If I Had You (16 page)

It couldn't possibly be any better than this, the gentle suction of his mouth on her breast, the way his strong arm wrapped around her hips. Fingers rolled down the top of her tap pants, her only remaining clothing. He kissed the indentation of her belly button, then ran his tongue along the curve of her hip bone. When he lifted her infinitesimally and pulled her pants completely off, she writhed, her legs falling apart. How gentle his fingers were as they drew patterns through her curls, then slid into the moist heat he'd created between her thighs.

She didn't expect his mouth to go there too, but his entire body moved lower, and he devoured her. Or at least, that was how it felt. His fingers slowly moved into her most private place while his tongue tortured some spot that made her lose her mind. She knew she was speaking, begging even, but had no idea what words came out of her mouth. The pleasure coiled and spiraled then broke free. As the tension in her body fled, she found his dear face above her again.

He kissed her forehead. “We're joined, you and I. Isn't it marvelous?”

She turned her head one way and the other, realizing it wasn't his fingers inside her, but something else, that long, hard, masculine part of him. She hadn't even been aware. “I'm not a virgin anymore?”

“No, my pretty darling. You're mine.” He rocked his hips against her, making her gasp. Little black dots danced behind eyelids she hadn't realized she'd just closed.

She smiled and feathered her fingers into his thick black hair, then pulled his mouth to hers. He tasted of dark things, the recesses of her own body, her passion. He tasted like heaven and felt even better.

* * *

Seated behind his desk, Peter Eyre lifted his teacup to his lips and enjoyed his first sip of smoky tea made in a traditional samovar. He'd ordered it for the Ovolensky visit, only four days away now, and had it set up in the Coffee Room. The hall porter had just brought him the first official cup. He could see it would take some getting used to, but he liked it nonetheless, and the samovar was a beautiful one. He'd found the silver and blue enamel piece at an auction house. The matching cups had been missing, but they'd have been stolen soon enough anyway.

His door burst open without even so much as a warning knock.
Emmeline
. No one else dared be so informal with him.

“She's missing again, the old cow.”

His lover's face had aged a decade since he'd seen her the night before. She had bags under her eyes, and without her expert application of lipstick he could see how thin and colorless her lips really were. She was much more beautiful with makeup, sad to say. And her dark roots were showing. It wasn't like her not to find time to go to the salon. She must be running low on funds again, despite his covering her hotel bill.

“Mrs. Plash?” he said mildly, setting down his serviceable white tea mug.

“Obviously. Her behavior is going to send me to the lunatic asylum one of these days. Just you wait and see, Peter.”

I'm not planning to wait long enough to see
. “Mr. Russell should have just come on duty. He'll alert staff.” He stood and walked around his desk. As he passed by her, he noticed the cigarette ash ground into her glove.

He snapped his fingers at Mr. Moth. “Call Mr. Russell and the hall porter in here.”

Within two minutes, both men were in his office, listening to Emmeline's description of what her mother had been wearing to bed. She thought her mother was still in night dress.

“We'll find her,” Mr. Russell assured her. “We always do.”

Peter shut the door behind them. “Look Emmeline, this isn't working. Your mother needs to be somewhere more manageable. Larger than a hotel suite but smaller than a grand hotel.”

Emmeline forced a sugary smile. It looked obscene on her unpainted face. She danced her fingers up one of his immaculate sleeves. “Look, darling, I know she's a challenge, but I'm worth it, right?”

“When I said you could move in here, I wasn't aware you had an ill mother in tow. It had been years since I'd seen her. I've been patient for a month now, but it isn't getting any better. This is the wrong sort of establishment for Mrs. Plash.”

“What about me?” She squared herself off with his body, then pressed her chest against him.

He had the feeling she hadn't bothered to put on underclothes beneath her loose red sweater and skirt. She smelled like last night's sex, old perfume, and even older cigarettes. “Your mother has money and so do you. Not grand hotel money, but something. I'll have your things taken over to the boardinghouse where Olga Novikova lives.”

