Chapter 9

 

A shrill ring startled her.

Elora was already standing beside the door. She opened it. Danny stood there on the front step urgently leaning on the doorbell. Her heart soared into a flying butterfly spin and sudden heat fired her lower belly with anticipation. He looked like a modern day Prince Charming in a physique-hugging tuxedo – his dark blond hair brushed enticingly along the collar of his shirt while his sexy beard framed his sensual mouth.

In one hand he held aloft her favourite high-heeled shoe filled to brimming with bubbly champagne. In the other hand he carried a satin and lace pillow displaying a beautiful pair of matched wedding bands threaded together with a shimmering silk ribbon.

He smiled his slow, wolfish grin, the one that made her insides turn to jelly. He held up her shoe. “I promise I won’t tickle.”

Elora could only stare. No words formed on her lips. Hope warred with fear deep within her breast. She felt the pain of her longing acutely.

Danny, tired of waiting for her to respond, began to sip the champagne from the shoe then turned and walked away. He flung the pillow with the attached rings into the waters of the Lady of the Lake, where it sank like a solid golf ball. Terrified of losing him, Elora tried to run after him. She crashed to the ground. She had no left foot to support her. Her body shook with tremors as she watched him go. If only she were still whole, she could go after him. If only….

The shrill ring sounded again.

Elora leapt out of her bed intent on answering what she perceived in her groggy state of mind to be the front door. Within seconds, she found herself lying sprawled flat on her back in the middle of her bedroom floor. As she lay there, momentarily stunned, the ringing sounded again. It was her bedside telephone.

Elora pushed herself up onto one elbow, just high enough to reach up and answer the urgently summoning instrument. The last shreds of the dream faded – but not the longing.

“Yes?” she sighed heavily into the receiver as she flopped back down onto the floor, cradling the phone against the side of her head. She stared vacantly up at the ceiling. She tried to hang onto the dream, but it was gone.

“Lori? Is that you?” Veronica asked, her voice full of concern. “Are you all right?”

“Of course it’s me,” Elora answered, stifling a yawn. “I’m always fine when I’ve just been startled out of my wits by the phone early in the morning.”

“It’s nearly nine o’clock,” Veronica admonished from the other end. “I’d have thought Caitlin would’ve had you up for ages by now.” Veronica’s tone made it clear she thought Elora was failing miserably at the job of motherhood.

Elora cocked an ear to listen for any sounds of life coming from the other side of her bedroom door and was rewarded by the sounds of the television set. “I can hear Caitlin watching the TV. Not sharing a room with her anymore, I didn’t hear her when she got up. I must admit, it’s a novelty being allowed to sleep in for once.” She gave another wide, open-mouthed yawn.

“Did you have another late night date with that gorgeous hunk?”

“What date, and what hunk?” Elora knew what Ronnie was talking about, but refused to give her best friend any satisfaction. Besides, Danny had left and she, idiot that she was, had wished him a nice life. A nice life! What kind of inane comment was that?

“The whole town is talking about him,” Veronica sighed dramatically in her ear. “And you never said a word about him to me. How could you!”

“There’s nothing to say.” Elora stifled another yawn. “He came, he golfed, he left. Hundreds of guys do that all the time.”

“Ah … but none of them sit and have dinner with you until one in the morning.”

“Is nothing sacred? Do you have spies everywhere?”

Before Veronica could respond, Elora accidentally tugged on the cable . The phone’s base toppled off of its nightstand, narrowly missing smashing onto her head and grazed her left shoulder.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Lori! What’s happening? Are you okay?”

“I’m just fine,” Elora muttered from her horizontal position as she straightened out the wayward object. She was far from fine, and she didn’t want to start her day by talking and thinking about Danny. He was gone, and she had bid him farewell. It was all for the best. “I nearly decapitated myself with the phone, but I’ll live.”

“How could the telephone possibly land on your head if you’re in bed?” Veronica demanded.

