Simon Says...

by Donna Kauffman

  “What have I gone and done?”

  “You’ll have gone and done me, I hope,” she said, flushing furiously even as she grinned. “Right after we get that box back.”

  9

  SOPHIE KEPT HER SUPPLY CART directly in front of her and her face averted from any potential passersby. Her uniform was at least two sizes too big now. She had her hair pinned up and under a net, as well as a pair of black-framed reading glasses Simon had picked up in one of the hotel’s boutiques. Not the greatest disguise in the world, but the day shift people didn’t know her all that well, and certainly wouldn’t notice her dressed like this. And she’d been in the business long enough to know that guests didn’t really pay any attention to the maid service personnel.

  Still, she felt naked, exposed, and very much like there was a neon sign flashing over her head saying, “Thief! Idiot! Stop her!”

  The thing was, she was out of the room now. Free to run, to report Simon to security, to hide until this all blew over, or any number of other options. And here she was, with the cart and her passkey, repeating Tolliver’s room number, over and over, in her head. Probably not the option most would recommend.

  Sure, she could blame it on a hormonal fog, and she didn’t think a jury of her peers—especially the female members—would convict her if they got a look at her partner in crime. Still.

  “Shallow. Superficial. Stupid,” she muttered. Except she wasn’t generally any of those things. She was the steady one. The levelheaded one. That was why she and Delia had hit it off so well. Delia was the fun-loving sprite to Sophie’s levelheaded calm. They were both smart women, with very specific goals, but the way they tackled them was diametrically opposite…and that’s what they enjoyed about each other. That vicarious thrill of being around the person they might wish they were. At least some of the time.

  Even someone who looked and sounded like Simon wouldn’t normally cause her to act like she didn’t have a brain in her head. Okay, so a man who looked and sounded like Simon had never once strolled into her life. But she was fairly certain, on a normal day, she might have gazed longingly, fantasized a little, and then gotten back to work.

  There was more to this than the fact that a guy like him had actually noticed a woman like her. That was only part of why she was preparing to commit her second crime in twenty-four hours. There was more to it with him, more to him. As he’d spoken of his parents’ relationship, and, later, of his occupation, there had been something sincere and earnest in the way he talked of those things. She understood he felt somewhat jaded by the exposure his job afforded him to the less than generous spirits of some people, but maybe he was too close to it to realize just how clearly hopeful he remained. It was obvious in the very reason he was here, risking everything to right a wrong. And she could help him make that happen.

  She pushed the cart doggedly down the hall, creeping ever closer to Suite 1671. Her mind went back to when Simon had pushed her up against the wall, when he was taking her with kisses so intense, so focused, so…damn good. What might have happened had she been wearing anything other than that tourniquet of a uniform?

  Afterward, when they’d finally taken their hands off each other, they’d discussed her involvement. Okay, so they’d heatedly argued about her involvement. He’d made his case with a list of all the reasons why she should walk away and never look back. She’d fired back by throwing his own initial explanation of why he’d needed her help in his face.

  And…here she was, with the cart. And the key. So, she supposed she’d won. Although, at the moment, every one of Simon’s reasons were perversely echoing through her mind. She didn’t want to know what was going through his mind. She’d left him pacing his hotel room like a caged panther. She thought about going back to that pacing panther, velvet box in hand. Ready for reward time.

  She rolled her cart to a stop, knowing she should be vowing to never again let her work life consume her personal life to the point where grand larceny and a nooner seemed like a wise thing to do. Except, what were the chances that combination would ever present itself to her again?

  And what were the chances she’d ever again meet anyone like Simon Lassiter?

  She paused a few feet from the door and took several measured breaths to steady her nerves. Even if Simon hadn’t been ridiculously sexy, she’d like to believe she’d have still helped him out. A beacon of altruism, that was her.

