A Suite Life (Suite Love Series Book 2)

by Sue Gibson

  Sue Gibson

  With great thanks to my remarkable family

  for accommodating both a writer's quirks and

  foibles and the inevitable inconveniences that

  arise while writing a book.

  I promise, lunch at noon and dinner at five from now on-at least until the next book!

  "Sold!" Artie Townsend shoved the box of picture frames down on the table and angled his cane toward a tall wicker basket. He dragged it toward his chest and eyeballed the contents with an auctioneer's practiced eye, his stone-faced appraisal revealing nothing to the throng of onlookers.

  With the tip of her finger, Delaney Forbes separated the strands of beads separating her hair-salon-slashart-gallery from the storeroom, and watched the elderly auctioneer's arm disappear into the depths of the basket. She slapped her hand over her mouth before sliding it higher to cover her eyes. Oh, no. I meant to throw those in the garbage.

  She inched forward on the wooden stool, mimicking the crowd's en-masse shuffle toward the mysterious basket.

  From the bottom of the basket the auctioneer hauled up two vinyl shoulder capes, both stained with hair dye and drops of peroxide. A collective sigh of disappointment rippled across the room.

  Delaney dipped her head and felt the warm flush of embarrassment rush to her cheeks. What were they expecting? Ancient Egyptian tapestries? For heaven's sake, this is Buttermilk Falls, Ontario population eight hundred and ten-not Cairo.

  Delaney resettled on her perch and returned to picking at the seashell pink of her lacquered nails. I should have just sold the artwork piecemeal, she grumbled to herself. It would have been far less embarrassing.

  No. She shook her head from side to side, slopping a trio of amber droplets from her Tim Hortons coffee cup to the right thigh of her new capri pants. No, an auction was the right choice. She closed her eyes and summoned up her mantra. Think Paris, think Paris, think Paris.

  The City of Lights was calling, and this time she intended to obey her heart. In five short days she'd be on a plane destined for Paris, and heady freedom. So if that meant putting up with strangers rummaging through her stuff.... so be it.

  Sweet liberation was so close she could almost smell it. She straightened her aching back and drew in a cleansing breath. An acrid aroma filled her nostrils and she reached to rub her nose. Apparently liberation smelled a lot like smoke.

  The plaintive cry of a fire truck interrupted Artie's rapid-fire sales pitch. "Don't worry," Artie reassured his jittery audience, "probably just an overzealous barbecuer."

  The crowd tittered appreciatively and Delaney concurred with Artie's verdict. After all, it was the height of cottage season on nearby Loon Lake.

  She laced her fingers around her coffee cup. The warm liquid slid down her throat, and she wondered idly if Canada's favorite coffee outlet was franchised in Paris.

  Her gaze skimmed the room. Thank goodness the rest of the items for sale were mostly reproductions of classics and a few framed pictographs-considerably less embarrassing stuff.

  "Step right up, ladies and gents. Here's what you fine folks have all been waiting for."

  The sea of heads swiveled at the auctioneer's gravelly demand.

  Artie held up a reproduction of Monet's Women in the Garden framed in dark walnut. He propped it on an easel set next to his podium.

  "Who will start me off?" Artie waved his cane over the crowd as if to hook them by their necks and draw them closer.

  "Eighty dollars," a deep male voice boomed from the back.

  Delaney twisted on her stool for a better look. Now there's a face somebody should put on canvas, or at least on a bottle of aftershave.

  The masculine voice belonged to Trey Sullivan. Athletic, thirtysomething, and a good head taller than the masses, with thick blond hair expertly razed by number three clippers and gelled to a perfect "George Clooney," straight from the pages of Hairstyle Monthly.

  She reluctantly dragged her gaze from his chiseled face and refocused on the auctioneer and the next item. Thankfully just a box of frames. Her thoughts flew directly back to the hunky interim manager of the ritzy Nirvana hotel. What brought him to her small sale?

  "Now, there's a man with a discerning eye," Artie called out. "Let's hear eighty-five. Eighty-five? Eightyfive anyone?"