“Because I’m not in bed,” Elora answered in weary resignation. “I’m lying in the middle of my bedroom floor.” Not giving her friend the chance to ask her next inevitable question, Elora filled in the details for her immediately. “When you first called I thought it was the doorbell. In my haste to answer it I forgot I was missing a leg, so I jumped up only to find myself landing flat on my face in the next second. Satisfied?” She didn’t mention the dream, or the inexplicable sadness she felt in its wake.

“Well,” Veronica drawled. “I’m glad you didn’t cut off your head. I don’t think any of those mannequin heads, like the ones they have in the department store, would suit you very well. They’re kind of out-dated with those frizzy wigs. Though, speaking of frizzy, how’s your hair?”

 

* * * *

 

Four days later, Elora sauntered along the main walkway leading to the front door of the Barons Hotel. Today she was dressed in what Ronnie called her tent pants along with a white ruffled blouse overlaid with a brightly patterned vest. She reasoned the pretty vest would keep people’s eyes focused above her waistline.

She paused. She had missed her work here dreadfully and had cut her leave short by a whole day. Even though it was mid-afternoon she knew the work had been piling up, so she thought she would get a jumpstart on it before tomorrow. Since she didn’t know how much longer she’d have this job, she planned to enjoy every minute of it for as long as it lasted.

She particularly enjoyed the sight of the wide front porch, propped up by several ornately carved white columns, which ran the entire width of the mansion. Newly budding rose bushes flanked the porch and ran along both sides of the cobblestone path that led up to the sweeping front steps. In the summer, the heady scent of the flowering bushes would fill the air.

Elora took her time climbing the wide, low risers, recalling how Danny had helped her to climb the stairs on that long ago, magical night. With a bit more practice she believed she could ascend more normally. She vowed to set aside regular practice time for walking. She studied the cane in her hand. She didn’t want to have to rely on it forever.

Again her thoughts strayed to Danny. Would it have made any difference when she’d first met him if she’d been able to walk without any outward sign of disability? Or was Ronnie right in saying that the disability was all in her head?

Elora glanced about and, noticing she was alone, began her practice session that very minute. She descended the stairs and strolled up and down the walkway several times, much like a model sauntering along a runway. The slower she went, the more in control she was. The more in control, the less she required the hated cane.

Next she tackled the stairs. She could not do so without the cane, or climb more than one step at a time. Her muscles ached. Good. They lacked the proper exercise. In future she’d exercise them more.

By the time she entered the foyer, beads of sweat dotted her brow. Her leg throbbed. Tomorrow she would increase the time. She would learn to walk as naturally as she had once skated – like a pro.

Sunlight cast its bright glow into the Barons’ lobby through two high windows. Because the lobby was large, high-ceilinged, and darkly wood panelled, the natural light only succeeded in creating twin bars of illumination that landed in the middle of the room, spot-lighting the stains on the faded carpet. Elora made a mental note to have the carpets replaced. Perhaps Persian. Something rich and dark patterned to accent the gleam of the polished wood floor.

Elora paused beneath one sunbeam. A great chandelier, ponderous in its brilliance, supported by a thick chain suspended from the vaulted ceiling provided the light for the room. Well blended with the old-fashioned decor were cleverly concealed spotlights, which subtly filled in the dark corners. The track lighting had been one of Elora’s many innovative ideas.

The wide oak entrance divided the lobby neatly down the center. To one side stood the reception desk, with an ornately inlaid door behind it leading to the manager’s office. Continuing beyond reception to the right stood an arched entryway that led to the five-star Captain’s Table Restaurant. Stairs at the back of the lobby led down to the meeting rooms on the lower level.

When one looked left from the front doorway there were stairs going up, which led to the guestrooms on the upper levels. In an alcove before these second set of stairs was an intimate sitting room, or front parlour as it might have been in days gone by. Antique chairs, overstuffed and resplendent in finely woven fabric, graced the little room.

