Falling In (4 page)

Scout's blanket withdrew from her bag in as practiced a move as a magician pulls flowers from his sleeve. She shoved the bag to the head of her mat as a pillow.

Nimbly, her fingers removed the laces from her shoes and tied them into one long string, then threaded the frayed edge through the tiny zipper of her bag and tied the other end around her wrist. As the last of the overhead lights shut off, leaving only the dim glow of the emergency signs, she settled in for the night.

The baby eventually stopped crying and other than a spontaneous cough, the room was quiet. Scout's tired mind reflected her mother and what she'd bring her the next day. She thought about the man from dinner and decided to stay away from him in the future. But her last thoughts before she fell asleep were of startling black eyes and the warm scent of lived-in silk.

Chapter 3

What's in a name?

Tamara handed her the key and Scout frowned. “Isn't Bridget here today?”

“Yes, but Mr. Patras specifically requested you tend to the penthouses for now on.”

“P-Patras?” The man from yesterday must've really been upset to complain to the owner of the hotel. “Tamara, I don't know what the man from the penthouse told you, but I want you to know I wasn't snooping. I accidentally knocked over his things and he happened to walk in just as I was trying to straighten up the mess.”

The GM frowned at her. “He didn't say anything about you snooping. As a matter of fact, he called down after you left yesterday to tell me how pleased he was with your attention to detail.”

Scout's restless fingers twitched and smoothed her apron. “What about my other rooms?”

“Don't worry about them. I put Miguel on your old section. We have a guest coming into master suite B tonight so you'll need to clean that room tomorrow. Today you just need to freshen it up. In the service kitchen you'll find fresh fruit and flower arrangements to take with you. Ask Raphael. He'll show you which ones.”

Building trepidation made it difficult to focus on what her GM was saying. Scout wasn't sure who Raphael was and only had a general idea of how to get to the service kitchen. Rather than allow her dread to ruin her day, she found her cart and took the elevator to the penthouse floor to do the general guest suites first.

Scout finished the thirtieth-floor rooms by noon and used her lunch to locate the service kitchen. Aside from the common areas and guest rooms, there was an entire labyrinth of service passages the staff used.

Reluctantly, she finally asked another maid named Mona where the service kitchen was. In broken English the maid explained it was in the lower level. Scout needed to take the west wing all the way down until a sign appeared that read “Kitchen,” then follow the arrows. This was going to be a problem.

Once in the west wing there were signs on every corner. Scout looked for words that started with
C
, hoping she'd find the word
kitchen
. No luck. Tears of frustration blurred her vision after more time than her lunch break allotted had passed. Taking a breath she slowly tried to sound out each word on the sign.

Her eyes focused on the first word.

Incinerator.

Scout had no idea what that said, but she knew it didn't say kitchen.

Accounting.

Shaking her head, she firmed her lips and wiped her eyes. It had been too long since Parker and she had sat down to practice reading.

There were three more big words that she skipped because they didn't look like they spelled kitchen either. Scout considered going to find Mona again, but the other maid seemed hassled to begin with.

Startled by the sound of someone coming, she discreetly wiped her eyes. A man in a white jacket came from a door down the hall. He had a smear of red on his cuff and carried a rag. He sort of looked like a chef.

Straightening her shoulders, Scout waited until he came closer and then asked, “Do you know Raphael?”

He stilled as if he hadn't seen her standing there. “I am Raphael,” he said in a clipped accent that sounded French.

A huge sigh of relief puffed out her cheeks. “Oh, thank God. Can you show me where the service kitchen is? I'm supposed to pick up flowers and fresh fruit for the penthouse master suites.”

“I was wondering when you were going to show up. No Bridget today?” He said the other girl's name like
Brisheet
and for some reason that pleased Scout.

She shook her head. “I'm assigned to that floor this week.”

He looked at her then, his eyes assessing her critically. Only because Scout was dependent on him to show her where the supplies she needed were, did she not snap her fingers in his face and demand he stop looking at her that way.

“I think you will have the top floor longer than a week, child. You're prettier than Bridget.”

“What's that got to do with anything?”

“Everything. Follow me.” He turned briskly and Scout rushed after him. He led her into the doorway he'd come from and she was suddenly in a bustling underground kitchen.

