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It was only then that Polly realised she had no idea where the meeting was being held. He could be taking her anywhere. She shuffled through the papers Rachel had handed her, looking for some kind of clue.
Nothing. Budgets, technical specs, nothing of any use.
She felt so helpless, the annoyance itched away at her. The tiredness was bad enough; the effort it was taking to function at her usual level was soul destroying. Clara’s reassurances that it wouldn’t last, that she would be back to full capacity in just a couple of weeks, were little comfort. She couldn’t afford to slack at any point.
Nobody had said it would be easy—and ‘nobody’ was right—but she couldn’t let that derail her. Her grandfather might have apologised but she wasn’t going to give him the slightest opportunity to think she couldn’t cope.
The car drew up outside an imposing-looking hotel built of the golden stone Polly had already noticed in abundance as they drove down the wide boulevards. Each floor was populated with quaint balconies while colourful flower baskets softened the rather regal effect.
The driver had come around to open her door. ‘Mademoiselle?’
‘I’m meeting him here?’ she asked, puzzled. Polly knew a five-star hotel when she saw one and this looked top end. This kind of old-world luxury seemed a peculiar choice for a cutting-edge developer. Maybe it was a post-modern thing she wasn’t cool enough to understand.
Either way she was here now—and the hotel certainly was Paris at its opulent best. The Eiffel Tower was clearly visible from the pavement and the foyer reminded her a little of Rafferty’s with its art-deco-inspired floor and grand pillars. Polly looked around. How was she supposed to work out which particular bar, restaurant or café she was meeting her contact in—and what was his name again?
‘Can I help you?’ The intimidatingly chic receptionist spoke in perfect English. How did she know? Did they have a nationality detector at the door?
‘Yes, I am Polly Rafferty and I am supposed...’
‘Ah, Mademoiselle Rafferty. I have your key here. There is nothing to sign. It is all taken care of.’
‘Key?’ Polly took it in her hand. It was a key too, a heavy gold one, not an anonymous card. ‘No, I’m not staying. I am meant to be meeting...’ She thought hard. Nope. Nothing. Had Rachel ever told her the name? ‘Someone,’ she finished lamely.
‘Yes, I know. Pierre will show you the way.’
It was a bit like being in a Hitchcock plot. Polly fully expected Cary Grant to walk past as the dapper porter showed her to the lift, not betraying by one eyebrow how odd it was for her to be checking in without as much as an overnight bag.
If checking in she was. Maybe he was merely showing her to a meeting room?
The lift went up. And up and up.
‘Penthouse?’ she queried. It was an odd place for a meeting room. Pierre merely motioned for her to follow and led her to a white door, the only one in a grand, formal-looking corridor richly papered in a gold and black oriental print.
I’m being kidnapped and I am far too English and polite to scream for help, Polly thought as she put the key into the lock and turned it. The door swung open and she found herself looking at quite the most perfect hotel suite she had ever seen.
The door opened into a large sitting room. Polly stepped in, her attention immediately captured by two floor-to-ceiling windows, both flung open and leading out onto one of the pretty balconies she had admired on the way in. Perfectly visible through both was a to-die-for view of the Eiffel Tower, majestically dominating the horizon.
Polly turned slowly, taking in her luxurious surroundings. The suite was decorated in shades of lavender and silver, the cool colours perfectly setting off the rich mahogany tones in the woodwork. Two sofas, lavishly heaped with cushions, surrounded the dark wooden coffee table and lavender silk curtains framed that perfect city view.
Polly stepped further in, looking back at Pierre for confirmation, but he had gone, closing the door behind him. She was alone.
If this was a kidnap then it was a luxuriously comfortable kidnapping. Her gaze stopped on a plate on the coffee table. A kidnapping complete with a plate of delicately coloured macaroons.
Polly had never stayed anywhere this beautiful. It wasn’t that she couldn’t afford to, but, her recent trip aside, she really only travelled for business and that was on Rafferty’s budget. She stayed in good hotels, in comfortable, spacious rooms fully outfitted for the business traveller, but she would never charge a suite like this to her expense account.
And it had never occurred to her to book this kind of luxury for herself. What had she been thinking? From now on it was suites all the way.
