Sweet Silver Bells. Rochelle Alers
Two years ago he’d divorced his fourth wife, and his current fiancée was thirty-five, only five years older than Crystal. Wherein Raleigh might have been unable to maintain a successful marriage of any duration, he wasn’t so reckless as not to have had his prospective wives sign a prenuptial agreement. The exception had been his first wife. The alimony payments deposited directly into Jasmine’s bank account like clockwork afforded the mother of his only child, coupled with her successful art business, a very comfortable lifestyle.
The concierge extended his hand, while offering Crystal a friendly smile. He lowered his gaze rather than let her see the admiration in his gaze. Crystal Eaton was stunning. Her pixie-cut hairstyle, unblemished face, the color of polished mahogany, radiated good health, and her dark brown wide-set slanting eyes, pert nose and full, sensual mouth were enthralling.
The perfection of her body matched her face: tall, slender and curvy in a pair of fitted black jeans, matching pullover sweater and leather flats.
“Welcome, Ms. Eaton. I’m John Porter, your personal concierge. Mr. Beaumont has asked me to take care of all of your needs during your stay.”
Crystal took his hand, finding it as soft as her own.
“Thank you so much, Mr. Porter.”
John reluctantly withdrew his hand. “Mr. Beaumont has arranged for you to stay in the penthouse. You will have the privilege of twenty-four-hour room service that includes laundry, dry-cleaning, housekeeping and meals.” He angled his head, smiling. “All of which are gratis. The penthouse staff is aware they’re not to accept tips from you. Don’t look so alarmed, Ms. Eaton,” he said when Crystal’s gave him a stunned look, her delicate jaw dropping. “They are compensated far beyond what the other employees earn,” he added when her mouth closed.
She forced a smile she didn’t feel at that moment. “That’s good, because I wouldn’t want to take advantage of their services.”
John cupped her elbow, directing her to the bank of elevators, and stopped in front of one with a sign indicating floors 8-PH. “Mr. Beaumont treats all of his employees quite well. I’m going to give you two room card keys. The red one will permit you elevator access to your floor and the green to your apartment.”
He handed her an envelope with her name, punched the button and waited for the doors to open. Crystal walked into the car. He entered behind her and, reaching into the pocket of his suit jacket, removed a master key and inserted it into the PH slot. The doors closed, and the car rose silently.
When she agreed to the terms in the contract between Beaumont Hotels and Eaton Interior and Design in which the owner of the hotel chain would provide lodging for the duration of the project, Crystal had expected to occupy a suite, not a penthouse apartment. She knew Algernon Beaumont was anxious for her to decorate the two boutique hotels before spring and the influx of tourists to the Lowcountry, and because she wasn’t married, didn’t have a fiancé, boyfriend or children, Crystal was able to accept the commission that would take her away from home for weeks at a time.
The elevator doors opened and she stepped out into a carpeted hallway.
John remained in the elevator. “You’re in penthouse two, which is on the left,” he informed Crystal. “The bellhop will bring up your luggage. If you need anything, please dial fifteen and either I or someone from my staff will procure it for you.”
Crystal smiled at the very formal man. “Thank you. I doubt if I’ll need anything tonight.” All she wanted was a bath and a bed. Anything she did need would wait until the next day.
John nodded. “Good night, Ms. Eaton.”
“Good night, Mr. Porter.”
She walked the short distance to the door labeled PH 2, opening the envelope and taking out one of the card keys.
Crystal’s hand halted as she caught movement out the corner of her eye. She stole a glance at a tall, slender man dressed in a pair of cutoffs, a T-shirt and flip-flops closing the door to the other apartment as he walked toward the elevator. The contrast of the white shirt against his olive complexion was attention-grabbing. He was like a bronze statue come to life.
After several seconds Crystal realized she was staring when their eyes met and held. Even from the distance she noticed the perfection of his features.
“Good evening, neighbor,” he said.
She went completely still as a shiver of awareness swept over her body. The man’s voice was deep and as utterly sensual as he appeared to be. “Good evening,” Crystal replied, smiling.
“Are you checking in?” She nodded. Closing the distance between them, he extended his hand. “Joseph Cole-Wilson.”
Shifting the card key to her left hand, she took the large, groomed hand with long, slender fingers. “I’m Crystal.”
“It’s nice meeting you, Crystal.”
Nodding, she withdrew her hand from his loose grip. “Are you Joseph or Joe?”
He smiled, drawing Crystal’s gaze to his sensual mouth and the slight cleft in his strong chin. “I’ve always been Joseph. I’m not going to hold you up settling in, but I just want you to know I’ll be next door if you need anything.”
Crystal wanted to tell Joseph that if she did need anything, all she had to do was pick up the telephone and dial two digits. She didn’t know if Mr. Drop-Dead Sexy was attempting to come on to her, but at present his mojo definitely wasn’t working. She was much too tired to carry on an exchange of witty repartee with him, and the reason she was in Charleston took precedence over any-and everything in her life.
“Thanks, Joseph. I’m sorry, but I have to get some sleep or I’m going to fall on my face.”
Joseph’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. Light from a wall sconce illuminated the face of the tall, slender woman with the killer body. Only those in his family knew his legal name: José Ibrahim Cole-Wilson. His mother had always called him Joseph, so the name stuck.
Crystal put up her hand to smother a yawn, and it was then he noticed her exhaustion.
“I’m sorry to hold you up. Have a good evening.” That said, he turned and walked to the elevator.
Crystal stared at him until he disappeared into the car. Then she inserted the card key into the slot, waited for the green light and pushed open the door.
If the furnishings in the lobby reflected a bygone era, it was the same in the penthouse. The chairs, tables, lamps, wall mirrors in the living and dining rooms were uniquely art deco, one of her favorite decorating styles.
Dropping her handbag and tote on an oversize ottoman, she walked into a modern, state-of-the-art kitchen with double stainless steel sinks, cooktop stove, double oven, eye-level microwave, dishwasher, French-door refrigerator/freezer, trash compactor and cooking island. There was also a fully stocked wine cellar with three dozen bottles.
Crystal opened the refrigerator stocked with dairy products, the vegetable drawers with fresh fruit and salad fixings. The freezer was also filled with packaged and labeled meat. The shelves in the pantry were stocked with everything she would need for breakfast, lunch and dinner. A door off the kitchen revealed a half bath.
She continued her tour, mounting a flight of stairs, discovering two bedroom suites with adjoining baths. Each bedroom was constructed with sitting and dressing areas. Wall-to-wall silk drapes were open to offer an unobstructed view of nighttime Charleston and a lit rooftop deck.
She returned to the first floor at the same time the bell chimed throughout the apartment. She opened the door and the bellhop carried her bags up the staircase, leaving them in the hallway outside the bedrooms. He returned, gave her a slight bow and then left, closing the door behind him.
Crystal turned off all the lights on the first floor with the exception of the table lamp in the entryway. Her footsteps were slow as she climbed the staircase for the second time, wondering if