Stacks of pots billowed with steam, and wonderful fragrances of food made her mouth water. A man shouted in French and Raphael quickly said something back she didn't understand.

Dishes clattered and phones rang. There was a computer screen overhead and a man assembling fruit cups at a counter read from the screen as he worked. Mesmerized, Scout watched him multitasking with nimble dexterity and bumped into Raphael. He turned and glowered at her, but then his features softened. Raphael had a nose too wide for his face.

“You like honeydew,
Cendrillon
? You taste this honeydew. It is so fresh it will bring tears to your eyes.”

His clean fingers reached to the counter were the man worked, and plucked up a green ball wrapped in some sort of pink meat.

“What is it?”

“It is prosciutto. Delicious. You taste and then tell me what a culinary genius I am.” He smiled and held the wrapped fruit out to her.

She carefully took the fruit from him and sniffed it. It was cool in her warm fingers. The sweet and refreshing scent of melon filled her nose. The meat had an earthy, smoked smell to it. Glancing to the chef one last time, he nodded.

“Just pop it in your mouth. Trust me. Delicious.” Raphael had very nice teeth.

Hesitantly, she placed the morsel in her mouth. Its salty, sugary flavor burst over her tongue and she moaned. Her teeth cut through the delicate, thinly cut meat and melon juice exploded over her taste buds.

“Oh, my God.”

“It is spectacular,
oui
?”

“Very good!” Her fingers covered her mouth as she chewed and swallowed.

“
Bon.
Now come with me, Cendrillon
.
I
show you where your flowers and fruit are.”

Once Scout had the flowers and fruit loaded on a cart, she returned to the private bank of elevators and slid her key through B. No one was in residence yet and it was quick work, unloading the items for that suite.

Master suite B was quite different looking than the other master suite. Less lived-in and more generic. It had an air of luxury to it for sure, but it lacked the level of wealth and power the other suite projected.

Her heart raced as she took the lift back down and moved to the private elevator for master suite C. The ride to the top was way too short. Moisture built under the sleeves of her dove gray gown and her sweaty palms nervously smoothed her apron and adjusted her bonnet. He wouldn't be there.

Pushing her cart out of the gilded car, she sighed and approached the entrance. Her knuckles rapped lightly on the frosted window of the door.

“Housekeeping.”

Reaching for her key, Scout's relief was short-lived as a shuffle sounded on the other side of the entry and she stilled. The handle moved and the door opened. Smooth black patent leather shoes stepped into her view.

“Ah, Ms. Keats, do come in.”

Her jaw unhinged as her gaze traveled up expensively clothed long tapered legs, a trim waist evident under a neatly tucked shirt, broad shoulders, and a tanned throat with a dark shadow of beard. The man from yesterday. He smiled at her.
Very
perfect, white teeth. His visage was nothing like the irritated expression he'd greeted her with the day before.

“I—I can come back at a better time,” she stuttered stupidly.

“Nonsense. I was just sitting down to have lunch. Have you eaten?”

Scout's eyes blinked as her brain worked. His silk sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. The top button of his shirt was undone and his tie hung loosely at his neck. Parker was the only man she ever really looked at. Parker's skin was still youthful, while this man's skin was tanned and roughened slightly with the dark shadow of coarse hair under the surface.

Her dry throat swallowed back a lump that had formed somewhere over her voice box. He heaved a sigh and suddenly reached for her cart and pulled it over the threshold.

“Oh, sir, no. I can do that.”

Scout followed him and her cart into the apartment like a kitten chasing a string. He needed to stop touching her things. He parked the cart at the end of the hall and turned. She staggered to a stop.

“You didn't answer my question.”

“Your question?” she repeated stupidly.

“Have you had lunch?”

“I just finished my break. If you don't want me to come back later, I can be finished here in a few minutes. I didn't mean to interrupt your lunch.”

Scout reached to the bottom of the cart for her bag of supplies, but he grabbed her arm. His large, tanned hand circled her wrist like a manacle and he pulled her toward the seating area.

“Wh-what are you doing?” she stammered. Her feet quickly hurried after his much-longer strides.

