by Dorien Kelly
Or perhaps it wasn’t arriving at all. Annie walked to the mouth of the carousel and tried to peer into the opening. As she leaned forward, Daniel half feared that she planned to crawl against the flow and visit the baggage handlers.
She returned to him. “This doesn’t look good. All my clothes are in that bag.”
He chose diplomatic silence, which proved to be of little comfort. A few lonely bags soon circled around and around.
Annie began to pace. “See? This is why I hate traveling. Just once, I’d like to go someplace and have my luggage arrive with me.”
“Come on,” he said, lifting his bag. She glared at it, as though it were responsible for hers having gone missing. He approached a group of uniformed workers.
“Is that the last of the bags from flight 586?”
“Afraid so.”
Annie stepped forward. “Well, you’re one piece short.”
The man who’d spoken hooked a thumb in the direction of the far wall. “That door.”
“Great,” she muttered.
Once in front of the claims counter, Daniel did his best to offer moral support. Annie gave the agent her particulars and then matched her missing bag to a photo on a large plastic card with generic suitcase mug shots.
“It’s close to that one,” she said.
Had Daniel been inclined to sacrifice Annie’s good graces for honesty, he’d have told the man that it was “close” only if the chosen bag was first force-fed for weeks on end.
When Annie had her lost bag receipt, he tried to move her along toward the cab line.
“Give me a second to get my act together,” she said, then sat on a bench near the exit, dropping her carry-on next to her.
Optimistic that this would be a short pick-me-up, Daniel remained standing.
“You’ll be fine, you know,” he said. “Your suitcase might well beat us to the hotel.”
“Or not. And we’re supposed to leave for Seattle Thursday morning. What if it doesn’t catch up to us by then?”
He scrambled for a positive spin on the situation.
Shopping! Most women he knew loved to shop, and he doubted that Annie was an exception, given the clutter in her home.
“We’ve nothing to do until night, and Eva told me that our hotel’s close to shopping. You could always pick up some clothes to tide you over.”
“I hate buying clothes. It’s too depressing.” She frowned. “Who’s Eva?”
“Hal’s secretary…Mrs. D’Onfrio.”
“Mrs. D.’s first name is Eva?”
The question—and especially Annie’s shocked tone—confused him. He was sure she’d been working at Donovan Enterprises for years. “Didn’t you know that?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she dug through her bag, heavy with everything but clothes, and extracted a box of tissues. Daniel was going to ask if no travel-size version had been available, but quickly realized she’d planned well.
He’d seen her take the distracted disregard of her parents with not much more than a raising of the brows.
He’d silently applauded as she’d given gruff Hal Donovan as good as she’d been handed.
But Annie Rutherford had just reached her limit and started to cry. And she was doing it with flair.
ANNIE HAD NO CLOTHES, her best friend refused to speak to her and now Daniel Flynn knew Mrs. D’Onfrio’s first name.
Maybe the name thing was no big deal, but on top of the lost suitcase and Sasha’s constant call screening, it sure felt like one. Hot tears streaked down her face, probably running her nonwaterproof mascara onto her neck. Sobs collected in her throat until they escaped in one long, jittery gasp.
Annie wasn’t a woman who could cry prettily, and she had zero tolerance for anyone who could. But, up until this moment, she’d always been able to hold off meltdowns until she was alone. She held a crumpled tissue up to her face, but it wasn’t enough to hide her. One after another, she pulled two more from the box on her lap.
“Annie?”
She looked up. Weight balanced on bent legs and the balls of his feet, Flynn was nearly eye-to-eye. If she weren’t so totally off the deep end, she might have gotten a grin out of the alarmed look on his face. It was a sure bet that not many women had come unglued in front of his perfection.
“I’m sorry,” she managed to say past the tears. “This is so stupid.” She blew her nose, then wiped her eyes. “I can’t believe I’m…I’m…” Saying the word aloud would make her feel like an even bigger weenie, so she busied herself pulling another tissue from the box.
