Chapter One
The Jefferson Suite had a reputation. Everyone said so.
Christiana Snow watched Henrick, the sous-chef, slip a red
rose into the silver bud vase on the room service tray she’d been tasked to
deliver. “There are some naughty stories about the guests that stay in that
suite.” He winked. “Let me take you to dinner, and I’ll tell you all about
it."
She turned her back on Henrick’s smirk—and his eyes that
never seemed to travel farther north than her neck. Since the day Christiana
started working at The Oak she’d fought the desire to bend her knees to force
his gaze to her face. It would only give him the wrong idea.
Instead she threw back two ibuprofens with her milk and
then set the glass into a nearby bin of dirty dishes. Gossip made her head
hurt.
She felt Henrick’s eyes travel her body as she pushed
the room service cart into the elevator. "For a reporter's daughter, you
aren't very curious,” he called after her.
Curiosity wasn’t the issue. The Oak, which stood mere
blocks from the White House, attracted politicians and paparazzi—and dozens of
men, sporting earbuds attached to wires disappearing into their dark suits,
sent to watch them both. It took real concentration to ignore the stories that
the hotel’s staff collected like trophies.
At least the tips were good at the boutique hotel and
restaurant, and the mundane work gave her time to think—or think forward,
as her father always said. And that’s what she was going to do—think forward and move forward. She didn’t have time to
get wrapped up in other people’s lives and certainly not the pseudo reality of
the D.C. politicos.
The elevator creaked to a stop. Water sloshed in the
silver pitcher as Christiana leaned over the cart to push the slatted metal
door aside. A
dusty, oil-paint smell greeted her as she started down the hallway, lined with
canvases of hunting scenes set in over-sized, gilded frames higher than she was
tall and wider than her arms could stretch.
Christiana took in a lungful of the stagnant air as she
reached the Jefferson Suite’s double doors at the end of the corridor. She
knocked and listened for the sound of footsteps. No one came.
Her
leg danced with impatience. Mrs. DeCord’s order was Christiana’s last task of
the day, and she wanted to finish it as fast as possible to rush off to meet Avery, her best friend. Christiana had agreed to
be her “date” at some society fundraiser that afternoon.
Christiana studied the rich mahogany crown molding,
lining the long hallway. Gold brocade wallpaper led her eyes to images of
smiling women, draped in gossamer swaths of pastel blue and green fabric. They
stared down from their ceiling mural home, their eyes cold and full of secrets.
Christiana knocked on the door once more. After no
response, she pulled her master key card from her apron pocket and slipped it
to the lock slot. The door cracked open but stopped against something on the
other side. Through the gap in the door, she saw a man’s shoe lying on its
side.
She called into the room, “Hello? Room service.
Ma’am?” No one answered though muffled voices resonated deeper within.
Well, she couldn’t wait. She pushed harder on the
door, and the shoe slid aside.
The cart’s wheels whispered over the marble entryway floor.
She announced herself one more time. No reply. She picked up the man’s
dress shoe, an expensive leather smell wafting to her nose. She set it down
beside a tufted chair in the hall.
A male voice echoed from the bathroom off the suite’s
master bedroom. “No, Yvette.”
“Please take me. I won’t say a thing.” Mrs. DeCord’s
voice reverberated off the tile.
“You know our agreement.”
Mrs. DeCord whined, “I don’t understand why I wasn’t
invited. I’ll show up anyway.”
“You won’t do any such thing, Yvette.” He spoke
her name like a caress. “Take off your panties.”
Christiana’s insides seized at the man’s abrupt change
in tone. Maybe she had heard wrong. After a long silence, she urged the cart
forward, but the wheels bogged down on the plush carpet in the living area.
The voice spoke. “Bend over, put your hands on the
counter. Good. Look in the mirror. Eyes on me, Yvette.”
Smack! A sharp slap pierced the air, and Christiana jerked
backward as if stung. Mrs. DeCord
moaned. Was she hurt?