He released her arm and turned. “Sit.”

Instinctively she dropped her weight to the edge of the settee. He lifted two pewter covers and the scent of warm, rotisserie-style meat filled the room. Her stomach cramped at the reminder of her hunger and her mouth watered.

Some sort of small chicken sat on each plate. There were long green beans with slivered almonds in a buttery sauce, and a fancy-shaped pile of mashed potatoes that looked more like toasted ice cream the way it swirled into a peak. It suddenly occurred to her that there was two of everything.

“You were expecting someone.”

“Yes.”

He sat beside her and she was intensely aware of the way his warm thigh touched the naked flesh on her knee peeking from below her uniform.

“These are Cornish game hens. Have you ever had them before? They're a bit tougher than chicken, but equally as savory when prepared properly.”

Her eyes went wide as he spread a linen napkin over her lap. She shot to her feet, catching the napkin before it fell to the ground.

“Sir, I can't eat your food.”

“Of course you can. I ordered it for you.”

“You—you ordered this for me?”
Why would he do that?

“Well, not all of it. Half is for me.” He smirked, only the corner of his mouth participating in the expression.

She shook her head. “I'll lose my job. I'm sorry. I'll come back later.” She quickly turned and walked toward the hall.

“Evelyn.”

At the sound of her legal name she froze. Slowly, she faced him. “How did you know my name?” she whispered.

“It was on your paperwork.”

“What paperwork?”

“Your application.”

“You read my application?”

He raised one dark brow. “You rummaged through my desk.”

“I—” This was insane. “Sir, I've already apologized about that. I promise you, it wasn't what it looked like.”

“And what did it look like, Evelyn?”

No one used her real name aside from her mother, and even she rarely called her that. She hated that name. It didn't fit her.

“Like I was snooping,” she admitted shamefully.

“Were you?”

“No!”

“Good. Now that that's all cleared up we can eat.”

He replaced his napkin on his lap and sliced into the small bird on his plate. Succulent juices spurted from the crispy skin as his polished silver knife created neat little slices like fallen dominos. Her stomach made an obnoxious whining sound and she blushed.

“Come sit, Evelyn.”

Her feet carried her across the carpet and her eyes glazed with hunger as his nimble fingers worked. His silverware was thick and shiny, nothing like the dull stuff they gave them at the shelter. He speared a small bit of the tender white meat and popped it in his mouth.

“Mmm. You should really try some while it's still warm.”

“Sir—”

“Lucian.”

“What?”

“My name is Lucian.”

Scout shook her head. He took another bite and groaned.

“Lucian, I thank you for the offer, but I'm an employee and I have a job to do.”

“I'm quite aware of your purpose, being that I pay your salary. I find your work ethic quite admirable, Evelyn, but you're spoiling my thoughtful gesture.”

As his words set in she stared at him. She couldn't move. Did he just say he paid her salary?

“What did you say your name was?” she asked in a hoarse whisper.

He sighed and placed his fork on the edge of his plate. His fingers swiped quickly over the linen napkin and he leaned back. His eyes studied her for a long moment and she fought the urge to cover herself from his penetrating gaze.

“I'm Lucian Patras, hotel tycoon and seasoned entrepreneur. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ms. Keats. Now that everyone's been introduced, I'd like to eat.”

No. It couldn't be. No.

He sighed and crossed his arms over his broad chest. His strong build was evident even covered by the silk of his dress shirt.

“What's the problem, Evelyn?”

“I—I don't . . . understand. You own the hotel?”

“Correct.”

“Are you firing me?”

He laughed. “Why would I fire you?”

“Because of yesterday.”

All humor fled his expression. “You told me it was an accident, that you weren't rummaging through my personal papers. Did you lie to me, Evelyn?”

“No.” Her jaw trembled. What was happening here?

“Then you have nothing to worry about so long as you never lie to me.” He paused and looked over her clothing. “Your shoes are too big.”

Scout awkwardly tried to hide her feet from his view. “I don't understand what's happening here, Mr. Patras.”

“Lucian.”

“I can't call you that.”

“Why not? I have no problem calling you Evelyn.”

“No one calls me that.”

“Scout's no name for a beautiful woman.”