“Can I get you some water, or…” He looked around, then back at her. “Or what would you like?”
He was so nice that it was becoming impossible to dislike him.
She hazarded a glance at the area. At least nobody other than the Irishman seemed to be watching her. After all, what was one snot-filled female in the big scheme of things?
Comforted by her total and customary anonymity, Annie began to wad up the tissues on her knees. With those in one hand, she used her other to jam the tissue box back into her carry-on.
She stood. “I think I’d just like to get out of here.”
Flynn had her bag over his shoulder almost as quickly as she’d spoken the words. Soon they were settled in a cab and he was saying, “The Almont Hotel, please.”
During the drive into the city, he seemed to sense that she needed silence. Or maybe he was quiet for fear of setting off another crying jag. Either way, Annie simply looked at the cars, the highway overpasses and finally downtown Chicago, once it came into view.
Soon they pulled up to the canopied entrance of their hotel. The Almont was an older place, not five-star imposing, but definitely posh. A bellman gathered their bags from the cab’s trunk. Or at least what bags Annie still had to her name.
She and Flynn made their way through the revolving door and into a large lobby with maroon carpet underfoot and a crystal chandelier overhead. Annie registered for them, handed the bellman their room keys and followed as he led them to the elevator.
She was still fairly numb from the whole airport experience, so it wasn’t until they were heading swiftly upward that she realized Flynn was in the room next to hers. The thought somehow pleased her, a definite sign that she was going soft where he was concerned.
“I’ve some friends I need to catch up with,” he said as they trailed down the hallway after the bellman. “But after that, I was thinking maybe nine o’clock in the lobby is a good time for us to meet.”
Annie checked her watch. It wasn’t yet four o’clock, Michigan time, and she had a long night ahead. At least with the bonus of an hour’s time difference between Ann Arbor and Chicago, she could easily fit in a nap, shower and meal. Otherwise, she’d be a zombie by midnight and totally worthless by last call.
“Nine works for me,” she said to Flynn.
“Ma’am,” the bellman said, opening her door with a flourish.
Annie walked in and smiled. The sole upside that she could see to traveling was the chance to stay in a place like this. Unable to help herself, she hurried to the window and took in the view. It wasn’t Manhattan, but damn, it was close.
Realizing that Flynn still had to get to his room, she tipped the bellman and thanked him. In a matter of moments, she could catch the faint sounds of the Irishman settling in.
Annie snooped in the honor bar, coveting the big-bucks-a-bite chocolate. She checked out the toiletries lined up on the bathroom counter, inventorying what would be going on to Seattle with her. Finally, she dug into her carry-on.
At least she’d done one smart thing and packed an extra pair of underwear in the bag. She tucked the silky blue bit into an otherwise empty drawer. The sight brought home just how alone she was.
Annie picked through her bag until she found her travel candle. She removed the tin’s top and set the candle on the cocktail table in front of the loveseat. After a brief search for matches, the calming scent of lavender filled the air.
“Almost like home,” she said in a lame attempt to convince herself. But if she were home, she could change out of her wrinkled khakis and into something clean for the night. And Sasha would be going with her. Or not.
Refusing to get sucked into another pityfest, Annie walked back to the window and looked to her right. According to the cabbie—and apparently Mrs. D.—Michigan Avenue was just up at the corner. And on that stretch of broad road were countless stores calling out for her credit card.
True, she hated picking through racks of stuff designed for skinny size twos, hated that most clothes sagged on her waist and seized her butt in a death grip. But at this moment, her hatred for feeling grungy and gritty outweighed even that. Before she could chicken out, she blew out the candle, pulled her purse from her carry-on and left the room. After a stop at the bell captain’s stand to ask that her missing suitcase—should it magically arrive—be brought straight to her room, Annie was off.
