Under The Mistletoe. Kristin Hardy
something that was standard in every hotel she’d ever been in. Apparently Gabriel Trask was more interested in preserving his Armani than being professional.
Even spending all day Sunday searching out flaws in his hotel and drafting a plan for cuts hadn’t salved her pride. She still had to contend with the embarrassment of facing him.
And that would be today, of course. Monday, glorious Monday. Still, the best move was to get it over with. She wiped her face with a towel and headed toward the door. After all, it wasn’t as though she’d thrown herself at him or anything. All she’d done was dance.
And wait for a kiss.
She squeezed her eyes shut. With any luck, he’d be the one embarrassed once he found out what was going on—and maybe a little concerned about his job. As well he ought to be. There were big changes in the offing. She needed a manager who could help her implement them, not one with mixed up priorities. She needed a professional who understood how things were done.
And if that meant someone other than Gabe Trask, so be it.
Gabe sat at his desk, finishing his November month-end report. With a few brisk key strokes he sent it to Susan, who would gussy it up and send it off. There had been a time when he hadn’t worried about letterhead, just shot quick e-mails directly to Whit or called. These days, he mailed formal documents to the executors of the estate, who presumably forwarded them to the new owners.
Or maybe just tossed them in the round file. Who knew? Almost five months after Whit had died, Gabe hadn’t heard a word about what came next or who even owned the hotel. In the absence of direction, he supposed he could have played it safe and socked the profits into an interest-bearing account until the new owners appeared. Instead, he’d stubbornly continued investing in improvements. If no one was going to give him guidance, then he’d continue with the plans he and Whit had laid out in January, as they’d done every year. The old lady deserved as much as he could give her, no matter what happened next.
Clicking on an e-mail from his executive chef, he opened the attachment of menus for the following week. He stared at the list of meals, ingredients and estimated costs, and his thoughts drifted back to the last time he’d been in the dining room.
It had taken willpower to stay away from the hotel the previous day, the one day off each week he granted himself. No one on staff would have thought anything of him doing a walk-through, of course, but Gabe knew why he found himself debating it instead of skiing or heading over to Vermont to visit his family. It had to do with a certain slender blonde laughing up at him on the dance floor, with the feel of her soft, cool hand in his, the lingering memory of her scent.
And that moment at the end when he’d thought only of kissing her.
Off-limits, he reminded himself. Just his luck that when he finally met a woman who knocked him back on his heels, she was a guest. All for the best that he’d been called away—talking with her had been entirely too tempting, and he had no business taking it any further. He knew where the boundaries were.
And he’d thought about them all day Sunday.
Shaking his head, he turned back to the menu estimates and began to crunch numbers. A few changes here and there would bring the costs into line with budget. He was in the midst of sending a reply to the chef when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Glancing up to look out the door across from his desk, Gabe saw the head of personnel walk into her office across the hall. Eight o’clock, he realized, wondering how two hours had whipped by since he’d sat down.
One of his first actions after becoming manager had been to unbolt and open that hallway door. Sure, Susan was an efficient interface with the outside world. Visitors still came to him through her office. Staffers, though, were a different matter. If people wanted to talk to him, it was simple enough—walk down the hallway and knock. If he wasn’t in a meeting or a telecon, they were free to come in and chat. It meant giving up a little time and privacy, granted, but over the years the communication had paid off. He was wired into the workings of the hotel in a way his predecessors never had been.
And around him the pulse of the hotel quickened.
Hadley headed toward the executive wing of the hotel. The soft, drapey sweater was gone, replaced by a trim taupe suit, matching pumps. Brisk, professional, ready to take care of business, a leather portfolio in her hand. First impressions were everything. If she couldn’t have that opportunity back, at least she could start fresh with a show of strength.
As she approached Gabe Trask’s office she slowed, looking for his receptionist. Beyond, a man in chef’s trousers leaned into an open door, talking animatedly.
And she heard Gabe Trask’s voice in reply.
He was there, just inside that room. For an instant, she could only think of his eyes, his smile, his touch on her back as they moved around the dance floor together. And the embarrassment of finding out afterward what was really going on. What must he have thought of her—a poor flower that needed his pity? She needed no one’s pity. In fact, that particular shoe was about to be on the other foot.
His, to be precise.
She banked the embers of her anger and walked up to rap on the door. “Good morning, Mr. Trask.”
There were people he’d have been more surprised to see standing there, but Gabe couldn’t think of any offhand. It was as though he’d conjured her by thinking. One moment she was in his mind, the next she was in his doorway.
And all he could think of was that moment she’d been in his arms.
“Hey,” he said, rising to escort the chef out and go to her. “You disappeared the other night.”
“Yes, but I’m here now. May I sit down?” she said, crossing to one of his client chairs.
She was different today, he thought. Still cool and blond, but the mischief, the vulnerability, was all but hidden beneath a hard, glossy shell.
“Please. I’ve got a few minutes.” It wasn’t strictly true—he never had a few minutes, but no way was he going to let work interrupt. “How are you? Everything all right with your stay?”
“More or less,” she said, taking a seat.
He looked at her. Something was definitely off. “Care to be more specific? It’s my job to take care of the ‘less’ part. Has business services supported you all right? You look like you’re off to your meetings.”
It wasn’t quite a smile, more an impression of enjoyment. “That’s true, I am.” She sat upright with almost military precision. Her hair hung smoothly to her shoulders, her bangs just brushing her brows. Under them, gray eyes stared back at him, as level as a gunfighter’s.
“Is your meeting here?”
Definitely enjoyment. “Why, yes.” She crossed her legs with a quick whisper of hosiery. “In this office, actually.”
That stopped him for a moment. In the back of his mind, suspicion began to brew. “Care to be more specific?”
“Certainly. I’m here to meet with you.”
“I don’t recall seeing anything on my calendar.”
“You wouldn’t. However, I’d appreciate it if you’d clear some time for me.”
“To discuss what?”
Now the smile did spread across her face—but it was anything but friendly. “You gave me a surprise Saturday night. Now it’s my turn.” She rose and offered her hand. “I’m Hadley Stone, with Stone Enterprises. We’re the new owners of the hotel.” She gave him a cool look. “And I’m here to talk about what happens next.”
It was just a handshake, a professional gesture she’d made countless times. She’d touched him the night before; the contact now shouldn’t