  Bids volleyed across the room and Delaney relaxed slightly. Don't know why you're here, Ken-doll, but thank you very much for setting the tone. Paris, here I come.

  "Sold for one hundred and twenty dollars. Come collect your piece, sir."

  The crowd shuffled apart, allowing the broadshouldered man from the back to reach the auctioneer's podium. He smiled his thanks to the crowd, revealing a smile straight from a toothpaste commercial.

  Delaney allowed the beaded curtain to slip from her fingers and smiled. She extracted a pen from behind her ear and with a flourish added the sale to her tally. It was starting to look like she might actually be able to start life in Paris with a clean slate.

  Thank goodness the sexy Mr. Sullivan had shown up. And not just because the room was sadly lacking in eye candy. And if she felt a teensy bit awkward making a profit off Lily and Ethan's handsome best man, she glanced down to the rising total-she'd learn to live with it.

  Thankfully, most folks in the room were Loon Lake cottagers, not her neighbors.

  Over the past four years that she'd simultaneously run her art gallery and hairdressing salon (a girl needs to be resourceful in a small town), Buttermilk Falls' permanent residents had rarely purchased any artwork. They booked haircuts and perms and sat straightbacked in her funky black and chrome barber's chair while she trimmed or curled their hair. But the vibrant landscape paintings that she bought at estate sales and from local artists were purchased by the tourists that flooded the Region 0' Rivers area of eastern Ontario each summer.

  "Delaney?" Trey Sullivan's smooth baritone eased through the flimsy divider. "I was hoping I'd see you today"

  His voice, deep and sexy like a late-night DJ, sent a spark sizzling down her spine. She sat up straighter on her perch. Both the compliment and the proximity of his body were disconcerting.

  "Oh, really?" she blurted out, not really intending to sound rude. But seriously, she doubted he'd given her a second thought after their brief introduction at his boss's wedding reception. He'd been far too busy with his Barbie doll date to have taken more than a passing notice of her.

  "What brings you into the village?" she said in a friendlier tone. "Slow day at the Nirvana?" If nothing else, twenty-seven years of living in Buttermilk Falls had taught her the fine art of small talk.

  With her free hand she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear before centering her coffee cup strategically over the coffee spots decorating her thigh.

  The fresh citrus smell of his upscale toiletries cut through the mustiness of the storeroom like a knife through butter as his shoulder further bulldozed the beaded curtain aside. She shot him a look she assumed was universal in interpretation. Hello. Private Area.

  Obviously it meant nothing in his world.

  His eyes crinkled at the corners as his gaze roved her face.

  "You look every bit as gorgeous as you did the day of Ethan and Lily's wedding."

  "Thanks" She shifted on the stool, raised the coffee cup to her lips, and tipped it high. Not even a drop.

  She peeked over the rim and faked a swallow. Even after a lifetime of men complimenting her, she was still uncomfortable with overt male reaction.

  Trey held his gaze. She squirmed a bit on the stool, but held her composure. Man, but he is good-looking.

  Eventually his eyes dropped from her face to the paint ings leaning against wall
next to her chair. His hand settled on the dusty stack, and he split the pile open with his fingers. An abstract landscape done in primary colors blazed through the veil of dust particles. He bent eagerly to the signature at the bottom. "Now this is more like it!"

  "No. Please don't." Heat rushed to her face and she snapped closed the gap. She'd painted them years ago while still in art school and had stored them in the humidity-controlled environment of the studio rather than in her home. There was no way Ken-doll was going to get a look at her work. Judge it. Find it lacking. Or worse, toss out throwaway compliments, all the while thinking her a hack.

  She slid from the stool and, like a mother bear protecting her cubs from danger, inserted her body between his and the canvases. "Don't touch those! Only the pieces out front are for sale. This area is private." She flung her arm up and back, indicating the tiny space in which they stood.

  He stepped back and raised his hands, flat-palmed, above his shoulders. "Okay. Calm down. I take it they're your work? Sorry."

  Delaney waited for the pounding in her chest to slow before answering. "Er ... yes, they're mine."

  She resettled on the stool, crossed her legs, and folded her arms vise-like across her chest. A glance to his face confirmed he wasn't likely to push the issue any further.