She gasped. “You must be joking. She's a chambermaid.”

“She was a princess, in the old days, before the imperial government fell. Still has some lovely things. Authenticated my new samovar for me.”

Her lips pressed together, wobbling dangerously. “How dare you!” She made fists and pounded them against his chest. “A boardinghouse fit for a chambermaid?”

He grabbed her wrists and held them away from his body. “It isn't going to work here. You're disturbing my concentration. I need to focus on the hotel, not your mother.”

“Peter!”

“And not your drama. I've had enough of it.”

He pushed her wrists toward her and dropped them. She rocked back as if he'd put real force behind the gesture. Tears began to spill from her eyes, drawing the remnants of last night's mascara down her cheeks in black trails.

“Go pack, or I'll have Olga do it for you.” He turned toward his desk. “Focus on your mother instead of men, for once. She deserves that much.”

She hit him with enough force to bend his body at the waist, then locked her arms around his neck as if to strangle him. He called out sharply, then attempted to save his breath as he fought to pull her arms apart without bruising her. He bent forward, trying to breathe, but only managed to lift her entire body off the floor. He kicked back with one leg but made contact with nothing. Time to stop working so hard and take some exercise beyond lifting a cigarette or a glass of champagne to his mouth.

Just as he thought he had no air left, he heard men coming into the room. Emmeline screamed as her arms were wrenched off his neck. Hugh Moth and the newest night watchman, Swankle, held her by the arms as she shrieked, spewing spittle.

Peter coughed and pushed the wings of his hair back into order before turning around. “Lock her into her suite. No, wait, better not do that, in case her mother returns. Do we have any rooms open?”

“Just the Piano Suite.”

He nodded and wheezed. “Lock her into the bedroom. Just the bedroom, mind. I don't want her damaging anything. And take her shoes so she doesn't mark the carpet.”

“I'll piss on it!” she screamed. “I'll destroy it.”

“Then we'll call the police and you'll go to Holloway. Your mother will be alone then. Is that what you want?”

Her eyes were wild, but she didn't respond. She wasn't as far gone as she pretended. No, Emmeline Plash was a calculating bitch.

“I'll go quietly for five thousand pounds,” she said.

“Oh, please,” he said, reaching for his cigarette case, pleased to see his hands weren't shaking despite nearly being suffocated.

“You owe me.”

“Not even if you were a full-blown whore, would you be worth that much after a month.”

Swankle's eyes widened, but he said nothing.

“Take her upstairs. Use the service lift. Don't say anything to anyone, then go back to searching for her mother.”

“I have to be at the desk,” Mr. Moth said, as Mr. Swankle said, “My shift ended, sir. Do you want me to stay over?”

“Right, then.” He lit his cigarette. “Of course you must return to the desk, Mr. Moth. I will wait on our guests myself until you return. As for you, Mr. Swankle, if you'd like to pick up extra pay, I would appreciate the help until Mrs. Plash is found.”

“Yes, sir,” Swankle said with a happy smile.

“Very good. Off you go.” Peter blew out a long stream of smoke as the men dragged his mistress out of the door between them.

* * *

Alecia heard a disturbance outside her room. Was Richard throwing a fit about something? She sat up in bed, and discovered she was naked. Naked was not her bedtime routine. Then she realized Ivan was next to her on his stomach, his hands tucked under the pillow. Simultaneously, she felt a soreness between her legs that reminded her what she'd done three times over the course of the night. She touched his smooth back and reminisced sleepily.

They hadn't closed the curtains. Winter's faint early light hadn't awakened them, though whatever time it was now offered enough light to see clearly. In fact, there was enough light for her to see the doorknob turning.

“Ivan!” she cried, instantly wide awake, pulling the covers over her head and ducking down.

She heard a rustling as he sat up.

“Swankle,” Ivan exclaimed.

“Uh, hello, Salter,” came the voice of another man. “Mr. Eyre gave orders to have Miss Plash locked up in here.”

“I see,” he said. “Could you wait in the hall for a moment?”

