Face the Fire (15 page)

Mia thought she timed it perfectly as well. At
precisely seven, she strolled into the lobby of the Magick Inn. The young desk clerk glanced over, goggled, then dropped the sheaf of papers in his hand. Pleased, she shot him a killer smile, then breezed into Sorcery, the hotel’s main dining room.

There was a moment of surprise as she scanned the room and saw the changes. Sam had been busy, she realized, and felt an unwilling tug of pride.

The standard white tablecloths had been replaced by rich midnight-blue ones, the china on them a moon-bright contrast. The old clear glass vases had been removed, and now brass and copper pots rioting with white lilies formed ribbons of glint and fragrance. The crystal glassware had a heavy, almost medieval look.

Each table was graced with a small copper cauldron. Candlelight flickered through cutouts in the shapes of stars and crescent moons.

For the first time in her memory, the room reflected, and honored, its name. Impressed, approving, she stepped in. And experienced a fast, hard jolt.

There on the wall was a life-size painting of three women. The three sisters, backed by the forest and the night sky, looked down at her from a frame of ornate antique gold. They were robed in white, and the folds of those robes, the tendrils of their hair, seemed to move in an unseen wind.

She saw Nell’s blue eyes, Ripley’s green ones. And her own face.

“Like it?” Sam said from behind her.

She swallowed so that her voice would be clear. “It’s stunning.”

“I had it commissioned nearly a year ago. It just arrived today.”

“It’s beautiful work. The models . . .”

“There were no models. The artist worked from my descriptions. From my dreams.”

“I see.” She turned to face him. “He or she is very talented.”

“She. A Wiccan artist living in SoHo. I think she captured . . .” He trailed off as he shifted his gaze from the portrait to Mia. Every thought in his head scattered in pure, primal lust. “You look amazing.”

“Thank you. I like, very much, what you’ve done with the restaurant.”

“It’s a start.” He started to take her arm, then realized his palms had gone damp. “I’m having new lighting designed. Something in brass, more lanternlike. And I want—well, why don’t we sit before I bore you with all my plans.”

“On the contrary.” But she let him guide her to an intimate corner booth where, she noted, a bottle of champagne was already chilling.

She slid in, then deliberately slipped out of her jacket. She watched his eyes blur, but to his credit, his gaze stayed primarily on her face. “Warm in here,” she said, then nodded to the waiter when he poured her champagne. “What are we drinking to?”

Sam sat, picked up his own glass. “One question before we get to that. Are you trying to kill me?”

“No. Just kick your ass.”

“Done. I don’t think a woman’s made my hands sweat since, well, since you. Now if I can just get some of the blood back into my head.” When she laughed, he tapped his glass to hers. “To mutual business.”

“Do we have any?”

“That’s what this is about. First, regarding dinner. I pre-ordered. I think I remember your taste. If that doesn’t suit you, I’ll get you a menu.”

Smooth, she thought. Very smooth. The man had learned how and when to polish over all those dangerous edges. When it suited him.

“I don’t mind the occasional surprise.” She sat back, let her gaze drift around the room. “Business is good.”

“It is. And I intend for it to get better. The first-floor renovations should be complete in another two weeks. The new presidential suite rocks.”

“So I hear. Your contractor is my contractor.”

“So
I
hear. When do you plan to start your expansion?”

“Soon.” She glanced at the variety of appetizers placed on the table by silent waiters. She sampled a bit of lobster paté.

“I hope to keep the inconvenience to my customers at a minimum. Still, during the main part of the work, I imagine you’ll pick up some of my lunch crowd.” She paused for a beat. “Temporarily.”

“Improvements to your business only benefit mine, and vice versa.”

“I can agree to that.”

“Why not exploit it? I want to stock some local-interest books, maybe some current bestsellers, in the luxury suites. A discreet card or bookmark could advertise your store.”

“And?” She waited for the catch.

“You get a lot of day-trippers. Again, using the local-interest angle, what if they bought a particular book you’ve selected—a book on the island’s history, whatever. A purchase of that book gives them a chance to win a free weekend’s stay at the hotel. They fill out a form with their name and address, we pull a ticket once a month during the season, and somebody gets lucky.”

“And we have all those names on our mailing list.”

He topped off their champagne. “I knew you’d follow me. You sell books, I get a few more tourists into the hotel, and we both add to our potential customer base. Vacations,” he continued, selecting a delicate crab puff. “Hotels, beach reading. Then there’s business travel. Same deal. I’m working on pulling in more conventions. I get them in and part of the welcome package is a discount coupon for Café Book, which gets them into your place across the street.”

“Which, if they fill out the prize form, gets them back into your place on a weekend vacation.”

“Bull’s-eye.”

She considered as fresh field-greens salads were served. “The cost to each of us is negligible. Some paperwork. It’s simple enough. In fact, much too simple to warrant a business dinner to discuss it.”

“There’s more. I’ve noticed you don’t, as a rule, do author events.”

“One or two a year, local interest again.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Sisters and Café Book are well off the beaten path for book tours and standard book signings.
Publishers don’t send authors to remote islands off the New England coast, and most authors aren’t going to pay to come here and work.”

“We can change that.”

He had her interest now. She accepted the bread he’d buttered for her, unaware that he’d been nudging food on her since she’d sat down. “Can we?”

“I made a number of contacts in New York. I’ve still got some buttons to push, but I’m working on convincing a few key people that sending a touring author to Three Sisters would be well worth the time and money. Particularly since the Magick Inn will offer a generous corporate rate and first-class accommodations. Then there’s the convenience of having a classy independent bookstore right across the street. What you have to do is put together a proposal detailing just how Café Book would host an author, how you’d pull in the warm bodies and have books moving out the door. We pull it off once, just once, and others will be hopping on the ferry.”

