Secret Games

3

“WELCOME TO Falling Inn Bed, and Breakfast, ma’am.”

Maggie handed the car keys to the valet, estimated him to be around eighteen or nineteen. He probably parked cars on holidays to pay his college tuition. Or maybe to afford one of the romance-themed suites inside.

Did he get an employee discount?

The less analytical part of her brain wondered if he thought she’d come to the superclub to have sex. She felt an absurd urge to explain she was here to observe, not participate, but suspected this young man couldn’t have cared less. His mind was probably engaged elsewhere.

Like on what he might do inside one of those romance-themed suites with his own girlfriend.

As far as superclubs went, Falling Inn Bed, and Breakfast appeared as picturesque as the brochure had led her to believe. Clearly a tribute to the Northeast style of architecture with its steep roofs and canted bay windows, the superclub also had a wraparound veranda that would make gazing out over the park surrounding the Falls an incredible experience in any season.

Her original impression of the superclub had been right. The hotel and grounds combined looked like a movie set come to life. Or perhaps she’d stepped through the movie screen into another era. When the valet drove off in Sam’s car, Maggie had the odd sensation that the twenty-first century had disappeared into an unseen parking garage right along with it. Or maybe it was her last link to reality that sped away.

A recent snowfall had enameled the grounds beneath a glaze of white and Maggie knew Sam would have insisted she fly if he’d suspected a storm. Luckily, she’d bypassed any difficult weather and her trip had been uneventful.

But Niagara was definitely a winter wonderland. Snow embossed the landscaping, creating glistening tiers of the frozen bushes and flower beds below. Lawn lights became icy rosettes that marked the walkway, and with the icicles hanging from the gingerbread trim along the eaves, Maggie thought the superclub looked like a giant wedding cake.

The air was filmy with moisture, the sky the color of pebbles, a combination, she supposed, of stormy weather and mist from the nearby Falls. Each exhalation formed smoky tendrils of breath, but it wasn’t the cold that made her breathless. It was the atmosphere of the place. The aura of romance was tangible.

She made her way up the steps while a mature bellhop with grizzled hair wheeled her bags up a tastefully hidden access ramp. Bitter wind nipped at her cheeks, and somehow, the moment seemed symbolic, as if each step brought her closer to an unknown and uncertain future.

The doors ahead swung open, held wide by a smiling, well-bundled doorman. “Welcome to Falling Inn Bed, and Breakfast.”

Sweeping across the veranda, Maggie inclined her head at the doorman, firmly tamping down any last-minute doubts that dared to surface. She’d just spent the past nine hours and five hundred miles driving to give herself a chance to come to grips with what she had to do.

She had couples to observe and a knowledge base to build. She would not be obsessing about sharing a romance-themed suite with Sam.

Though it would have made sense for her to fly into Niagara with him, Maggie had needed the long drive to formulate her game plan. Sam hadn’t been thrilled with the idea of her making the trip alone and had offered to cancel his meetings and drive with her. But just the thought of sitting sandwiched together in the cramped interior of a car for so long was too much forced closeness for Maggie to deal with.

At least until she had a firm grip on her imagination.

Truth was, she’d had sex on the brain ever since Sam had agreed to help her. When she’d met him in their hallway for a trip to the grocery store, their lovely polished-wood foyer had seemed to shrink to the dimensions of a peanut shell. Though she’d stood in that foyer with Sam a thousand times, Maggie never once remembered almost strangling from the lack of air.

When they’d bumped into each other at her twice weekly workout at the ice-skating rink, she couldn’t help imagining what he would look like divested of all that bulky hockey gear. And when she’d glanced up to find him watching her from the bleachers, she’d been so rattled that she’d tripped on her toe pick and skidded across the ice.

While at work, her overactive imagination had been sufficiently occupied, but Maggie had spent the rest of her days staving off guilt for all the erotic pImages** she’d conjured up during the nights.

Oh, the nights. They’d been the worst. Lying awake with Sam in the apartment below, imagining him in his bed, wondering what he was dreaming about.

