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‘Could you let Mr Luke Devlin know I’m here?’ Ruby asked the receptionist in the lobby of The Grant, attempting to sound authoritative. The hotel’s steel and glass interior design was everything Ruby would have expected of a high-end Mayfair watering hole for billionaire businessmen – sleek, soulless and defiantly impersonal.
Intimidating much?
‘Certainly.’ The receptionist sent her a benign smile and picked up the in-house phone. ‘Who should I say is calling?’
He’s actually here. Perhaps this is a sign.
‘Um, Ruby Graham,’ Ruby replied, a tickle of anxiety working its way past her Prosecco buzz.
The woman nodded, keyed in a number and then spoke into the phone.
‘Mr Devlin, Ruby Graham is in the lobby and wishes to see you.’ The woman smiled beatifically at Ruby obviously listening on the other end. ‘Yes, Mr Devlin, she’s here in front of me.’ The woman frowned. ‘Um, yes, sir, she can hear me talking to you.’
As the conversation continued for a moment, Ruby realized she’d been right. His offer to talk to her had been fake news back at The Royale.
The receptionist covered the handset’s mouthpiece. ‘Mr Devlin would like to know if you could contact him tomorrow?’
What? After he’s checked out? I don’t think so.
‘Could you tell him it’s super urgent and involves his uncle’s ashes,’ she said. She reached into the backpack and pulled out the plastic urn to punctuate the surprise reveal. ‘I have them with me.’
‘Oh, I see,’ the receptionist replied, a light flush appearing through her expertly applied make-up. Clearly, having human remains brandished at her wasn’t a regular occurrence.
The receptionist relayed the information. There was a long pause and then she nodded.
‘He’s in the penthouse suite on the sixteenth floor. Room 1601.’ She directed Ruby to the bank of elevators on the other side of the reception area. ‘He said to go right up,’ she added chirpily.
I’ll just bet he did.
‘Okay, thanks.’ Hefting her backpack, Ruby headed to the elevators, her Prosecco buzz now no more than a discordant hum.
He’d tried to give her the brush-off. That moment of connection back at the flat had all been in her imagination. Devlin was as mercenary as she’d tried not to assume. No way in hell was she going to be able to persuade him to change his mind about investing in the theatre – which made her mission here somewhat redundant.
The weight of the urn in her backpack became heavier.
She patted the pack. ‘It’s okay, Matty. I’ll ask him if he’ll come tonight. If he says no, at least we tried. Right?’
He’s going to say no, so there’s no point in getting stressed.
But she was stressed, as she got to the end of the corridor on the sixteenth floor and tapped on the door marked Penthouse Suite.
The door opened a few seconds later. And there he was, in all of his glory. His dark wavy hair mussed, as if he’d been running his fingers through it. That devastating gaze locked on her.
‘Hello, Ruby,’ he said, sending her a quizzical look. ‘What’s this about my uncle’s ashes?’
The last of her wishful thinking evaporated under his inscrutable gaze. So he hadn’t been listening at Ryker’s office when this dying wish had been mentioned? She had to admit a lot of what had been said that day had gone over her head, too, but it wasn’t really an excuse, given that he hadn’t been poleaxed by grief at the time like she had.
‘I … I need to ask you to do something.’ She cleared her throat which was now drier than a Groucho Marx one-liner. ‘With Matty’s ashes.’
He frowned, the suspicion clear in his gaze. ‘Right, okay, but I need to pack.’ He directed her into the suite. ‘Come in, we can talk in the bedroom.’
A few seconds later, she stood in the middle of a palatial bedroom with a staggering view over Hyde Park. She could even see the corner of the Serpentine Lake in the distance. It wasn’t quite dark yet, the orange and red of the sunset made all the more resplendent by the pollution haze that hung over the park.
But it wasn’t the stunning view that was getting all of her attention.
Don’t look at the bed.
The only problem was that meant looking at Devlin himself, who was busy wedging a neat stack of – crap, were those boxer briefs – into an expensive leather hold-all. He had his toiletry bag on the bed, next to a ream of papers, and a laptop, which he proceeded to stuff into the hold-all, too.
