My Wanderlust Bites the Dust Page 3

  Killed? I didn’t dare ask how, since Blair looked like somebody was on her hit list, her hands clenched into fists. Even if I didn’t believe in ghosts, someone having died, possibly been murdered in the suite, was totally creepy. No way would I sleep in that room.

  Blair relaxed her fists, her long nails leaving deep impressions in her palms. “Just one more ‘challenge’”—she made air quotes—“to deal with. Make sure the hotel’s haunted history channel isn’t on the TVs. Even though it’s now called the Presidential Suite, and the black-and-white photos are from the 1930s, it’d be just my luck the guy would recognize it as his room.” She glanced over at me. “I’ll run you off a suite checklist.”

  “I have one.” Rachel had given me a two-page list when I’d helped her check a suite my first meeting in Dublin.

  “I’d prefer you use mine,” Blair said. “And make sure they’ve swapped out the minibar items with Evans and Walker products. Ones that are already in stores.”

  No way would her list be more thorough than Rachel’s, which I’d take with me anyway. This was my moment to shine. Rachel had taught me to look for everything from a handprint on a window to undies in nightstands. As long as I didn’t have to wear a proton pack strapped to my back to hunt ghosts, I’d be fine.

  * * *

  Mindy and I entered the former Bridal Suite. We peered cautiously around at the sunny-yellow room filled with gilded framed artwork and mirrors and gold velvet furnishings with red decorative pillows. I pictured an elegantly dressed woman with a long cigarette holder lounging on the fainting couch in the corner, her husband sitting in the gold high-back chair, drinking a scotch while reading an article about prohibition in America. A black iron spiral staircase with decorative spindles led to an upper floor.

  A door slammed down the hallway.

  Mindy let out a startled gasp, her gaze darting to the suite’s door. “Ah, this place is four times bigger than the other three suites. I can check those in the time it’ll take you to check this one. Let’s divide and conquer.” She slapped the room key in my hand and vanished out the door.

  Silence filled the air. No noise from neighbors. No heat kicking in. No fridge humming. It was eerily quiet. Goose bumps skittered across my skin. Get a grip. Again, I’d survived the Catacombs in Paris. I was not letting a brightly decorated room, eight stories above ground, freak me out.

  I pressed the TV remote’s On button. The screen remained black. I clicked it repeatedly. Still nada. The goose bumps were back. I assured myself it just needed a new battery. It wasn’t like a ghost was preventing me from having the haunted history channel removed. When the master bedroom’s TV turned on, I let out a relieved sigh. Welcome to La Haute Bohème filled the screen, followed by scenes of the hotel’s luxurious spa and elegant restaurants. No ghost pics or scary story. I’d rather not know how the person had been killed. And if it was one of the most haunted hotels in the world, it seemed likely there had to be more than one resident ghost. Either that or the ghost in this room was super busy.

  A text dinged on my phone, about launching me into the air.

  I’m here.

  Rather than a ghost communicating via text, it was Declan.

  Gonna run and get a bite.

  My shoulders sagged in disappointment even though there would be no such thing as a quick hello when we hadn’t seen each other in fifty days. It would make tonight even more special.

  Smiling, I typed, Checking the Presidential Suite. See you at 7.

  I noted TV remote batteries on the list of items for the hotel to address. I finished inspecting the living room, flipping over a stained gold chair cushion and straightening magazines on a glass-topped cocktail table. I opened a door off the entryway, surprised to find a bathroom rather than a closet. I flushed the toilet to make sure it worked, and the porcelain tank fell against the wall. Crap. Yet at least I’d found something to be fixed, or Blair would think I was incompetent.

  I was counting the closet hangers in the master bedroom when a pounding sound came from the living room. My heart thumped. I stepped cautiously from the walk-in closet, and the noise grew louder. Someone was knocking on the front door. Housekeeping? I crept over and peeked through the peephole.

  Nobody was there.

  The hairs on my arms shot up.

  The knock sounded again, followed by, “Caity?”

  Declan? Heart racing, I opened the door.

  He gave me a sly smile, his blue eyes twinkling. “Only one Presidential Suite in the hotel.”