Of course, she would never admit any of this to him, but after several barely lucid, and very lame excuses, he’d gotten the hint and backed off, giving her the time she needed to put all errant thoughts of sex out of her mind. His compromise had been that she drive his late-model, reliable car and allow him to make the return trip with her.

“I’ll take your bags to your suite, ma’am,” said a voice deep with the unmistakable burr of Scotland, when the bellhop reappeared by her side.

“Yes, thank you,” she said, making eye contact with the man whose nose and cheeks had caught the bad end of the bitter cold, judging by their reddened tips.

The gold-trimmed sable uniform jacket sat stiffly on the bellhop’s shoulders, as though he spent more time shrugging out of it than wearing it. A glance at his name badge revealed why—he was the maintenance supervisor. Why he was doubling as the bellhop, Maggie could only guess, but she smiled in greeting.

“I haven’t checked in yet, Mr. Longmuir, but my…” How should she refer to Sam? Pretend lover, boyfriend, gigolo? “My friend should be here. Sam Masters. Just take them to his suite.” She would head that way herself soon.

“Just call me Dougray, lassie,” he said with a toothy grin that revealed a good bit of silver in those very same teeth. “I’m the jack-of-all-trades around here. If you have a trouble, with anything mind, press 19 on any house phone, and I’ll be with you in a jiffy.”

“Thank you, Dougray.”

“Now, they’re getting antsy for you at the front desk, lassie. You’d best get over before they accuse me of gibbering with the guests.” Abundant gray brows dipped together in a scowl that bisected the older man’s forehead and reminded Maggie of what Sam always jokingly referred to as a unibrow.

She followed Dougray’s gaze to the front desk, where several clerks snapped to attention and quickly busied themselves with various tasks. Hiking her purse higher onto her shoulder, Maggie smoothed her skirt, wondered why she was attracting such an inordinate amount of attention.

She decided she really didn’t want to know. “I, uh, think I’ll look around a bit before I check in, Dougray.”

“Press 19 on the house phone, lassie. Remember that.”

“I got it—19.”

With a respectful nod, Dougray retreated.

Maggie should let Sam know she’d arrived safely but decided the arrival of her bags would serve the same purpose. Taking off in the opposite direction of the front desk, she eagerly toured the lavishly appointed lobby. Falling Inn Bed, and Breakfast was nothing if not lavish.

The soft glow of light from a collection of cut-crystal chandeliers overhead enhanced the fabulous New England antiques arranged in welcoming, accessible clusters. The walls hosted several paintings of what appeared to be good-old-days scenes depicting the turn-of-the-century hotel and added to Maggie’s impression that she’d stepped into another era.

While artful floral arrangements with wintry ivy and bright-red roses lent the room a charming Valentine’s Day ambiance, the ten-foot tall Victorian topiary in the shape of three tiered hearts, immediately captured her interest.

She made her way toward it, passing a huge fireplace with a roaring fire that cast much appreciated warmth, and admired the unusual topiary, enjoying the sheer whimsy of the design. The hearts had been filled with huge white spider mums, then decorated with twinkling red lights, ribbons, hearts, and…

Maggie caught sight of a shiny ornament, a fragile glass likeness of a Rubenesque nude, one hand casually cupping a breast, the other positioned coyly between ample thighs. She inspected its neighbors with growing amazement.

Whoa.

Female nudes. Male nudes. Nude couples. While none was doing anything that might qualify for an entry in the Kama Sutra, all were clearly enjoying the effects of fondling themselves and each other. Maggie’s surprise faded as suddenly as it had appeared.

Whoever had invented the name Falling in Bed, and Breakfast hadn’t been kidding.

Time to move on. She glanced at the front desk again, but those clerks thought she was here to spend the weekend indulging in sex. Incredible sex, she remembered the Weatherbys’ distinction, and decided there was no real hurry to check in.

Continuing her tour, she noticed for the first time grinning Cupids hanging everywhere. So many Cupids, in fact, she suspected management was encouraging the mischievous son of Venus to aim at guests the minute they walked through the door.