Maybe it was a positive flow of the cosmos’s energy returning to her life, or some other such crapola. Or maybe it was the fact that she was too desperate to be picky, but Annie found new clothes—lots of them.
All those how-to-dress shows playing on the television while she’d worked at home late into the night seemed to have had a subliminal effect. She’d never really listened, yet their advice had sunk in. Annie carried bagfuls of “dramatic” necklines, “concealing” wide-legged pants and “nonclingy” skirts. Nobody would be following her sorry ass down the street, conducting a secret filming of her fashion disasters.
Back in her room, she was bummed to see that this new positive flow hadn’t carried her missing bag back to her, but that would have been expecting too much of the cosmos. Annie spread her purchases across the bed, feeling a thrill of excitement over each of them. She wondered if Flynn would notice the difference, then wondered why she was wondering. Before she got too confused, she went to take a shower.
It was nearly seven o’clock when she finished blow-drying her hair and anchored the dryer back into the wall. The click of it locking into place was followed by a thump from outside the bathroom. Annie peeked out to confirm that she was still alone, though odds were good that no one had broken through the security lock or scaled the outside of the building to the fifteenth floor.
Yup, she was alone, though another thump sounded from an adjoining room. Annie shrugged. Such was life in a hotel—not to mention her own home. Standing in front of the mirror, she dabbed her pulse points with the perfume sample she’d picked up while shopping. More muffled thumps—thumps of a certain rhythm—distracted her. It was almost as though Garth ’n Mei had taken their show on the road.
“No way,” she muttered. She walked back into the bedroom, grabbed the television remote from the night-stand and pushed the on button.
Out of reflex, Annie glanced up at the television to check out the channel. At that moment—facing the wall between herself and the noise—she made the connection. Flynn was in that room. She sat down hard on the edge of the bed. Maybe she wasn’t hearing what she thought she was. He could be exercising. Or moving furniture.
Quiet fell next door. Annie spent a dozen heartbeats waiting for the next shoe—or whatever—to drop, but silence reigned. She shook off her case of the creeps and began to dress, half listening to the steady talk of the all-news network.
As she readied, she convinced herself that she’d jumped to conclusions. Garth and Mei’s sexual marathon had messed with her mind. She was like one of Pavlov’s dogs, except she was conditioned to believe that thumps—no matter how innocuous—equaled sex. Nothing was going on next door.
Still, the thought of Flynn naked—though far preferably with her—was a tough one to lose. She’d never fantasized much about the guys she worked with. Then again, no one as hot as Daniel Flynn had ever been in Donovan’s headquarters. If the warm shiver dancing through her right now was any indicator, she had a feeling that over the next few months her fantasy life was going to be rich.
“Spank me!” a female voice cried suddenly from next door. “Do it!”
Annie froze, flirty black skirt halfway zipped. Kind of hot and squirmy iced down to grossed out.
“Harder!”
Annie finished dressing as though the fire alarm had just sounded. She swept her makeup off the counter and into her new bag, then added the items she’d need for the night—digital camera, notepad, credit card and room key.
Now if she only had some pepper spray.
7
ANNIE RUTHERFORD wasn’t always a woman of her word.
This revelation was nothing short of a gobsmack to Daniel, who’d watched for her in the hotel lobby until nearly nine-forty. Being Irish, he held a loose appreciation of time and was willing to wait. Not to mention that the chance to go outside and sneak a cigarette—truly his last—had also held some appeal. Still, even an Irishman knew when casual crossed the line to late. After a call to Annie’s room had gone unanswered, he’d ventured to the bar, where he’d found her.
She’d looked at him over the rim of her martini and informed him that she’d be ready to “get this over with” once she’d finished her dinner. That meal had consisted of French fries, shrimp cocktail and chocolate cake. At least she was open to diversity.
“We’ll be starting at Mulvaney’s,” he told her as they finally stepped outside the hotel.
“A chain with locations in L.A., Vail, Chicago, Coconut Grove and Boston,” she shot back, eyes straight ahead. “A moderately successful IPO two years ago. Gross annual sales in excess of thirteen million.”
