back to inspect her work, gave me a self-satisfied smile. “You’re gonna knock that man’s socks off, you know that, right?”
I didn’t answer her. It was all too much to think about right now. I tou
ched up my lipstick in the mirror, trying to ignore the growing warmth and wetness between my legs. Laverne returned to her perch on the stool beside the mirror. Was her entire shift devoted to just this one task---preparing me to make the right impression on Peter Rostovich? Who was paying her? Did Rostovich have to add her as a line item on his hotel bill? Or did the Ritz just throw her in as a perk of buying such an expensive suite? Was I supposed to tip her or something? Unlike my mother, who had once been surrounded by servants, I had no personal experience with this sort of thing. I made a move to reach into my purse for some cash, but Laverne stopped me.
“I’m on salary, hon. Don’t worry about it. They take good care of me here.”
“You’re very good at your job.”
“Thank you, Miss Delaney. May I offer you a bit of unsolicited advice?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t move too fast when you get upstairs. Bide your time. Men love the chase. Especially men like Mr. Rostovich.”
“You say that like you know him well.”
“I know his type. Been in this business a long time, and you see all kinds come through here. Just watch your step, that’s all I’m saying. You’re a lovely young woman, I’d hate to see you spoil yourself over someone who doesn’t deserve you. No disrespect intended to Mr. Rostovich, of course. Just take your time, don’t rush into anything. That’s the advice I give my own daughter.”
“Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind.”
I gathered my things, gave Laverne a thank-you nod, and headed back out into the hallway. Julian was waiting for me discreetly inside an alcove. I handed him back the washroom key and he tucked it inside his lapel pocket. “Are you ready, Miss Delaney?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Then follow me please. We’ll take the penthouse elevator.”
We went down a series of short halls until we came upon a set of sliding doors marked “PRIVATE ACCESS ONLY.” Julian swiped a card through a reader strip mounted on the wall and the doors slid open. “After you, Miss Delaney.”
Domino (The Domino Trilogy) Page 12