She kept walking the promenade of specialty stores, peering into shop fronts, not seeing much more than a blur. Until a display of lovely gift baskets caught her eye.

Arranged on platforms of all different heights and angles, the bright-colored baskets with festive ribbons contained what appeared to be bath and body items. Maggie paused, intent upon discerning the names on the assortment of jars and bottles, not surprised to identify champagne bubble bath in a replica of a champagne bottle and Treasure of the Sea bathing gels in a clever collection of seashell-shaped jars.

But Joy Jelly, Motion Lotion and Peterbutter? She leaned closer to inspect the silver-embossed labels which read, An Edible Lubricant with No Artificial Colors. Available in chocolate, espresso, butter rum or peanut butter.

Sexual props would be the first entry into her idea journal, and remembering Lyn’s comments about practical application, Maggie swallowed back a bubble of laughter.

Observation was definitely the key here.

“I WANT YOU ALL to nap during the staff meeting,” Mary Johnson, general manager and stockholder of Falling Inn Properties, Inc., explained to her crew of dogs. “I’ll take you out for a walk as soon as I’m through with the meeting.”

The dogs, a motley collection that included an English bull, a boxer and two teacup poodles, all made their way into the corner with a compliance honed by years of living in hotels. While they were usually relegated to the confines of her suite, the storm had made them restless. Mary had brought them into the offices today for a change of scenery.

Without a backward glance at her obedient crew, she pulled her agenda for the weekly five o’clock staff meeting from her organizer and glanced at the heading.

Worldwide Travel Association

The words figured in bold letters at the top of the page, emphasizing the importance of an arrival that needed no emphasis. The Worldwide Travel Association, better known as WTA, was the largest travel organization in the world, and they would be sending a representative to judge her property on how well they met the criteria for a prestigious industry award. An award her property desperately needed to win.

“Hey, hey, Ms. J.” Dougray swaggered in, greeted her by the nickname she’d long ago acquired from her staff.

“Good afternoon, Dougray. I assume the heat pump in the west wing is cooperating now that you’ve worked your magic.”

“’Twas the storm that pushed her past the edge, but she’s purring like a kitty again.”

Mary inclined her head in confirmation of a job well-done and recited a silent plea for any other mechanical or electrical failures to restrain themselves until after the WTA judge’s departure. An unrealistic wish, given the size and age of the property, but she saw no harm in making the request.

After welcoming each of her department heads as they filed into the conference room, she watched from her seat at the head of the table as each settled into their respective places.

Silent for the most part, they acknowledged her before nodding casual greetings to each other. They all knew the drill because, with the exception of Laura, the special events coordinator freshly out of college, all of them had followed Mary to this property from the various hotels she’d managed during her thirty years in hospitality management.

They were her best staff ever. Not only were they competent in their positions, but they’d also willingly hocked their life savings and signed their futures away to leverage a buyout of this historical property when the previous management company had gone defunct.

Now Mary was in the unique position of overseeing a staff made up of corporate stockholders. Though a new company had partnered them in the endeavor, she and her staff held the majority shares. This circumstance had changed the gestalt of their situation considerably by placing a great deal of responsibility on her. She cared about every one of these people, and hoped to secure their futures.

“Has Cupid’s Couple checked in?” she asked, beginning the meeting without preamble.

“Cupid’s Couple,” as Sam Masters and Maggie James had been nicknamed during one of the umpteen meetings in preparation for WTA’s judging, was the only unmarried couple booked over the holiday. Their names had come to Mary’s attention via the reservationist, who knew she was looking for some way of edging out the other nominees for the Most Romantic Getaway award.

Cupid’s Couple had provided the perfect way.

Annabelle Simmons, the no-nonsense director of sales, gave a decided shake of her steel-gray curls. “He checked in shortly after three. The last I inquired, she hadn’t arrived yet.”

“The lassie’s here,” Dougray said. “About a quarter hour past. I took her bags to the Tower, but she went sightseeing on the promenade. Saw her peeping in windows just before I came to staff. I don’t think the laddie will stay in his room long, now that he knows she’s here. He seemed twitchy to see her.” Dougray patted the black-encased radio fastened at his waist. “Front desk will call when he comes down or she heads up.”