So they were back to the sharp-tongued Ms. Annie who’d met him at the airport days earlier. “Grand then, you’ve heard of it.”
She turned left and marched down the walk. “I did my research.”
He moved a step ahead of her. “Then you’d be knowing you’re headed the wrong way?”
That, at least, brought her up short.
“No sense of direction,” she replied before turning about.
As they traveled the blocks to the pub, Daniel tried some chat, but she limited her responses to two words or less. And not bloody once would she look his way.
“Is something wrong?” he asked as they walked past the bright shop windows on Michigan Avenue.
“No,” she said in a cheery voice that somehow also carried a layer of frost. Where did women learn how to do that? It had to be some sort of skill passed from mother to daughter in utero.
Daniel stretched out his stride. He’d never had difficulty keeping up with a woman half his damn size. “Did I miss a message? Was I to meet you in the bar?”
“No message.”
Other than the one she was sending now. He considered himself a fair sort of man. He didn’t mind taking a kick in the arse when he’d done wrong. Problem of it was, he’d done nothing wrong.
“Turn here,” he said when they reached Ontario Street.
She nodded.
And he got not another word out of her the rest of the way to Mulvaney’s. He opened the pub’s door, shaking his head at the layers of paint some poor fool had had to coat the bloody thing with to make it look old. Next he’d be finding water stains artfully applied to the ceiling.
He glanced back and discovered that Her Royal Highness wasn’t ready to enter.
“Not yet,” she said while pulling out a camera.
Daniel ushered in two women who’d been walking behind them. “But it’s dark,” he said to Annie.
“I’ll use a flash.”
He stepped away from the door and patiently waited while she took photos of the pub’s sign, trim and whatnot. Finally, she tucked the camera back into her handbag.
“Shall we?” he asked, gesturing at the entrance.
“Fine.”
Right, then. About as fine as a three-bottle whiskey hangover. Still, Daniel knew no way through this evening but to finish it.
He was holding the door open for her when she said, “Hang on.”
He waved on two more couples and wondered whether his friend Brian might be seeking a doorman for the place. He was well auditioned by now.
Annie beckoned him over, then headed around the corner. Against his better judgment, Daniel followed. She stopped in front of what had to be the dozenth cell phone store he’d seen that day. The glow from the street lights gave him the unhappy set of her face. She wasn’t alone in that.
“I think we need to have a talk,” she said.
And here he’d been fairly certain that she’d forgotten how.
Daniel watched as she gripped the straps of the handbag she’d slung over her shoulder. His gaze traveled downward—Ms. Annie had been shopping. If he weren’t so balls-out irked at the way she was acting, he might tell her that she looked utterly sexy. Her fitted white top and short black print skirt celebrated a figure made to know the sweep of a man’s hands. His, perhaps.
“I’m a pretty liberal person,” she announced. “You can’t live in a college town without having seen—or heard—nearly everything once.”
Daniel was sure this was leading somewhere, but just now he was as directionless as Annie.
“And I don’t believe in prying into people’s personal lives. I mean, different strokes for different folks and all that. But here’s the thing, Flynn. You and I have to work together. I can be as professional as the next person, but I don’t think I can sit through meetings and whatever without thinking about…about…”
She’d stretched out that last word until he felt as though he were sitting for a fill-in-the-blank exam. “About what?”
“You know what!”
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t be asking if I did.”
“I heard you, Flynn…in your room.”
He was beginning to believe that he was nearly as thick as his eejit brothers. “My room? The hotel room?”
She stared intently at the concrete beneath their feet. “Yes.”
“The room next to yours?”
“Yes, the room next to mine. Are you going to make me spell this out?”
He’d begun to grasp the general idea, but remained tempted to ask for specifics simply for entertainment’s sake. But he also recalled her tears at O’Hare, and he never wanted to make her cry.