  Before that beacon flickered out, she slipped her passkey over her head and slid it through the door lock. It flickered green and the lock retracted. Heart pounding, stomach churning, she took a deep breath, pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and pasted what she hoped was a nondescript, pleasant smile on her face. “Housekeeping,” she called out, not overly loudly, hoping, praying, that she wasn’t going to interrupt anything she shouldn’t be interrupting.

  She was breaking strict hotel protocol by entering a room without ascertaining either a lack of occupancy, or the verbal agreement of the residing hotel guest, but then, she wasn’t hoping for vacancy and she wasn’t about to give the resident guest a chance to turn down maid service. At least not until she got a good look at the room. She could always claim she’d called out and didn’t hear the response.

  Simon had told her where to look first, even if all she got to do was a quick, visual scan. She was supposed to try and talk her way into the room if stopped too soon once inside the door, claim she needed to put in fresh towels, anything that would allow her to scope out as much of the suite as possible.

  Of course, with her milkmaid skin, it was next to impossible to pretend any kind of language barrier as a means of misunderstanding his potential refusal of her services. Simon had suggested maybe a Russian accent, or something Nordic, but that had lasted all of two attempts, both ending with her dissolving in laughter after sounding like Natasha from an old Bullwinkle cartoon. She’d just have to brazen it out, while trying to be as inconspicuous and unremarkable as possible.

  The door swung inward and she flipped the doorstop down to keep it propped open. Her cart was clearly visible from inside the room, but not entirely blocking the door. Her only escape route.

  “Housekeeping,” she said again, hefting a stack of bath towels into her arms before stepping farther into the room. There were the remains of a room service breakfast on the table in the main room, a newspaper refolded on the adjoining chair. Service for two, she noted, her gaze darting back and forth, waiting for imminent discovery. It was only when her heart stopped threatening to pound straight through her eardrums that she heard the shower running through the open door to the bedroom. Wow. Bonus. This might be easier than she’d thought it would be. She grinned as she made her way farther into the front room, then froze when she heard the noises—male grunting and female giggling—from the other side of the bathroom door. Which was across the room, through the bedroom, on the opposite wall. Over running water. Clearly.

  So, Tolliver and his “associate” were showering together. Of the full-contact variety. It was just as well she didn’t know what either of them looked like. That was a visual she could do without pondering while trying to master her new stealth skills. Which left her imagination wide open to picture an entirely different version of the scenario, complete with Simon and the walk-in shower she knew these rooms sported, which she quickly moved to quash. She had no idea how long they’d been in there, but things sounded like they were…culminating. At least she’d have a few seconds’ warning when the shower kicked off. Because she highly doubted when they opened the door, either one of them would be pleased to find a maid standing there. Even if she did have some nice, dry towels waiting for them.

  Yeah. Better get to work. A quick scan of both dressers, inside and out, and the dressing area—boy, Tolliver’s significant giggler must have stock in MAC cosmetics—didn’t reveal any velvet cases. In fact, despite the counter full of makeup and closet stuffed with more shoes and clothes than Sophie owned, much less traveled with, there was something
noticeable missing from the tableau. Jewelry. Not even a man’s wristwatch on the nightstand or dresser top.

  She went to the closet where the room safe was, and carefully crouched down, still clutching the towels, to do a quick rattle of the handle and check of the dial. It was in use. “Dammit.”

  The guest set his own numbers with each use, which meant she had no access to that information, and security had the only override codes, for use when the guest forgot what numbers they’d chosen.

  The decibel level in the bathroom really started to climb, and, trying not to cringe—they were just on the other side of the closet wall, ew—she started to straighten, but the towels squished down when she pressed on them for leverage, throwing her balance off, sending her sprawling back into a sea of strappy, bejeweled Paciottis and red-soled Louboutins. Sophie swore, but briefly wondered if she and the water-nymph were the same shoe size.

  And then the shower cut off.

  Crap!