“Excellent. So we’re prepared to get underway.” Mary cut a glance around the table. “Are we ready?”

A few stoic nods of assent, a muttered “yes,” and one very enthusiastic “as ready as we’ll ever be,” from an excited Laura.

“Have we heard from WTA’s judge yet?” Mary asked.

“He, unfortunately, confirmed an early check-in tomorrow morning.” Annabelle’s possessive scowl compressed her stern features like a balled-up fist.

“Unfortunately?”

“I’d hoped for a woman.” She impatiently rattled papers before her. “They’re much easier to sell on romance.”

Mary had hoped for a woman, too, but didn’t disclose that tidbit. Annabelle was a crack salesperson. Her hardcore pragmatism ensured that guests’ expectations were always enthusiastic and reasonable, but it could also have a sobering effect when the staff needed something to hope for. “Then we’ll just have to work harder to sell him.”

While an air of expectancy lingered over the table, Mary’s staff appeared determined, and she felt certain her casual acceptance of their new judge had had the desired effect. No last-minute panicking. They’d come this far, and she wouldn’t allow them to trip at the finish line.

“Think of this as the opportunity it is,” Mary said. “We’ve been nominated as the most romantic getaway. This is the toughest industry award and the one carrying the biggest prize. We’ve earned this nomination. I want you all to keep that in mind, when the pressure is on.”

Bruno, the former head chef and current restaurant supervisor, spread his hands in entreaty. “Five other properties have been nominated, too.”

“But we’re the only fully fledged romance superclub,” Laura pointed out, with an enthusiasm Mary suspected was taught as a requirement in college hospitality management courses. “The other nominees are out of their league. They don’t stand a chance, because we’re owned and operated by our staff. We’ve got the edge. We’re motivated. We’re—”

“Desperate,” Dougray said, cutting in.

Bruno issued a heavy sigh. “Yes, desperate.”

“Not desperate.” Mary halted the discussion. Not exactly.

While Falling Inn Bed, and Breakfast wasn’t down-and-out, it wasn’t far from it. Winning the prestigious Most Romantic Getaway award during this all-important first year as both a privately owned property and a romance superclub was essential for their continued existence.

The new management company hadn’t thrown in with the employees to buy the 120-year-old property out of the goodness of their hearts. They’d done so to place themselves in a category that increased their credit limit to allow for both the buyout and a multimillion-dollar renovation of the historic property into a superclub.

There was an opportunity for substantial profit with the venture. There was also an opportunity for loss. While the management company could simply reorganize through bankruptcy in that eventuality, the staff would wind up losing everything down to and including the shirts on their backs.

Mary would do everything in her power to keep that from happening, starting with winning the million-dollar multimedia advertising campaign that was part of WTA’s grand prize. The revenue generated by those promotions would effectively carry them all the way through next year’s off-season.

“We have a unique opportunity here,” she said. “We’re off-season, yet we’re close to running at full capacity. This isn’t Florida, so we can’t attribute those reservations to the weather. Our guests must have come to enjoy our amenities, and we’re staffed to handle them. We’re prepared, organized and completely capable of winning this award on our own merit.” She steepled her hands before her and moved her gaze around the table. “And…we’ve got our ace in the hole.”

Cupid’s Couple.

The way Mary saw it, Ms. James and her escort were both successful businesspeople, young enough to be attracted to a superclub, yet old enough to know what to do with the unique services a superclub offered.

A few well-placed phone calls had revealed that this couple also had a long history between them and, as Mary—stepping into her role as Cupid—had summarily decided, a bright future.

Cupid’s Couple didn’t know it yet, but they were about to be struck by one of Cupid’s golden arrows. They would be bombarded with opportunities for romance this weekend, to fall completely in love and decide to get married, all under the guidance of her staff and the watchful gaze of WTA’s judge.

Their path to love would personalize Falling Inn Bed, and Breakfast in a way that would give her property the edge it needed to win the Most Romantic Getaway award.

Or so the plan went.