In that room sat an elegantly attired man in a dark blue business suit.

Elora took in the sight of the handsome stranger sitting nonchalantly in a chair, one ankle crossed negligently over the other knee. At first glance he appeared to have a cigarette between his teeth. She was about to inform him that this was a non-smoking establishment, but before she could take a step he removed it. The stranger held between his fingers a candy. A bright, lime green lollipop. He inclined his head in her direction. His thick, light-brown hair, chiselled chin, and indigo blue eyes all lent him the aura of a present day pirate.

Elora’s gaze was caught by the glow of a laptop, which sat on the table at his side. Annoyance flooded her system. He certainly didn’t have the look about him of a guest. This man must undoubtedly be the dreaded reporter; the one who was trying to ruin her precarious sense of well-being, all for the sake of a scoop. He wasn’t quite dressed like a reporter. Still, she had known reporters who would try anything to make one stop and talk. Sharp blue eyes seemed to take in everything, silently, much as a hawk appeared to lazily take in the view from its lofty vantage spiralling in the sky. She felt like a mouse to his hawk.

With a start, she realized that from his place by the window he’d had a clear view of her performance while she had thought herself alone.

He clapped his computer shut, then stood up and approached her, as if he’d been expecting her. Her eyes travelled up. Tom had said the reporter was tall, she guessed the stranger to be at least six foot two or three. He appeared taller than Danny, and she had thought Danny tall.

With an abrupt about face that almost unbalanced her, Elora marched stiffly across the foyer towards the front desk.

“Just a minute,” the stranger called out. “Are you Lori?” She ignored him.

“I’ve got work to do,” Elora said to Sally as she rounded the desk. “I don’t want to be disturbed.” Elora didn’t halt to make chitchat; she was bent on hiding. The only place immediately available was the manager’s office.

“There’s a gentleman—” Sally began to mention, but Elora cut her off in mid-sentence.

“No,” Elora stated emphatically.

She wanted nothing to do with reporters or their ilk. They were nothing more than scavengers, feeding off the body and souls of innocent victims like herself. She conveniently forgot that at Trevor’s behest she had avidly courted them, before the loss of her family. After the tragedy, the paparazzi had dogged her into hiding. Her relationship with them had never been the same since.

“But he’s—”

“I don’t care who he is,” Elora said. “Get rid of him.”

“Oh, but I care who you are,” the stranger spoke softly from behind her. His smooth voice sent warning bells skittering off in her brain. “I care very much.”

Elora whirled around to face him. “I’m not interested in talking to you.” 

She clutched at her cane for more than just support. She remembered attacking Danny with it the other day. If pressed, she’d use it again as a weapon. Irrationally she glanced about, as if expecting Danny to come to her rescue now. With her luck, he’d probably side with the irritating reporter.

“You will, once you’ve heard what I have to say.” The stranger dropped the remainder of his candy in the wastebasket and sidestepped her to open the door into the office. In his other hand he carried the laptop. “Why don’t we discuss everything in here rather than make a spectacle of ourselves in front of the staff.” It was an order and not a suggestion.

Hardness lined his mouth, and she balked at going anywhere with this man. He placed his hand under her elbow to guide her into the inner chamber. Elora shrugged out of his grasp and refused to budge. Her annoyance grew into full-fledged anger.

“I am going in there,” she said, “alone.” She backed a step away from him. “I have too much work to do to spend any time dithering with you.”

“I do not dither,” the man snapped. “And if it were left up to me, I wouldn’t choose to spend my afternoon in the company of a prima donna like yourself, either.”

Elora glared at the handsome stranger. How dare he call her a prima donna? All her career she’d maintained an exemplary professional demeanour.

“You have no right to call me that. None at all.”

“Then who was the show outside for?” he asked. “All that parading and posturing up and down the walk like—”

“I was practicing, or rather exercising, if you will. Besides, it’s none of your business.”