  He glanced up and down the hallway. Coast clear, he slipped inside the room, closing the door behind him. He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me snuggly against him. I curled my fingers into his soft blue wool sweater. I inhaled his rain-scented shampoo and musky cologne as we both went in for a kiss. We were all over each other. Like we hadn’t been together in fifty days. Wrapped in each other’s arms, we stumbled back against the couch, nearly tumbling onto it.

  My phone shrilled.

  For the love of God!

  We reluctantly peeled ourselves from each other, breathing heavily. I slipped the phone from my jacket pocket. Mindy.

  Is my clipboard there?

  Her pink clipboard sat on the credenza.

  Yes.

  K. Be right there.

  My gaze darted to Declan. “Mindy is on her way here.”

  “Right, then. We best hurry.” He kissed me with a sense of urgency.

  It took every ounce of willpower for me to draw back. “Hold that thought.”

  As we walked across the mosaic-tiled foyer, a knock sounded at the door. I opened the bathroom door and shoved Declan inside. I greeted Mindy with her clipboard.

  “How’s it going?” she asked hesitantly, like she’d been expecting me to run screaming from the room.

  “Great. Just a few things here and there.”

  A thud came from inside the bathroom.

  Mindy’s gaze darted to the bathroom door, whereas I kept mine glued to her.

  She peered back at me, looking a tad freaked out. “Did you hear that?”

  “What?”

  She slowly shook her head. “Ah, nothing. I’ll see you back at the office.”

  She fled, and Declan stepped from the bathroom. “Did you know the toilet is banjacked?”

  I nodded. I gave him a fleeting kiss. “Eat a light lunch. We have dinner plans.”

  A sexy smile curled his lips, like he might have other plans for our evening. The goose bumps were back, but they were good ones this time, not the scary ones.

  Chapter Four

  I swiped magenta-colored lip gloss across my lips while waiting for the elevator and tucked stray strands of hair behind my ear. The natural wave had returned to my flat-ironed hair. I’d have no time to restyle it, since our dinner reservation was in a half hour. I impatiently stabbed the elevator button. My abdomen gurgled. I placed a comforting hand against it. Even though I hadn’t eaten in eight hours, it wasn’t hunger pains. Stress? Exhaustion?

  My phone rang.

  Rather than Declan checking on my tardiness, it was Blair.

  “We just found out Mr. Gauthier hopped on an earlier flight and he’s landed. Mindy’s checking a suite for a morning arrival. I need you to greet him. I’ll run his packet up to you in the lobby.” Click.

  My grasp tightened around my phone. She’d assured us we’d have off tonight. I wasn’t even working VIPs! The elevator doors slid open. I spun around and stalked back toward the lobby. I texted Declan about my delay.

  He responded, Waiting in our room with a surprise.

  My heart rate kicked up a notch, and my mind raced with ideas about his surprise.

  Blair arrived with a large white envelope containing Mr. Gauthier’s meeting info. A sticky note on the outside had the airport sedan’s license plate number. She handed me his room key packet, and I slipped it into my suit jacket pocket.

  “I’m in the middle of another challenge, or I’d meet him myself. And you
speak French, so that’s perfect. He’ll be impressed. His English isn’t very good.”

  She bolted before I could confess that my French language ability was more conversational than proficient, as my résumé claimed. After composing a few coherent French sentences on my Paris trip last fall, I’d felt a false sense of competency and added it to my résumé.

  Ten minutes later, I was pacing the lobby, avoiding the concierge’s wary gaze. He needn’t worry about me approaching him with some crazy request, unless he spoke French. I was scrambling to string together a few French sentences, preparing for Mr. Gauthier’s arrival.

  A text alert dinged on my phone in my jacket pocket.

  Mom.

  Did you remember your pepper spray?

  Yep, I did.