Alecia lay still, petrified, as another woman screamed invectives.

“I really don't think so,” said a voice she recognized as belonging to the front desk clerk. “A bit out of control, this one.”

“Right, well, we'll take the blankets with us.” He put his head under the blanket and, all business, helped Alecia pull the sheet from the bed and wrap it around her body. Then he pulled the blanket over them both and helped her to stand. They shuffled out of the open door into the parlor and shut it. The sound of Miss Plash's venom disappeared.

Ivan dropped the blanket to the floor. “I apologize. I didn't expect that to happen.”

“You'll be sacked,” Alecia said, frantic.

He patted her arm. “I don't think so. The room was empty for the night. But we have overstayed our welcome. I didn't expect us to fall asleep.”

She blushed. “We took a lot of, err, exercise.”

He grinned, losing his professional bearing. “Why, Miss Loudon, how you do go on.” He bent for a kiss.

She threw caution and stale morning breath to the wind and kissed him back enthusiastically. “The Marvins are never awake at this hour, so I'll be fine. It's you I'm worried about.”

“I haven't slept this well in weeks,” he declared, scratching his broad chest. “I'm equal to anything.”

Alecia baby-stepped toward the bearskin rug, almost defeated by the mummy wrapping Ivan had woven around her with the sheet. Much more awkwardly than the night before, she knelt down and scrambled for her tap pants, then unrolled the sheet enough to pull them on. She tossed Ivan his underclothes and reached for her bralette.

She had yet to fasten it when the door opened. “Hey, Ivan,” Swankle said.

She ducked behind Ivan as he answered. “Yes?” Ivan asked, calmly pulling his undershirt over his head.

“Mrs. Plash is missing again. I'll keep my mouth shut about this if you help me find her.”

Ivan nodded equably, despite his assurance that his position was in no danger. “I'll take the fourth and fifth if you take the sixth and seventh.”

“Well done. I'd better stay near to this,” Swankle said, gesturing behind him. “I'm getting overtime. You can put in for it too, I expect.”

Ivan raised his eyebrows, and Swankle's gaze drifted to Alecia. “Oh my. Lucky bastard.” Swankle shut the door quickly.

“Can you help me with my dress?” Alecia asked, attempting to ignore her humiliation in the interest of a speedy exit. “I don't know where my stockings are.”

“In the foyer. We wanted to be barefoot on the rug.”

“Right.” Alecia tried to react as if this sort of thing happened to her all the time. “Since you are going to search the fourth and fifth, do you want me to check the basement? That bathroom you said she likes? Miss Plash won't calm down until her mother is found, I expect.”

“You want to help?”

She forced cheer into her voice. “Absolutely.”

“Brilliant plan, then,” Ivan said. “I expect you are right, unless she is hiding behind that fern again. You can reach the basement bathrooms down the public staircase.”

They dressed quickly. Alecia desperately wanted her hairbrush and toothbrush, but at least she could tidy up a little in the downstairs bathroom, even if Mrs. Plash wasn't there.

“I'm sorry our night together ended so abruptly,” he said, helping her pin up her hair.

“Nothing more to be said about that.”

“Alecia.”

“I should bob my hair,” she said. “It's so old-fashioned.”

“No, I love it.” He handed her another pin, then pulled on his shoes. “Look, I know this was your first time. It should have been more romantic.”

“It was very romantic, until just now. Don't worry. It isn't your fault.” She pushed her toes into her beloved new shoes and fastened them, then hefted her outerwear.

“I'll see you downstairs tonight,” he said. “A kiss for luck?”

She smiled. “Always. But you can't leave me yet. I rather take the service lift to the basement.”

“I
f anyone asks what you are doing on this lift, just tell them what is going on. The more people who are looking for Mrs. Plash, the faster we'll find her,” Ivan said as he opened the gate on the fifth floor.

“I will.” Alecia moved toward the control.

He took her hand and, staring into her eyes, kissed her hand in a very continental manner. “Last night was beautiful,” he whispered tenderly. “My
myshka
, you were a wonder.”

