Secret Games. Jeanie London
by her side.
“Yes, thank you,” she said, making eye contact with the man whose nose and cheeks had caught the bad end of the bitter cold, judging by their reddened tips.
The gold-trimmed sable uniform jacket sat stiffly on the bellhop’s shoulders, as though he spent more time shrugging out of it than wearing it. A glance at his name badge revealed why—he was the maintenance supervisor. Why he was doubling as the bellhop, Maggie could only guess, but she smiled in greeting.
“I haven’t checked in yet, Mr. Longmuir, but my…” How should she refer to Sam? Pretend lover, boyfriend, gigolo? “My friend should be here. Sam Masters. Just take them to his suite.” She would head that way herself soon.
“Just call me Dougray, lassie,” he said with a toothy grin that revealed a good bit of silver in those very same teeth. “I’m the jack-of-all-trades around here. If you have a trouble, with anything mind, press 19 on any house phone, and I’ll be with you in a jiffy.”
“Thank you, Dougray.”
“Now, they’re getting antsy for you at the front desk, lassie. You’d best get over before they accuse me of gibbering with the guests.” Abundant gray brows dipped together in a scowl that bisected the older man’s forehead and reminded Maggie of what Sam always jokingly referred to as a unibrow.
She followed Dougray’s gaze to the front desk, where several clerks snapped to attention and quickly busied themselves with various tasks. Hiking her purse higher onto her shoulder, Maggie smoothed her skirt, wondered why she was attracting such an inordinate amount of attention.
She decided she really didn’t want to know. “I, uh, think I’ll look around a bit before I check in, Dougray.”
“Press 19 on the house phone, lassie. Remember that.”
“I got it—19.”
With a respectful nod, Dougray retreated.
Maggie should let Sam know she’d arrived safely but decided the arrival of her bags would serve the same purpose. Taking off in the opposite direction of the front desk, she eagerly toured the lavishly appointed lobby. Falling Inn Bed, and Breakfast was nothing if not lavish.
The soft glow of light from a collection of cut-crystal chandeliers overhead enhanced the fabulous New England antiques arranged in welcoming, accessible clusters. The walls hosted several paintings of what appeared to be good-old-days scenes depicting the turn-of-the-century hotel and added to Maggie’s impression that she’d stepped into another era.
While artful floral arrangements with wintry ivy and bright-red roses lent the room a charming Valentine’s Day ambiance, the ten-foot tall Victorian topiary in the shape of three tiered hearts, immediately captured her interest.
She made her way toward it, passing a huge fireplace with a roaring fire that cast much appreciated warmth, and admired the unusual topiary, enjoying the sheer whimsy of the design. The hearts had been filled with huge white spider mums, then decorated with twinkling red lights, ribbons, hearts, and…
Maggie caught sight of a shiny ornament, a fragile glass likeness of a Rubenesque nude, one hand casually cupping a breast, the other positioned coyly between ample thighs. She inspected its neighbors with growing amazement.
Whoa.
Female nudes. Male nudes. Nude couples. While none was doing anything that might qualify for an entry in the Kama Sutra, all were clearly enjoying the effects of fondling themselves and each other. Maggie’s surprise faded as suddenly as it had appeared.
Whoever had invented the name Falling in Bed, and Breakfast hadn’t been kidding.
Time to move on. She glanced at the front desk again, but those clerks thought she was here to spend the weekend indulging in sex. Incredible sex, she remembered the Weatherbys’ distinction, and decided there was no real hurry to check in.
Continuing her tour, she noticed for the first time grinning Cupids hanging everywhere. So many Cupids, in fact, she suspected management was encouraging the mischievous son of Venus to aim at guests the minute they walked through the door.
She kept walking the promenade of specialty stores, peering into shop fronts, not seeing much more than a blur. Until a display of lovely gift baskets caught her eye.
Arranged on platforms of all different heights and angles, the bright-colored baskets with festive ribbons contained what appeared to be bath and body items. Maggie paused, intent upon discerning the names on the assortment of jars and bottles, not surprised to identify champagne bubble bath in a replica of a champagne bottle and Treasure of the Sea bathing gels in a clever collection of seashell-shaped jars.
But Joy Jelly, Motion Lotion and Peterbutter? She leaned closer to inspect the silver-embossed labels which read, An Edible Lubricant with No Artificial Colors. Available in chocolate, espresso, butter rum or peanut butter.
Sexual props would be the first entry into her idea journal, and remembering Lyn’s comments about practical application, Maggie swallowed back a bubble of laughter.
Observation was definitely the key here.
“I WANT YOU ALL to nap during the staff meeting,” Mary Johnson, general manager and stockholder of Falling Inn Properties, Inc., explained to her crew of dogs. “I’ll take you out for a walk as soon as I’m through with the meeting.”
The dogs, a motley collection that included an English bull, a boxer and two teacup poodles, all made their way into the corner with a compliance honed by years of living in hotels. While they were usually relegated to the confines of her suite, the storm had made them restless. Mary had brought them into the offices today for a change of scenery.
Without a backward glance at her obedient crew, she pulled her agenda for the weekly five o’clock staff meeting from her organizer and glanced at the heading.
Worldwide Travel Association
The words figured in bold letters at the top of the page, emphasizing the importance of an arrival that needed no emphasis. The Worldwide Travel Association, better known as WTA, was the largest travel organization in the world, and they would be sending a representative to judge her property on how well they met the criteria for a prestigious industry award. An award her property desperately needed to win.
“Hey, hey, Ms. J.” Dougray swaggered in, greeted her by the nickname she’d long ago acquired from her staff.
“Good afternoon, Dougray. I assume the heat pump in the west wing is cooperating now that you’ve worked your magic.”
“’Twas the storm that pushed her past the edge, but she’s purring like a kitty again.”
Mary inclined her head in confirmation of a job well-done and recited a silent plea for any other mechanical or electrical failures to restrain themselves until after the WTA judge’s departure. An unrealistic wish, given the size and age of the property, but she saw no harm in making the request.
After welcoming each of her department heads as they filed into the conference room, she watched from her seat at the head of the table as each settled into their respective places.
Silent for the most part, they acknowledged her before nodding casual greetings to each other. They all knew the drill because, with the exception of Laura, the special events coordinator freshly out of college, all of them had followed Mary to this property from the various hotels she’d managed during her thirty years in hospitality management.
They were her best staff ever. Not only were they competent in their positions, but they’d also willingly hocked their life savings and signed their futures away to leverage a buyout of this historical property when the previous management company had gone defunct.
Now Mary was in the unique position of overseeing a staff made up of corporate stockholders. Though a new company had partnered them in the endeavor, she and her staff held the majority shares. This circumstance had changed the gestalt of their situation considerably by placing a great deal of responsibility on