  She shouldn’t have a reason to go through my undies drawer and find the defense spray. Not packing it had been a major step forward for me. Eight months after escaping an emotionally abusive relationship, I no longer felt as paranoid that my psycho ex-boyfriend, Andy, might be stalking me. Random smells, sounds, or people’s actions reminding me of him were getting rarer and rarer. The only time I’d gone to see Martha, a counselor, in the past two months was to donate hotel toiletries to her women’s shelter. I hadn’t needed further counseling. I was proud of how far I’d come in a relatively short time, considering what a brainwashed emotional wreck I’d been when Martha had come to my rescue.

  I couldn’t believe Mom had let me leave the house without the spray. She was obviously becoming more comfortable with me traveling to foreign countries. She’d only contacted me twice today. At Christmas, she’d been forced to have faith that I could survive alone in Ireland. She’d been busy preparing for our annual holiday party and playing nurse to my dad after he’d broken his arm and thrown out his back.

  Gretchen strutted through the lobby with Chad. She wore an open black wool jacket, a low-cut slutty green sweater that matched her eyes, jeans, and black spiked heels. “We’re off to dinner. Have a great night.” She gave me a flutter wave.

  Chad nodded, then continued texting on his phone.

  How romantic. Just the two of them going to dinner. I’d love for her to know whom I was joining for dinner.

  Hopefully.

  A black sedan pulled up with the license plate number on the sticky note. I darted outside and greeted Mr. Gauthier—fiftyish with salt-and-pepper hair, brown eyes, and olive-toned skin. His power suit was barely wrinkled, and his shoes were buffed to a shine. I escorted him inside and gave him his meeting packet and a brief welcome spiel in broken French with lots of hand gestures. I advised him to supply the front desk with a credit card for expenses. I slipped his key packet from my jacket pocket and handed it to him.

  He nodded, appearing to understand. “Merci.” He headed toward the front desk.

  A sense of pride rose inside me, and I breathed a relieved sigh. Yet I made a mental note to remove French language skills from my résumé and to add a translation app to my phone.

  Fifteen minutes until our dinner reservation. I called the restaurant, and they reluctantly agreed to hold our table for a half hour.

  I placed a hand over my mouth, stifling a yawn, then slapped it against my abdomen. The funky gurgling was back in full force. Not wanting it to ruin our evening, I flew over to the gift shop to grab medicine and an energy drink.

  The sales clerk required my key to make a room charge.

  I slipped it from my pocket and handed it to her.

  Her gaze narrowed on the key packet. “Room 812 does not match your name.”

  “It’s room 642.”

  She shook her head.

  I snatched the packet from her hand. Room 812. The haunted suite. Holy crap. I’d given Mr. Gauthier my key packet.

  And Declan was waiting in our room for him with a surprise.

  What if he was sprawled naked across the white sheets, blanketed in rose petals, holding a glass of champagne?

  Heart racing, I flew out of the gift shop. I whisked past the front desk. No Mr. Gauthier. I called Declan as I bolted toward the elevators but got his voicemail. I stabbed the elevator button. The door finally opened, and I shot inside without allowing guests to first exit.

  How was I going to explain my screwup? Did a hotel ever mistakenly assign the same room to more than one guest? No clue, but that was the story I was going with. Yet that didn’t help the awkward encounter likely occurring right now between Declan and Mr. Gauthier. And since Declan had previously worked Evans and Walker meetings, the VIP would likely recognize him!

  I exited the elevator and flew down the hallway to my room. I rapped on the door. My heart pounded. Declan greeted me with a relaxed smile.

  “Are you alone?” I whispered, peering over his shoulder.

  Confusion wrinkled his brow. “Ah, yeah, of course I’m alone.”

  I let out a relieved sigh, eying his jeans, white button-down shirt, black vest, and black-and-gray tie. “And thank God you’re dressed.”

  He quirked a curious brow. “Right, then. Not quite the reaction I was hoping for tonight.”

  “Sorry. I just have a minor snafu to take care of. Be right back.” I gave him a fleeting kiss. “Make sure you lock the door and keep your clothes on.”

  “What the hell is going on?” he called after me as I raced down the hallway.

  I rode the elevator down, letting out an impatient sigh at each floor it stopped on. I wondered if Mr. Gauthier was on the elevator next to me, heading up. Or maybe he was drinking a scotch in the lounge, or… He’d smelled like cigarettes.

