She wore a red skirt and a red and white blouse. Red was one of his least favorite colors, given his line of work. But it looked beautiful on her. “Business at the Carson?” he asked her.
“No,” she said plainly.
He appreciated her honesty.
“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Mick was touched. He was touched in a way that would stun her. She didn’t come to cuss him out for leaving her. She didn’t come to sass him for failing to keep his promise. She came to make sure he was all right. She came for him. Emotion swelled within him like a rushing tide. “Thank you,” he said.
The Doorman, after opening the door for another VIP, looked over and saw Roz with Mick. He hurried over, his hands clasped. “Are you alright, sir?” he asked Mick, glancing at Roz. “Is this person bothering you?”
Mick gave that man a look so cold even Roz felt its chill. He didn’t have to say a word. His look said it all.
The Doorman, mortified that he had totally misread the situation, quickly moved away from them. Roz looked at Mick and smiled. And just like that, that feeling of safety she felt around him returned. No man had ever made her feel so secure. But the fact remained: he was okay, and he didn’t get in touch. “I won’t keep you,” she said. “I’m glad you’re okay. I’ll let you get on with it. Have a nice day.”
And she began to walk away. But Mick pulled her back. He should let her go, he knew. For her sake. But he couldn’t. “Not so fast,” he said, holding onto her hand. “You know I’m okay. I need to know you’re okay.”
Roz wanted to smile, but she couldn’t get past the fact of the matter. “If you would have answered your phone,” she said, “you would have known sooner. But I’m good. Thanks for asking.”
Mick stared at her. She was a long way from where she was claiming to be. He knew. He was a long way too. “Come with me,” he said and, still holding her hand, headed for the entrance. The same Doorman who had questioned if Roz was harassing him, quickly opened the door for them. They walked in. As soon as they did, a man who appeared to be some high ranking hotel official, hurried to their side.
“Mr. Sinatra.” He then looked at Roz and nodded. “Ma’am.” Then he looked at Mick again. “Is there anything I can help you with, sir?”
“The gentleman who opened the door for me?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Fire him,” Mick said.
“Yes, sir,” the official said so fast it amazed Roz.
Although Mick continued to escort her across the lobby, she looked back. The official was motioning for the Doorman to come to him. Roz looked at Mick. “Why would you want him fired?” she asked him. “Just because he thought I was harassing you?”
Mick looked at her as if she should not even questioned it. “Yes,” he said. “What part of that is a problem?”
“I understand he was rude, but to ask them to fire him? He might have mouths to feed, a family to support.”
“He should have thought about those mouths before he mouthed off about you.” Mick stared at her. He knew his lifestyle was going to be hard for her to digest, but something this minor was disconcerting to her? “Stop the problem as soon as you see it, Rosalind,” he said, “or you will have a problem on your hands. Come on,” he said, placed his hand on the small of her back, and escorted her past the public elevators to a private elevator where another hotel official was waiting.
“Mr. Sinatra,” the official said as he swiped his keycard and the elevator door opened. “Have a nice evening, sir, ma’am.”
“Thank you,” Roz said with a smile, but Mick said nothing as he and she stepped onto the elevator, and the door closed shut behind them.
Roz leaned against the elevator wall and looked at Mick. They treated him as if he was the king of the world and he treated them as if they were just the help. The invisible help at that. Since she was more likely to be in the help category than Mick’s category herself, she was bothered by it.
Mick could see that she was bothered. “What did I do wrong this time?” he asked.
Roz did not back off. “The people who work at this hotel show you great respect. You ought to show them some respect in return.”
“I sign their paychecks,” he said. “That, I think, is respect enough.”
Roz stared at him. “You sign their . . . You own . . . Are you telling me that you own the Carson?”