  If possible he looked even better chastised. Had she been too hard on him? Probably. But nobody got a crack at critiquing her paintings anymore. At least not until after Paris.

  Suddenly she wished he'd go back to the sale. And take his good looks, good smells, and gobs of money with him. The very things that had other women falling at his Gucci-clad feet had the little voice in her head screaming foul. Nobody worth knowing could possibly be that perfect.

  "Er ... some excellent stuff is coming up, Trey. You might want to check it out" She nodded her head toward a heavyset man who was working his way closer to Artie's podium. "I bet that guy is after the Renoir copies."

  "You bought some credible copies, Delaney, but I'm not looking for Renoirs. I've got twelve suites in the Nirvana's penthouse-all with bare walls-but I'm going in another direction. New artists. Maybe local artists." His glance flickered toward the forbidden paintings before turning back toward the gallery.

  She ignored his none-too-subtle reference and leaned forward. He really did smell great. "Really? Well, you've come to the right community. This area of Ontario has become a real mecca for cutting-edge artists. In fact, many of them work at a communal studio not far from here" Her pulse quickened. How great it would be to see her friends' creations get the exposure they deserved.

  His eyes remained on her face, so she kept talking. "Do you have a central theme, or would every suite be different?"

  "Undecided and open to suggestion." He turned, his brilliant smile back in place. "After all, a manager's job is mostly about communication, or at least that's what they taught me back in university."

  "Do hotel managers generally choose the artwork?" Delaney knew her voice sounded incredulous, but she was floored. Since when did guys with MBAs know anything about art?

  "Normally, no. Weatherall has a design team that looks after that. But the new Nirvana chain is Ethan's baby, so I'm doing him a favor on this one. Art is kind of a hobby of mine, and I've taken a few courses. And since he's still off honeymooning with the lovely Lily, and needs the final touches to the penthouse finished by the time he gets back, the job fell to me"

  Delaney couldn't help but be a smidgen impressed. If Ethan Weatherall trusted Ken-doll with decorating his flagship hotel, then there had to be more to this guy than just a handsome face.

  "So, why not hit the big auctions and galleries in the city?"

  He grabbed the matching stool and settled in directly across from her. "I want to capture the flavor of this place. Find a look no other hotel would dream of trying. Every room different. Something to make our guests stop for a minute and.... think." He paused, sliced an opening in the beaded curtain with his tanned hand, and checked out the latest painting Artie was auctioning before adding, "And besides, Lily told me to come"

  His face animated, he talked on, but she'd stopped listening. How unfair is this? Pretty boy takes a few art classes and gets to showcase his vision of good art to half the world. I devote four long years to the Fine Arts program at the University of Toronto and end up dyeing the local senior set's hair varying hues of blue and hawking hotel art to the masses.

  She dragged her attention back to the moment. "And the Monet knockoff? How's that fit in with your plan?" A wonderful painting, she knew, but not exactly a startling departure from the norm.

  "I'm staying in a penthouse suite and I'm tired of staring at blank walls. I'm here for the month, so I decided, where better to pick up something than here" His eyes crinkled at the corners, and he smiled his drop-dead-gorgeous smile in her direction. Brad Pitt had nothing on this guy.

  Laughter bubbled up in her throat. You had to give him credit. His outrageous double entendre and engaging grin were a breath of fresh air.

  Doing time in Buttermilk Falls for a whole month had to be killing him. No nightlife, unless he was planning on importing his crowd from the city, and most certainly no Barbie dolls.

  Emboldened by her imminent departure from Buttermilk Falls, she played along. "That's gotta be a drag. Stuck in a hotel suite for weeks at a time."

  "Oh, don't feel too sorry for me. Everything I need is just a phone call or elevator ride away. Room service. In-house gym. Spa. Gourmet dining." He threw up his hands and smiled. "Who needs a house"

  "Well, I suppose a house would be a bit much for a single man" Lily had told her he was the quintessential bachelor. "You probably live in Toronto's downtown. A condo?"