  He was probably outside smoking.

  Upon reaching the lobby, the elevator doors slid open and I caught a glimpse of Mr. Gauthier entering the elevator across.

  “Excuse me,” I said, pushing my way through the crush of people to the front.

  I exited as Mr. Gauthier’s elevator doors started closing. I bolted over and stepped in, the doors slamming against my shoulders and arms, wedging me in place. An older woman in a long purple coat and sparkly diamond rings gasped with surprise, and her small leashed dog yipped. The alarm started ringing. People covered their ears. My heart raced. The dog let out a bark, his butt quivered, and a yellow puddle appeared on the floor, dangerously close to Mr. Gauthier’s leather shoes. My eyes widened in horror. Everyone stepped back, including the VIP. The woman scooped up her dog, her nasty look darting between me and the pee puddle.

  As if I was in a position to clean it up.

  Mr. Gauthier offered her a white hanky with a blue embroidered monogram.

  Just shoot me now.

  I pressed my shoulder into the door, trying to open it. The concierge rushed up, grasped ahold of a door panel, and pushed it back, freeing me. The ringing stopped, yet continued in my head. I slipped inside, stepping around the woman cleaning up the puddle with the VIP’s hanky. I turned and thanked the concierge, who was bent over, hands braced against his legs, trying to catch his breath. The doors closed, and I assured everyone I was fine, ignoring the woman and her dog glaring at me, and the throbbing pain in my right shoulder, which was going to be a killer bruise.

  I smiled cheerfully at Mr. Gauthier, as if nothing had happened, unsure if I should apologize about his hanky. Yet a faulty elevator door hadn’t been my fault. I held up the VIP’s key packet. Despite being totally frazzled, I managed to spit out, “Avez-vous votre clé?”

  He nodded, producing his key. I exchanged our key packets.

  I couldn’t even begin to explain the situation in English, let alone French, so I said, “C’est un faux nombre.” It’s a false number. Not exactly correct, but he got my drift. I pressed the button for his floor.

  He smiled in understanding, looking appreciative that I’d risked life and limb to track him down. At least my mistake had possibly earned me brownie points. Except for his ruined hanky.

  The elderly woman exited on the first stop, giving Mr. Gauthier an appreciative smile and me the evil eye, her dog clutched against her chest.
>
  Mr. Gauthier’s floor was next. We exchanged bonsoirs.

  I let out a whoosh of relief, massaging my shoulder while rotating it in a circular motion. I headed back down to the gift shop for my medicine. The pink bottle and energy drink still sat at the clerk’s register. I gave her my correct room key, and she gave me a curious look. I shrugged. I slammed the energy drink as I headed across the lobby, then downed two large gulps of the pasty pink liquid as I rode the elevator up.

  If Mr. Gauthier mentioned this to Mindy, I’d say I’d checked the key and it had demagnetized, like they always did. That would make me look even more on top of things. Except, then I’d have given him a bad key before having checked it…

  One issue at a time. I needed to focus on the gurgling in my abdomen that was turning into cramping as I neared my room.

  What was the deal? Stress, nerves, exhaustion…Andy?

  I slowed my pace. After Andy, I’d worried that I’d never be able to sleep with a guy again. My ex-boyfriend had been controlling both in and out of bed. Sex had always been when and how he’d wanted. My breathing became labored.

  He was nearly out of my head, yet not out of my bed?

  Stop! How could I be thinking about that narcissistic bastard when Declan was waiting in my room for me? I was both physically and mentally prepared to sleep with Declan. I choked down another gulp of medicine and shoved aside thoughts of Andy. I put on a sexy little smile before knocking on the door.

  The lock clicked, and Declan appeared.

  I eyed his outfit with appreciation, now having time to enjoy the view as I stepped inside. “Very dapper.”

  “Thanks. Get everything sorted, did ya?”

  I nodded. “But no talking work tonight.”

  Declan knew about my screwups more than anyone. He’d saved my butt and talked me off the ledge numerous times. But I wasn’t going to waste the little time we had together bitching about work.