  The closet was across the room from the door leading to the main living area. About as far from safety as she could be. She scrambled to her knees, swearing under her breath as the heels stabbed into her flesh, and finally got into a crouch position, towels dangerously close to erupting from her arms. Think, think! Did she try and sprint to the door and hope they were too…involved to notice as she ducked out of the bedroom? It was that, or hide in the closet, which was likely their next destination. She glanced out the closet door across the wide expanse of unmade bed and made a face. She hoped, anyway. Which left sprinting or brazening it out. She couldn’t come up with a good reason why she was in their closet with an armful of towels, so that didn’t seem wise. So, sprint it was.

  Even without the towels, she’d have been handicapped. She’d never been good at sports in school. Any sports, but especially those that involved running. Her body was not designed for quick, efficient movement. Her body…. bounced. A lot. But even Ms. Hadrington, her seventh-grade gym teacher, whom Sophie privately thought would have had a much better career with the WWF, would have been proud of her right then, when Medford Middle School’s worst athlete ever did the ten-yard dash in under five seconds, all without losing a single towel.

  Sophie teetered into the main room and was just rounding the coffee table, her cart in sight through the open hallway door, when a man’s voice, crisply British, stopped her cold.

  “Who’s out there?” And he sounded really threatening. “Who is in my room!”

  Iced terror filled her veins where moments ago, nice, warm life-giving blood had been flowing. What in the hell had she been thinking that she could pull something like this off? Why hadn’t she listened to Simon and his stupid list?

  “Housekeeping,” she squeaked, far more out of breath than her short dash excused.

  “Stop right there,” came a voice from behind her. Tolliver. Still not happy.

  She froze, clutching the towels, keeping her face averted as she cleared her throat. “So sorry, I intrude,” she said, the Russian accent just popping out of nowhere. Flight or fight instinct, she guessed. And now she had to go with it. “I bring towels. Change your linens?” She still had her back half turned to him and kept the stack of towels up in front of her, mostly hiding her face.

  “Does the Wingate Hotel make a habit of allowing its cleaning staff into rooms while occupied?”

  “I—announce myself. Hear nothing.” She sounded like Natasha on helium, her voice was so squeaky high. Abject terror did that to a person apparently. When he said nothing, she added, “I come in, hear shower, erm, laughter, and leave quick.” She ducked her head, not having to fake the furious blush.

  “I don’t appreciate the uninvited intrusion,” he barked. “In fact, I have half a mind to call your superior.”

  “No, no, please don’t. First day,” she said, keeping her chin bowed. “I sorry. Will no happen again.” Her accent had taken on some kind of weird Asian flair now. She had to get out of there.

  “Don’t they train you people?”

  You people? She almost raised her head and turned toward him, prepared to defend her hotel and its very well-trained staff. Thankfully, his continued rant gave her a chance to check the instinctive action.

  “I expected better of a five-star hotel. I thought the Wingate prided itself on its atmosphere. Well, I can tell you, I certainly don’t like the atmosphere right at the moment, my door wide open, and someone in my room while I’m showering.”

  “Very sorry,” she said, gritting her teeth.

  “In the future, kindly wait until the room is empty before stepping foot in here, or I’ll see to it you’re looking for a new career.”

  The viselike grip of terror on her heart started to ease up. She was going to get out of here. She nodded with vigor and started to take mincing, subservient steps closer to the hallway door.

  “Leave the towels on the table there.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, trying to angle herself in such a way to prevent him from having clear view of her face, now that she’d lost her shield. “Again, so sorry.”

  “Idiot labor,” he muttered. “Same all over the world.”

  Her steps stuttered slightly, only a few feet from freedom. And it was suddenly all she could do to keep from snatching the “Do Not Disturb” sign off the inside door handle and winging it at him. Just get out in the hall, and out of this room. But she couldn’t seem to help herself. She slipped the sign from the handle.

  “Tolly?” A woman’s voice floated from the steamy depths of the bathroom. “I need help, baby. Come dry my back.” This was followed by another trilling giggle that made Sophie’s ears hurt.

