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I’ve frequented the hotel a few times before. Everything—the ballroom, the bar, the rooftop pool terrace, the guest bedrooms, the conference and event center, and the first-class gym and exercise arena—is accessed via the elevators, making the check-in counter a stealthy security checkpoint. Although there’s the added hassle of having to get a pass from the front desk if you’re a guest, in the chaos of downtown Los Angeles, the vacant ground floor of the hotel is not the worst idea for added security.
A few people mill about the lobby. A woman in a long red dress is draped over one of the black, leather armchairs, waiting. For what, I don’t know. The contrast of her red gown against the dark leather furniture looksstaged, like a moment meant to be captured for a Vogue cover.
A couple is standing in the corner, their facial expressions betraying the fight they’re having even though their words are whispered.
A group of kids dressed in street clothes makes their way toward the elevators, their laughter ringing through the cavernous room.
I walk to the front desk, my steps confident despite my high shoes. The soft, emerald silk of my long-sleeved gown sashays against my legs like the whisper of a lover, warm and gentle. The cool evening air provides a tantalizing contrast against the bare skin of my back.
“Hello,” I greet the man at the front desk. He is young, with a pimpled face and the patchy scruff of someone trying—and failing—to grow a mustache. But when he smiles, it blazes, widening his boyish face and imparting a genuine joy that is one hundred percent contagious.
“Good evening!” he exclaims, greeting me as if I were an old friend. “Welcome to the Savant Hotel!”
“Thank you.” I find myself smiling back, relaxed. “I’m here for the PAL fundraiser. I should be on the guest list.”
“Perfect. Do you have your ID on you?”
“Of course.” I dig in my small clutch until I find it, pass it to him, and wait patiently as he taps away at his keyboard.
“Miss Beauchamp.” He slides the ID back over the counter for me. “Have you been to our hotel before?”
“I have, yes.”
“Great! The event is on the rooftop terrace at our Hedonist Bar. This access card,” he slides a black hotel key card over the counter to me, “will allow you to use the elevators for the night. It expires at midnight.”
“Like Cinderella.”
“Exactly,” he laughs.
I take the card off the counter, murmuring my thanks. Before I leave, I ask, “Could you remind me which floor the restaurant bar is on? I’m meeting my date there.”
“Twentieth. When the elevator doors open on twenty, turn right and keep going until you get to the restaurant. It’s the only thing down that hallway—you can’t miss it. Left takes you to the gym and,” he grins, “you’re not dressed for that.”
I quickly scan his uniform, taking note of his name tag. “Thank you, Jeff.”
“Of course. Have a wonderful evening.”
I follow Jeff’s instructions. Turning right out of the elevator on the twentieth floor, I make my way down a long, dimly lit hallway. The carpet is deep red, almost maroon, beneath my feet. The walls are covered in dark green wallpaper that has faint gold contrasts, the color making the hallway seem both impeccably decorated and slightly claustrophobic. Gold light fixtures hug the walls at even intervals, guiding my way.
The hallway curves to the right, and the moment I round the bend, I understand why. There are no doors at the entrance to the restaurant. Instead, as you round the corner, the space opens up to you.
Like the rest of the hotel, the restaurant is impeccably decorated, and I can’t quite understand how it’s not overbearing. The furniture is all tufted maroon leather, and the tables are glass with gold edging. Circular, wagon wheel chandeliers hang from heavy, wooden beams overhead, emitting just enough light to add ambiance. The walls are covered with velvet arabesque wallpaper, again in emerald green. The bar, with a gold, mirrored backsplash and brass-plated liquor shelving, runs the entire length of the back of the room.
When I walk into the room, a few men turn and stare. It’s nothing I’m not used to. Keeping my back straight and my eyes forward, I move through the space, my steps even and my gait smooth. I might not have Antoinette’s sex appeal, Lyla’s fire, or Juliette’s grace, but I can hold my own.
At the bar, I take a seat on one of the cushioned stools, my bare back to the prying eyes, and order a vodka Martini. I sip it slowly. I’m not the girl who needs liquid courage to get through a job—that’s Lyla. I’m the girl who needs focus. A clear mind.
I think about Bernard Leard while I wait. My quick online perusal gave me enough to work with for one night. He’s conservative publicly. Now, whatever he believes personally is none of my business. And, seeing as Bernard Leard is built for politics, I doubt I’d find out even if I were interested.
“Catherine.” I pause, my Martini halfway to my lips. My heart taps away in my chest. A shiver travels down my bare back, and for three long seconds, all I can do is stare at the drink in front of my face. The thought,Of course, he would be here, flits through my mind.
Angling my body slightly, I look over my shoulder. Aiden Flint is dressed in a black suit and tie to match the occasion. His shoulders fill out the ensemble remarkably well. His dark, shaggy hair has been cut and styled, making him look crisp and clean-cut.
“I thought that was you,” he says, smiling slightly.
“Oh?” It’s not exactly poetry, but the single word is all I can manage.
“The hair.” His hand flutters over his own head. “Dead giveaway.”
