I felt the bed depress next to me and then Ronan’s hand on my back; he shook me a little. “Annie, you shouldn’t sleep anymore until tonight. You need to stay up, or else your body won’t get used to the time difference.”
I turned and lay on my back. The movement caused my sweater to ride up and bare my midriff; Ronan’s hand now rested on the skin of my stomach. The sensation wasn’t sobering. If anything, it made me feel delightfully warm and cozy. I wanted him to keep it there. I had his touches on the plane to blame for my level of comfort with his touch now.
I wanted him to curl up on the bed and spoon me. I’d never been spooned—I’d only been forked and knifed.
“I don’t care.” I tried to open my eyes so I could look at him and show him that I was serious; I failed. My eyes would not stay open. So I covered his hand with mine and administered an ineffectual tug, trying to get him to lie down as well. “Come lie down with me; sleep with me. You know you want to.”
Ronan huffed, or growled, or some combination of the two. “You’re making it really hard for me to be good.”
I reached blindly for him, already succumbing to the gentle promise of sleep in a luxurious bed. “So what if we don’t” …yawn…“adjust to the time difference” … yawn… “what’s the worst…” yawn… “that could…” yawn… “happen?”
Ronan’s voice sounded far away when he answered; but his hand was still on my stomach, and my hand still covered his. “The worst that could happen is that we’d be up all night.”
“So?”
“Do you want to be up all night with me, Annie?”
“Mmm….”
That was a delicious thought, much more delicious than an éclair; and it was with that thought that I fell completely and pleasantly asleep, dreaming about all the things I wanted to do to Ronan that night.
***
I was woken up by the sound of a phone ringing, but it wasn’t the normal light trill of my cell phone. It was a meaner noise and sounded less like a ring than an oscillating buzzer. I lifted my head and tried to get a handle on where I was and what time it was and what the hell was going on and am I in my underwear?
The ringing stopped abruptly. I blinked at the side table where the phone now lay silent and then glanced around the room. The morning’s events came back to me but not in a rush. More like a sporadic leaky faucet. I remembered the plane landing and customs and the rude paparazzi and…the bar at the airport. The rest was a little fuzzy, but I did recall leaving a car and entering the hotel lobby, Ronan checking us in, and flopping down on the bed as soon as we walked into the hotel room.
I glanced down at myself. I was under the covers of the bed, and I was dressed in my underwear, bra, and the T-shirt I’d been wearing under my sweater. I thought about my state of undress for several seconds and realized Ronan must’ve taken off my jeans and sweater when I passed out; he must’ve also tucked me in and closed the drapes. I spotted my clothes folded into a neat pile on the foot of the bed.
The phone rang again, causing me to jump and my heart to bounce around my ribcage. I pressed my hand against the spike of anxiety in my chest and grabbed the phone, mostly to stop the infernal sound.
“Yes?”
“Ms. Catrel, this is O’Hare, the concierge. Mr. Fitzpatrick left instructions to wake you at noon. It is now noon. I am also to remind you of your appointment at two.” The voice on the other end was impossibly polished. It did more to clear my head than the ringing phone.
“My appointment at two?”
“Yes, ma’am. In your room. Massage, facial, pedicure, manicure, hair, and makeup…for tonight’s event.”
I swallowed a sudden weird sensation in my throat. “Oh, right. Thanks.”
“No trouble at all, Ms. Catrel. Your lunch is on its way up now, and may I suggest the complimentary bathrobe in the closet should you not yet be appropriately attired to receive guests?”
As if on cue or by magic, a knock on the suite door sounded at just that moment.
“Thank you,” I said absentmindedly to the elegant voice, searching the room for the aforementioned closet.
“No trouble at all, Ms. Catrel. Again, my name is O’Hare should you require any assistance during your stay. Patricia’s has been assigned to you and Mr. Fitzpatrick for the duration, and I hope that you will not hesitate to contact me or Patricia should you need anything at all.”
“Oh, okay. Thank you.” I scrambled to the edge of the bed and jogged to the nearest closet.
“No trouble at all, Ms. Catrel. Enjoy your lunch.”
And, with that, O’Hare clicked off. I tossed the cordless phone to the bed and yanked open the closet door, finding a beautiful woman’s paisley blue silk bathrobe hanging next to an equally lavish black and gray striped man’s bathrobe. I quickly tugged off my shirt and pulled on the robe, tying it as I jogged to the front door of the suite.
A pretty older woman stood in the doorway. She was dressed in a business suit, and her graying red hair was tied back in a severe bun. She was smiling at me.
“Good day, Ms. Catrel. I’m Patricia.” She reached her hand forward, and I took it, shaking it automatically.
“Nice to meet you. Please call me Annie.”
“Yes, of course. We have your lunch here as well as several items for your afternoon appointment.” She shifted to the side, indicating with a wave of her hand the food cart behind her, five burly-looking bellhops or waiters, three youngish maids or beauticians, and various contraptions set on luggage carts. “May we enter?”
Inwardly, I shrank at the sight of the crowd outside my door, but I was too surprised to think much about their presence. Ultimately, my desire to avoid confrontation won out over my fear of interacting with people.
“Yes—yes, please come in,” I stammered and stepped out of the doorway. They filed into the room very much like a parade; the food cart and shiny brass luggage carts were parade floats.
Patricia administered orders to the group of them, telling them where to put what. Then she turned back to me. I was still hovering by the entrance, watching the bustle with some fascination.
“Mr. Catrel, I see you have not unpacked.” She motioned to my luggage, where it lay stacked by the sofa. Patricia crossed to me, slid her hand into the crook of my elbow, and then guided me away from the door and toward the bedroom, where the food cart had just been wheeled. “Please allow me to unpack your belongings while you enjoy a soak. Your lunch is in here, next to the sitting area within your room. I will be pleased to draw you a bath.”
“I-I can draw my own bath.”
“Of course you can, but it would be my pleasure,” Patricia said, her voice level and kind. She brought me to a comfy chair and deposited me there and then motioned for the bellhop—or was he a waiter?—to arrange the cart in front of me.
She disappeared into the bathroom while the waiter lifted the elegant silver coverings, revealing china laden with an assortment of delicious-looking salads, little sandwiches with no crust, a piping-hot bowl of lobster bisque, a big basket with fresh berries, a carafe of yogurt—which he noted was made at the hotel—and a tray of various Irish cheeses.
Also revealed was a steeping teapot and glass-topped tea box with loose-leaf teas; I had my choice of everything from prosaic peppermint to exotic oolong. And last, but certainly not least, he lifted the top off a platter of delicate petit fours, three of which were miniature éclairs.
My mouth was watering.
I felt like I was in one of those rags to riches movies from the 1960s and ’70s, where the insignificant orphan is suddenly faced with everything she ever wanted—namely, lots of beautiful little desserts.
When the waiter was finished announcing my lunch, he made a short bow, asked if I needed anything further, and then—when I shook my head—left me to my food.