Christiana couldn’t break her gaze, eyes glued on the
bedroom doors. They weren’t closed completely. They were slightly ajar, a
sliver of the interior showing through a small crack.
“Open your legs.” The man’s voice, sandpaper and velvet, rooted
Christiana in place even though her heart fluttered wildly. “Very nice, baby.”
Christiana took a deep breath to steady herself,
inhaling musk mixed with the fragrance of lilacs. Something else hung heavy in
the air.
Mrs. DeCord’s whimpers grew louder.
Should she call, so they
knew she wasn’t trying to hide her presence? If they saw her, would they
realize she had overheard? Should she leave? If she abandoned the lunch, they’d
know she’d heard and run away, probably to gossip.
“Mmm, you like that,
don’t you, sweetheart?”
Christiana licked her
lips at the man’s chocolate-caramel tone. She tried to place the voice—maybe he
was a radio announcer. No, he sounded too sexy and way too dangerous.
Slap! Slap!
Christiana’s leg bumped into the cart and silverware clanked. Water splashed on the linen, and she stilled, but no new
sound came from the bedroom.
She couldn’t abandon the
lunch in the middle of the living room. She’d just have to be quick. Christiana
maneuvered the cart to the small bay window overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue.
She set up the silver and lifted the dome on Mrs. DeCord’s salad.
“Touch yourself,” the deep, rich
voice said. Christiana’s heart punched at her ribs, and she lifted one hand to
her breast to still it. Her eyes darted to the doors.
She gulped and tried to shake off the sound of the man’s sexy
intonation. Christiana tiptoed over to the French doors of the master bedroom
and risked a peek into the room. The bed’s comforter wilted over one side of
the bed, and sheets bunched in a tight wad at the foot, bulging through the
brass rails of the footboard. Pillows lay scattered on the floor. Braided black
ropes hung limply from the frame of the headboard. She envisioned a restrained
body, spread-eagle and helpless on the bed. Oh,
god.
A chill broke out across her body. Instinct told her
to click the doors shut. She winced at the snick of the door jam. Did they hear her?
More whispers escaped from behind the
closed doors. She couldn’t make out the words, but the sensual rhythm of his
voice rose and fell in a soothing, hypnotic cadence. Christiana’s ears strained
for the man’s instructions, for what he wanted Mrs. DeCord to do next.
Footsteps brushed across the carpet in
the bedroom. The man spoke in rumbling purrs,
approaching the bed.
She bit her bottom lip when
a thought arose about that strange, human scent. Sex. A pang hit between her thighs as an image slipped into place
of the faceless man—with that voice—putting
his mouth on Mrs. DeCord’s neck.
A long wail and an ecstatic groan drifted from inside
the bedroom.
Christiana stepped back. She needed to leave—now. If
caught eavesdropping, even accidentally, she’d be dismissed. She clutched the silver dome to her chest
like a shield and slunk to the marble foyer. The man’s smoky voice oozed into
the main room as the suite’s front door clacked behind her, a barrier to . . .
what?
She jogged down the long hallway to the elevator,
punched the call button, and tried to steady her breathing as the elevator
creaked upward. The man’s voice still reverberated in her chest. Relief coursed
through her body, glad she hadn’t run into either of them inside, especially
him. One look and he would have guessed she’d heard, had sucked in the air,
heavy with sex, and understood.
Her imagination settled on Mrs. DeCord pressed into
the mattress under a dark, mysterious man. His lips floated over her breast. Christiana
shook her head in a vain attempt to stop the image from evolving into the man
slipping his hands between the woman’s legs.
Christiana hit the button twice more. Come on. She gave up on the antiquated
elevator and headed to the stairs. More questions surfaced with each step
downward.
Did Henrik’s wink mean he knew? Who was Mrs. DeCord
hooking up with in the Jefferson Suite? The mystery man had done something
carnal to her, something she’d wanted done, though Christiana couldn’t imagine
what. Something with ropes and slaps and
Lord knows what else. Maybe she should’ve listened when the other waitresses, huddled in the employee break room,
tittered about who slipped through the hotel lobby trying not to be noticed.
