The lift jogged to a stop. Finally! she thought, and she stepped briskly into the hall. After a second or two, the man’s footsteps followed after her. Arden gritted her teeth. He wasn’t just persistent, he was impossible! She took a deep breath and spun around to face him. ‘Listen here,’ she said fiercely, ‘if you think—’
Her words sputtered to silence. The stranger wasn’t following her, he was unlocking the door to what was obviously his room. He looked up, and his eyes, as green and cold as those of a jungle cat, met hers.
‘Adios, señorita. Don’t think it’s been charming, because it hasn’t.’
Arden’s mouth dropped open. She wanted to make a sharp, clever rejoinder, but her mind was a blank. Instead, she tossed her head, turned on her heel, and strode down the corridor to her room. She stabbed her key into the lock, shoved the door open, then slammed it after her.
Before you knew it, this hotel would be renting rooms to just about anybody!
She marched stiffly through her small sitting-room to the bedroom and tossed her key on the table. After a moment, she sighed and sank into a chair. There was no reason to let such a silly encounter upset her. She’d had a long, hard day, she’d been looking forward to a relaxing evening, and she certainly wasn’t going to let a run-in with an arrogant fool snatch that away from her!
She kicked off her beige pumps, stretched out her legs, and began leafing through the remaining messages still clutched in her hand.
There was one from Julie Squires, the newest New York transfer. Would Arden like to take the train ride to Limon on Saturday? Arden sighed again. Sure, she would, even though she’d already made the near obligatory trip to the coastal town. Julie was feeling displaced, something Arden understood all too well. Costa Rica was beautiful and the people were warm and friendly, but it was hard not to feel at a loose end your first few weeks.
The second message was from the hotel, a gaily coloured flyer reminding guests of tonight’s poolside party. Arden rose to her feet, stripped off her suit jacket, and tossed it across a chair. The Lift Lothario would certainly be in attendance, but she would not.
Not that she’d ever had any intention of attending, she thought as she unzipped her skirt and stepped out of it. She’d never liked parties, always felt shelf-conscious at them, half waiting for another guest to point a finger at her and ask people who had invited her?
Arden smiled a bit grimly as she peeled off her blouse and underwear and dropped them on the chair. And it didn’t take a psychologist to figure out that little scenario, she thought as she padded into the bathroom and turned on the shower. When you spent your teenage years passing hors-d’oeuvres and drinks to people you saw every day, you could easily end up with a very different attitude about partygoing.
‘It’s an easy way to make a little extra money,’ her mother had always said when she pressed Arden into serving at weekends at the Potts mansion where she’d worked as a maid, and Arden would never have hurt her by arguing, but the truth was that it was a terrible way to earn money, wearing a black uniform with a tiny white apron and trying not to react when kids from your English or mathematics classes looked straight through you as if they’d never seen you before.
Actually, she thought as she pinned her dark auburn hair into a top knot and stepped under the shower, she had gone to one of the hotel’s parties a couple of months ago, after her boss had urged her to do so for weeks.
‘It’s simply an act of sociability, Miss Miller,’ Mr Lithgow had said crisply. ‘I have no interest in such nonsense either, but the New York office has made a special point of asking us all to do our part in being friendly to the Costa Ricans.’
Arden had thought that being friendly to a bunc
h of hotel guests hardly qualified, but she’d kept her opinion to herself. Edgar Lithgow had selected her for this job personally, choosing her instead of two other equally qualified applicants because, he’d said sternly, he knew he could count on her to put the interests of the firm before her own, and she wasn’t about to give him reason to think otherwise.
And so, with great reluctance, she’d agreed to go to the party. But she’d felt even more out of place than usual, in the midst of vacationers partying at an almost frantic pace while she’d stood there in a grey business suit, trying to look at ease, and not even Mr Lithgow’s attempts at sociability had helped. In fact, Arden thought, wincing at the memory, she’d been so stiff and uncomfortable that she’d almost made a damned fool of herself when her boss had come striding towards her with two tall, frosted glasses in his hands.
‘No, thank you, sir,’ she’d said, when he’d held one of the glasses out to her.
‘Don’t be silly, Miss Miller,’ he’d said with a frown. ‘It’s only punch.’
And so she’d taken the glass, then a sip from it, just to be polite. It hadn’t tasted bad at all, sort of fruity and cool and sweet, but there must have been enough rum in it to have gone straight to her head because moments later, she’d imagined Mr Lithgow looking at her in a way he never had before, with a sharp brightness glinting in the pale blue eyes behind their tri-focal lenses, and then she’d thought he’d moved closer to her than he had to, so that his arm kept brushing against her breast each time he lifted his glass.
But the final moment of foolishness had come when she felt his hand settle on her hip, the fingers lightly cupping her buttocks. Arden still shuddered when she thought of it.
‘Mr Lithgow,’ she’d said, loudly and sharply enough to have made a couple of heads turn in their direction, but before she could make a complete ass of herself, thank God, her boss had frowned and nodded towards the pool and said that it was a good thing he’d grabbed her in time or the jostling crowd would have tumbled her straight in. Arden had blushed with embarrassment at what she’d been thinking, claimed a headache, and fled to her rooms where she’d reminded herself that one of the reasons she’d accepted this transfer was not just because it could well lead to a promotion but because Edgar Lithgow, while rich, was as harmless as a dodo. He had a wife, five children, a paunch and a shiny scalp, and he was on the board of half a dozen religious and charitable organisations.
Arden turned off the shower and stepped from the tub. In five months here, she thought as she wrapped herself in a floor-length towelling robe, working side by side all day, bumping into each other with regularity in the hotel dining-room or reading lounge in the evening, he had never given her the slightest reason to find fault with him. In fact, she doubted he’d ever really noticed if she were male or female. She shuddered as she unpinned her hair, then combed it out until it lay in darkly curling abundance on her shoulders.
‘Thank your lucky stars you didn’t make a fool of yourself that night, Arden,’ she whispered to her reflection in the misted mirror. The last thing she wanted was to lose this job and the chance it offered of a better future.
There was a knock at the door to her suite. Had an hour gone by already? Not that it mattered; she’d eat just as she was, in her robe at the little table by the window in the sitting-room, and then she’d curl up in bed with the book she’d started last evening.
The knock came again, just as she reached the door and unlocked it.
‘Buenas noches, Alejandro,’ she said—and stared in surprise.
It was not the bellman with her dinner tray who stood in the hallway.
It was her boss, Edgar Lithgow.
CHAPTER TWO