She felt the quick twist of excitement at the idea, but weighed it from all angles. “Filling a room a few times a year at a corporate rate will hardly made a difference to you.”

“Maybe I’m just trying to help my neighbor. So to speak.”

“Then you should know your neighbor isn’t gullible or naive.”

“No, she’s just the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.”

“Thank you. Now. What’s the point in these ideas for the hotel?”

“Okay, so much for charm.” He leaned toward her. “There are a lot of publishers with a lot of authors with a lot of books to hype. That’s one. Two, publishers have sales conferences. If I snag the interest of one publisher
because of a successful author event, it’s going to add to the weight I’m putting on to cop a major conference. I get that, I’m going to get in a lot of repeat business.” He lifted his water glass. “So will you. If you can handle an author event.”

“I know how to host a signing.” She ate without thinking because her mind was already on the details. “If you can push those buttons for, say, July or August, even into September the first time around, I’ll get plenty of warm bodies. Give me a novel, a mystery, a romance, a thriller, and we’ll sell a hundred minimum on the event day, and half that many during the follow-up week.”

“Write the proposal.”

“You’ll have it tomorrow, by the close of the workday.”

“Good.” He ate some salad. “How would you like John Grisham?”

Enjoying herself, enjoying him, she picked up her glass again. “Don’t toy with me, smart guy. He doesn’t tour, his books come out in February, not the summer. And even you aren’t that good.”

“Okay, just testing. How about Caroline Trump?”

Mia’s lips pursed. “She’s very good. I’ve read her first three books. Solid romantic thrillers. Her publisher’s been building her well, and they’re moving her into hardcover this summer. A July release,” she considered, studying Sam’s face. “Can you get me Caroline Trump?”

“Get me the proposal.”

She sat back again. “I misjudged you. I imagined you used business as an excuse to get me in here. I figured you’d have some little scheme to spring off a seduction attempt, but nothing really viable.”

“If I hadn’t had something viable, I’d have settled for a scheme to get you here.” He brushed his fingers over the back of her hand. “Even if it only meant I could look at you for an hour.”

“And I thought,” she continued, “that sometime during the conversation you’d remind me that you had a number of rooms upstairs, and why didn’t we make use of one.”

“I thought about it.” He remembered what she’d said to him as they’d sat in her car outside of the yellow cottage. “But it wouldn’t make you happy.”

Her breath caught for an instant. “Oh, I wish I knew if that was sincere, or just fucking clever.”

“Mia—”

“No. I don’t know what’s between us. I can’t see it, and I’ve tried to. Why is it that, even knowing better, we can fool ourselves into believing we’d be all right if we just knew what happens next?”

“I don’t know. I can’t see it either.” When she looked at him, he nearly sighed. “I was never as good as you at clearing away the now to see the what-ifs, but I had to try.”

She looked to the portrait of the sisters. “The only thing set in stone is yesterday. I can promise you I have no intention of letting what they began be destroyed. This is my home. Everything that matters to me is on this island. I’m more than I was when you left, less than I will be when I’m done. That, I do know.”

“Do you think being with me diminishes that?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t be sitting here now.” Her lips curved as their entrées were served. “I was going to sleep with you.”

“Christ.” He pounded a fist on his heart. “Medic.”

Her laugh was low and intimate. “I imagine, before we’re done, I will. But since we’re being so friendly, I’ll tell you frankly, I want you to suffer first.”

“Believe me,” he said with feeling, and reached for his water glass. “Let’s go back to business before I whimper and lose the respect of my restaurant staff.”

“All right, tell me about your other plans for the hotel.”

“I want it to matter. I want people who stay here to take
away an experience. I spent six months in Europe a few years ago, touring and studying and dissecting the smaller hotels. It’s about service first, but overall, it’s about the details. Color schemes, the thread count on the sheets. Can you reach the phone without getting out of bed? Can I get a damn sandwich at two in the morning, or get this spot cleaned off my tie before my afternoon meeting?”

“How thick are the towels,” Mia commented. “How firm is the mattress.”

“And so on. In-room faxes and Internet access for the business traveler. Complimentary champagne and roses for the honeymooners. A staff that clues in and greets guests by name. And fresh flowers, fresh linens, fresh fruit. I’m going to hire a
maître d’etage
to butler the luxury suites.”

“Well, well.”

“And every guest, on arrival, will have an amenity delivered. From a fruit plate and sparkling water to champagne and caviar, depending on the price level of the room. Every room will be rehabbed before we’re done, and every one will be personalized and unique. I’m naming them, so guests will stay in the Rose Room or the Trinity Suite, and so forth.”

“That’s a nice touch,” she told him. “More personal.”

“Exactly. We already have a data bank, but we’ll put it to better use for repeat guests. That way we can do our best to put them back in a favorite room. We’ll bump up the level of their amenities with recurring visits, maintain a file on their preferences. And in the health club . . .” He trailed off. “What?”

“Nothing.” But she couldn’t help smiling at him. “Go on.”

“No.” He laughed a little. “I get caught up.”

“You know what you want, and how you intend to go about it. It’s very attractive.”

“It took me a long time to get there. You always knew.”

“Maybe I did. But wants and intentions change.”

“And sometimes they circle back around.”

He laid his hand on hers, and then she gently slid hers free. “And sometimes they just change.”

He went back to work after she’d left the restaurant.
But he couldn’t concentrate. He went home, but he couldn’t settle.

Being with her was both torture and pleasure. Watching the expressions cross her face when she became interested enough not to close herself off from him, pure fascination.