“What do you say, Dougray?” Laura asked. “Think we can really pull this off?”

Dougray waved his hand in a gesture of dramatic impatience. “With this incredible superclub? With all of us playing matchmakers?” He rolled his gaze toward the ceiling and gave an exasperated snort. “Cupid’s Couple doesn’t stand a chance.” He patted his hip reassuringly. “I’ve got me radio fixed tight to me belt, Ms. J. Front desk will call as soon as Cupid’s Couple steps into the elevator.”

Mary smiled. “Keep your eyes open for any opportunity to encourage romance. Phase one underway.”

“Phase one underway,” the staff chorused, a salutation.

Everyone knew the plan. Phase one would see Cupid’s Couple exposed to every unusual amenity the superclub had to offer and ensure they were given a chance to avail themselves of those amenities fully.

Each member of her staff would handle his or her job competently. Luck would handle the rest.

And it just so happened that Mary had been born on Saint Valentine’s Day, the luckiest day for love. The way she saw it, she had every right to play Cupid.

“MAGGIE!”

Sam’s voice came at her out of nowhere. Getting caught with her nose pressed to the glass wasn’t exactly the way Maggie had hoped to greet Sam, but her disappointment scattered at the sight of him. Of course, she’d expected to see him, but something about him seemed so unexpected, so…changed.

Long-limbed and leanly muscled, he took each stride brisk and sure, smiling easily as he approached. His sooty black hair shone in the glow of the chandelier’s light, the swoop in his bang that would grow into a full-fledged wave if he didn’t keep up with his trims just beginning to show.

He still wore a suit, as if he’d headed straight to the airport from his last consultation and hadn’t yet bothered to change. Though she’d seen him dressed for work practically every day since he graduated college, there was something different about his crisp white collar and butter-soft Italian leather shoes. So different that the breath tightened in her chest as he drew near.

Then the real disparity struck her. “Your glasses. You’re not wearing them.”

She tipped her head back to stare into his face, into dove-gray eyes that gazed so much more potently without the shield of clear lenses and wire frames.

He kissed her cheek in a casual greeting. “The arm snapped off. As fate would have it, glue wouldn’t work.”

“Your optometrist couldn’t repair them?”

“Afraid not. The arm snapped below the joint. And I couldn’t find my spare pair. I must have accidentally thrown them in with that last Goodwill trip.”

“Oh, are you wearing contacts?”

Maggie knew he would have never seen her from across the lobby without some sort of corrective lenses. More likely he would have tripped over an ottoman.

“My optometrist had to order the frames I liked, but he was able to get these in a few hours. I suspect a conspiracy, though. He’s been trying to sell me on disposable lenses for a while.” Sam squinted myopically. “Have to admit they work. I can see fine.”

She’d seen him without his glasses before, so Maggie couldn’t figure out why his face—such a strong study of planes and angles that in themselves were not noteworthy but created a very striking whole—suddenly seemed so commanding and bold.

Or why catching her breath seemed to be a problem. She must be reacting to the pressure of the past few weeks. Wanting to help Angie and Raymond resolve their issues had weighed heavily on her, and now here she was, ready to implement her plan. She needed ideas, and she only had the weekend to fill up the blank pages of her journal. No wonder she was stressed.

Of course, Sam would notice. Understanding flickered deep in his gaze. He knew her well enough to know she was edgy.

“I checked in and went straight to our suite, so I haven’t had a chance to look around,” he said. “Mind if we do?”

Whew! “No problem.” She wasn’t ready to tackle the sleeping arrangements just yet.

“Here, let me take your coat.” Circling in front of her in a fluid stride, he caught the strap of her purse when she slid it from her shoulder.

But the cold must have affected her more than she’d realized because unfastening the buttons of her pea jacket beneath Sam’s steady gaze proved beyond her abilities. To her profound embarrassment, she seemed to have sprouted ten thumbs.

Of course, Sam would notice that, too. But like the gentleman he was, he took command of the situation. Sliding her purse into the crook of his elbow, he brushed aside her fingers and worked the button at her throat.