Then again, maybe not. She began to understand why her
manager, Brian, had directed staff to drop off the orders and avoid looking
around. He had warned, “In the political climate of Washington, D.C., some
things are best not to see.”
Christiana
dislodged her overactive daydreaming and ran to the staff room to gather her
things before clocking out. She jumped
when her phone rang.
“Hey, get here already! I’m guarding your dress in the
main ladies room. You know where,” Avery said. “I never wore it, and you seem
to like blue.”
Avery’s
closet enjoyed a regular turnover, as the budding socialite wouldn’t be caught
dead photographed in anything twice.
Christiana was the grateful recipient of Avery’s generosity. Her hand-me-downs
were really more like hand-me-ups for Christiana.
She grabbed her purse from her locker. “I’m leaving
right now. How come this event is so early?”
“Mom said it’d be like happy hour. It’s really so they
can all start drinking earlier. Serve anyone interesting today?”
“No one special.” She glanced in the small mirror inside
the door and smoothed down a few wispy bangs to cover up the two-inch scar on
her forehead, now pink from exertion.
“Oh, come on. It’s an election year. Everyone wants to
be seen.”
Christiana laughed. “You sound like my dad.” The
silence on the other end signaled Avery wasn’t pleased with the comparison.
Another faux pas—something Avery said Christiana was very good at making, like
wearing the same dress to a charity event more than once.
“Um, do you know Mrs. DeCord?” Christiana asked.
“Sure. Former Miss Dallas, married to a high-powered
lawyer. Well, at least for now. Women like that go through men like wardrobe
changes. Why? What’d she do? Spill it.”
“Oh, nothing. She comes in from time to time.” Damn,
she shouldn’t have asked. Avery’s natural investigative nature came alive when a fellow
socialite’s name arose.
“Who was she with today? Not her husband?” Avery’s
voice lit up with excitement.
“I don’t know what her husband looks like. It was
probably him.”
Avery snorted. “Yeah, right. No one goes to The Oak
with who they’re supposed to be
with.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Look, I’ll be there as
soon as I can, okay?”
Christiana stuffed her phone into her purse and
sprinted to the garage.
Cars choked Constitution Avenue even on a Saturday.
Tourist season had begun in Washington. Families clad in matching t-shirts and
people carrying maps and cameras would soon replace D.C.’s full-time residents,
who would escape the city for Rehoboth Beach on most muggy summer weekends.
She shifted in her seat and adjusted the air
conditioning vents to blow directly over her clammy chest. Christiana glanced
to the National Mall alongside Constitution Avenue. Stopping at a red light
every thirty-five feet never used to bother her. It gave her time to take in
the sights. But lately the Washington Monument’s constant pointing to the sky
created an unsettling feeling. It only reminded her nothing really changes in
D.C.
Christiana pulled up to the entrance of the Rosemont
Country Club only ten minutes late. Sunlight bounced off the brass plaque on
the white brick pillars, the only announcement to the outside world that the
elite of Washington gathered at the other end of the dogwood-lined driveway. Members of Congress discussed budget negotiations while
golfing and bored wives complained about Neiman Marcus inventory while sunning
themselves on the terrace.
Avery’s family had held membership here since the club
opened in the 1920s. Her great-grandfather was one of the founding members. The
Churchill women had spent countless hours flipping from their backs to their
fronts by the swimming pool and attending mixers and events in the cool
evenings. Avery reveled in the ambience. Butterflies usually took over
Christiana’s stomach at the thought of crossing the threshold of the country club
though she attempted to raise a little gratitude for Avery’s generosity in
letting her tag along. Or drag me along.
She shook her
head and tried to focus on not tripping up the stairs in her high-heeled
sandals. But memories of work today and what she’d overheard at the Jefferson
Suite kept replaying in her mind. Stop
it. Chris. Think forward. She
slipped through the massive oak door.