  She risked a glance back at Tolliver, getting her first real look at him. He was significantly older than she’d thought. And didn’t do a damn thing for the hotel towel wrapped around his waist. She thought about the squealer in the other room, and wondered about women who found older men—much older men—attractive. She would guess the attraction had more to do with his net worth than his— She stopped that train of thought right there and looked away from the sunken chest and liver spots. It took all kinds, she supposed, but she wasn’t that kind.

  Tolliver waved his hand at her dismissively, then disappeared back into the bedroom. No ass to speak of either, she noted. And yet he’d had no problem commanding the room, and her attention, quite easily, despite his less than commanding visual presence. His voice had that kind of soulless chill she’d noted lacking in Simon straight off. She’d prefer not to tangle with Tolliver or his liver spots again, she knew that much.

  She put the sign on the outside door handle before closing it behind her, then gripped her cart white-knuckled as she pressed her forehead against a stack of wrapped toilet paper. The adrenaline continued to pump, making her feel a little queasy. “Idiot labor,” she muttered. “Jerk. How about idiot arm candy girlfriend? And idiot old man needing an ego boost?” Probably not all he needed boosted, she thought, uncharitably. He was just as pathetic as his squealer girlfriend who was probably less than a third his age.

  Just then the door across the hall opened. “Miss?”

  Sophie straightened immediately, having to jam the glasses on her nose before they slid off. “Si?” Si? What, now she was suddenly Hispanic?

  A middle-aged woman in a business suit stood in the doorway, trying to keep it open with her heel while simultaneously putting in her earrings. “Could I trouble you to do a quick cleanup? Bath, bed, the works?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but hustled back inside, then reappeared with a briefcase a moment later. “I’ve got a sales meeting in five, and if all goes well, I won’t be returning to my room alone.” She shot Sophie a grin. “Thanks!” Then she took off down the hall at a half trot, fluffing her hair and smacking the lipstick on her lips.

  “Mas que feliz,” Sophie said with a little wave to the rapidly disappearing woman. She could only hope she’d been as invisible to Tolliver. “Lovely. Everyone is getting action but me. Even Tolliver.” Gah.

  Th
en, realizing she was still standing in the hallway outside his door, she quickly trundled her cart the opposite way from the other guest, toward the service elevator. She used the house phone and her newly honed Russian-Asian-Spanish accent skills, and called in a service request for the room across from Tolliver’s, then took the service elevator down two floors, abandoned the cart and ducked into the stairwell to make the rest of the descent to the seventh floor and back to Simon’s room.

  She was out of breath by the time she got there. He all but yanked the door open and dragged her into the room before she could slide her passkey along the lock. He pushed the door shut and pulled her farther into the room.

  “Slow down, cowboy.” She untangled her arm from his grip.

  “How did it go? What happened? I should have never let you go in there.” He raked a hand through his already thoroughly overly raked hair. He really had been worried.

  “No velvet box. Nothing happened. And I couldn’t agree with you more.”

  “No box? Nothing? Wait—what?”

  “Stupidest thing I’ve done since, well, earlier today, I guess.” She sank down on the side of the bed, her legs suddenly the consistency of sea foam. “I am so not cut out for this. You were right, Simon. And then, Tolliver almost catches me knee-deep in his closet, fiddling with the safe, and out of nowhere I start with the Russian accent—which gets better under duress, I’m happy to report. Not so much with the Asian dialect. Although I’m pretty good with Spanish.”

  “What?” Simon stopped pacing in front of her. “Wait, Tolliver almost caught you? In his closet? I thought you said nothing happened.”

  “Nothing did. Almost happened isn’t the same thing as actually happened.”

  Simon sank down next to her on the bed. “Start to finish. Go.”

  She couldn’t help it, she leaned against him. Sure, she’d come back empty-handed, and given his present level of anxiety and the current state of her stomach, not to mention her spongy knees, her streak of not getting lucky probably wasn’t about to change. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t lean. For a moment.