  "Seriously, Delaney, I live where I work. Suite 101 this week"

  "Really?" She'd never met anyone without an address.

  "I've got the perfect job. Ethan Weatherall's go-to guy. I go to India, Paris, Mexico-wherever there's a Weatherall Hotel and a problem. I stayed in the London penthouse all last week" A smile narrowed his bird's egg-blue eyes. "Don't need or want a picket fence."

  Her own dandelion-infested backyard flashed through her mind, complete with her neighbor and Buttermilk Falls' lone real estate agent, Flo Reading, peering over their shared cedar hedge, giving tips on how to land a husband. Argh.

  Right in front of her stood a real-life Nowhere Man. With no laundry, no yard work, no pets, no nosy neighbors. Each new day full of possibility and total indulgence.

  Her gaze traveled from his designer loafers to his lightly tanned face. Respect replaced annoyance. Here was a man who freely admitted that the status quo didn't interest him in the least.

  She smiled, and through her lashes glanced up to his face. "I'm fascinated. Tell me more."

  Trey watched Delaney Forbes' demeanor change from barely concealed tolerance to admiration. Wow Usually when women learned of his globe-trotting ways and dedicated avoidance of domestic bliss, they'd immediately try to convince him otherwise. They'd smile Mona Lisa smiles and twitter, "Oh, but you don't know what you're missing."

  His gaze returned to the couples in the showroom. Oh, he definitely knew what he was missing: routine, a scheduled existence, noisy kids and smelly pets, consulting a mate about, well, everything. He'd stood strong as his single counterparts fell out of contention for powerful jobs when they'd succumbed to the charms of a beautiful woman who dreamed of kids and a house in suburbia.

  He turned to face the attractive woman who had the power to shorten his month-long sentence in Buttermilk Falls. She's just what he needed to speed up the entire project. "Too bad you're off to Paris. You're just the woman I need."

  Her green eyes flashed in amusement. "Lonely already? Sorry to disappoint you, Trey, but I'm sure you'll find someone else to keep you company until Ethan dispatches you to a more exciting locale. How long have you been here, a week?" She shot him a bright but completely dismissive smile.

  He rolled his eyes upward. Now this was awkward. Yes, sh
e was gorgeous, but he wasn't looking for a local entanglement just some expert artistic advice. "Uh, I meant, I need someone with significant expertise to help me find local artwork. I've full authority to hire staff. Er.... not that you're not completely attractive...."

  Spots of pink lit her cheekbones as he scrambled for the words that would put them back on even footing. Up until he'd stuck his foot in his mouth, he hadn't had this much fun since he'd landed in this dot-on-the-map.

  "Didn't Lily mention that I'm moving to France for a year?" she cut in. "In fact, I leave in five days." She raised her hand, like a crossing guard warning school kids to stop and obey. "I'm sure you'll find someone else to help you out"

  "Just hear me out, Delaney. I need an assistant for one short month. Someone who knows the local artisans. Someone with courage to think outside the box. Come on, think about it. Paris isn't going anywhere" What possible difference could it make, he wondered, when she left for her artsy sabbatical?

  "Keep looking, Trey. As tempting as it sounds, I can't take the job," she said in a louder voice. "I'm leaving Buttermilk Falls." Annoyance darkening her pretty features, she stared defiantly into his face.

  Who was she trying to convince-me or herself? he wondered as the auctioneer smacked his gavel, announcing another sale. His gaze fell to the cluttered table beside her stool. On a sheet of yellow lined paper, a tidy row of figures stretching down the right-hand side listed today's sales. According to the calculations, she'd accumulated nine hundred and twelve dollars.

  "Four thousand dollars and an expense account," he said, mentally discarding the lesser sum he'd planned on offering.

  "What?" Her shiny black hair swooped across her cheek and grazed her narrow shoulder as her head tipped to one side. Confusion creased her forehead and pursed her lips. Curvy, soft lips.

  "That's your salary for four weeks. It's what I'd pay for the service in the city." Sure they would also have an established office complete with pandering assistants and all the right connections. But a bold move was required here. "And if you're as good as Lily says, then you're worth every cent."