“Everything to do with this hotel is my business,” he answered. “And if you don’t mind, I prefer to conduct my business in the comfort of an office.”

“I don’t know who you think you are,” Elora seethed, “but I am not going to have a private tête-à-tête with you.” She raised her cane slightly for emphasis.

“I’m Paul Barrington-Smith,” he said in a calm, deliberate voice. He stared pointedly at the cane, then back at her. The cold smile, which bracketed his well-shaped mouth, did nothing to lighten his dark indigo eyes.

“And I’m supposed to know who you are?” Elora cocked an eyebrow at him. Something about his name nagged at the back of her mind, but she was too wound up to pay it any heed.

“Lori?” Sally interrupted. Elora finally looked over at her receptionist, who she belatedly realized had been trying to get her attention. “Mr. Barrington-Smith is the new owner of the Barons Hotel. Remember? He came down unexpectedly today, especially to talk to you this afternoon. I tried to call you earlier, but you were out.”

“The owner?” Elora groaned.

She clapped her hand to her forehead. She was getting paranoid. She peered through her fingers at reliable, dependable Sally. She watched Sally push the thin, gold-framed glasses further up the bridge of her pert nose. With envy she noted that Sally’s long, smooth hair hung down her back in a neat, tidy French braid.

“Are you sure?” Elora asked, fearing the answer.

“Lori.” Sally leaned negligently against the counter. “Mr. Barrington-Smith came to see Warren McLean, and when he learned—”

“That the manager has been ill for the past two months,” Paul interjected, “and recovering from a stroke, I decided to talk to whoever was deemed to be in charge of one of my most lucrative business assets.”

Elora looked from the receptionist to the owner and back again. With what remained of her tattered dignity, she screwed up her courage to face a very irate businessman. She lifted her free hand and indicated that they adjourn to the office.

“Sally,” she said over her shoulder. “Have Perry bring us in a coffee tray with some scones or something. I haven’t had lunch yet.” She glanced at her watch. Mid-afternoon. What a day she was having.

The moment the door closed she said, “I’m afraid an apology won’t be near enough to excuse my behaviour, will it?”

“Hardly.” The tall, handsome businessman stood impassively in the middle of the room. He placed the computer case on the floor at his feet, the better to intimidate with his towering posture and arms folded across his broad chest.

“I didn’t think so.” Elora sighed. She pushed at the tangle of hair framing her face. For the umpteenth time she wished she hadn’t done something so rash. When it had been long and straight she had always kept it neatly styled in an elegant chignon or a smooth French braid. She would have given anything at this moment to be able to summon up even a scrap of her former poise.

“I took you for a reporter,” she explained. “They’ve stalked me before, and I didn’t feel up to handling another one right at the moment.”

“Aren’t you being a little melodramatic?” Paul arched his eyebrows.

“No.” She ignored his sceptical expression.

She indicated with a wave of her hand for him to take a seat in one of the two leather chairs arranged in front of the massive desk as she hobbled her away around the side to take her customary position behind it. She stopped halfway and looked at Paul.

“I think maybe you’d better sit there,” she said. “After all, you are the owner.” 

“How nice of you to admit that.” 

Elora held her tongue and limped her way over to the second leather wingback chair. She refrained from making a comment when he chose instead to sit in the other guest chair and turned it to face her.

“Now,” he said. “You know who I am. What I want to know is – who are you?”

“Lori.” When she realized she was clenching and unclenching her fists she dropped them into her lap.

“That much I know already. What I want to know is your last name.”

“My last name is unimportant.” Elora sat up straighter and raised her chin. “I suggest we talk about the business of your hotel rather than about me.” The last thing she wanted to talk about with this man was any of her past, personal history.

“Your name is very important to me.” Paul steepled his long, lean fingers together. “I want to know exactly who has seized control of my hotel without my knowledge or sanction.”