She smiled, but it felt bittersweet. In the hard light of day, she realized a night like the magical one before should have been a wedding night, not a night snatched out of ordinary life. Today they didn't start their new life together, just continued to go on like nothing had changed. Yet everything had. The truth had to be faced: She was no flapper. She wanted a husband. But she'd only known Ivan a few weeks.

Ivan shut the gate. She'd watched closely enough before to know how to operate the lift herself and made it down to the basement with no trouble beyond a rather rough, jerking stop. Once she exited into the dank, dim corridor, she had to think hard to remember where the bathroom was. She could really do with a cup of tea and a bun.

After a couple of wrong turns, she found the corridor where the four bathrooms were and opened the doors, one after another. They all seemed to be empty, but then, as she hesitated in the last one, she heard breathing. She darted deeper into the room, wondering if there were hidden recesses. It was only then that she saw Mrs. Plash, huddled down in the deep bathtub, still in her dressing gown.

“Oh, goodness,” she cried, bending down. “Mrs. Plash.”

“They were yelling,” the old woman whispered. “I do hate yelling. Emmeline has such a temper.”

“You can't stay here, Mrs. Plash.” She reached out her arm. “Come, I'll bring you back upstairs. Your daughter is beside herself.”

“Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth,” Mrs. Plash said, the deep grooves around her mouth deepening into shadow.

“Be that as it may, you need each other,” Alecia said briskly. “Give me both of your hands as you climb out.”

The woman complied somewhat shakily. She overbalanced as she lifted her second foot out of the tub, but Alecia kept her steady.

“We both need some breakfast,” Alecia said when they were safe. “Perhaps we'll call for two trays when we are upstairs.”

“Very kind of you. I would love a visitor. You're such a nice young girl.”

“Thank you.” Alecia patted the age-spotted hand, then guided her back to the service lift.

“We aren't supposed to be here.”

“No,” Alecia agreed. “But I don't think you are a stranger to it.”

Mrs. Plash's face took on an expression of girlish defiance. “I came here as a young matron, you know, with my husband. We loved to explore the place. Mr. Plash was very friendly with Mr. Eyre's father. We went to his house a number of times for dinner parties.”

Alecia half listened to the woman ramble as she closed the door and started the lift. So, Mr. Eyre didn't spring directly from Zeus's head. And it did sound like the senior Mr. Eyre was involved with the hotel. Maybe the rumor was true and Mr. Eyre was not just the manager, but the owner.

The lift didn't jerk quite as hard when she stopped it this time. She escorted Mrs. Plash out. The older woman fished her key out of her dressing gown pocket, but they didn't need it. Her door was already open. Olga, the chambermaid, was inside, packing dresses into tissue paper and putting them into a trunk.

Mrs. Plash faltered at the door and stopped moving. Alecia had to peer over her shoulder.

“Olga?” she asked.

The beautiful Russian woman whipped around. “Oh, Mrs. Plash!”

Mrs. Plash's lips trembled. “What is going on?”

“I—” Olga started then stopped. “I'll step down to Mr. Eyre's office and let him know you have returned, yes?”

“Could you arrange for food to be brought as well?” Alecia asked. “Mrs. Plash is hungry.”

“Oh, miss, there is already a car waiting outside. I'm only just finishing the packing.”

“It hasn't been half an hour since I went to search for her,” Alecia said.

“I had help at first,” Olga said. “But she had to start cleaning the rooms on this floor.”

Alecia felt a hand on her shoulder. Ivan looked down at her, the dark stubble on his face only emphasizing his beautifully cut jawline. “What is the news? Oh, you found her. Excellent!”

“You can't let them send her away,” Alecia said. “She'll be even more confused in an unfamiliar place. We've had church families go through similar experiences.”

Ivan drew her aside as Mrs. Plash wrung her hands. “Mr. Eyre won't have her in the hotel any longer, because Miss Plash attacked him.”

“What?”

“Physically attacked him,” Ivan confirmed. “You heard her upstairs. She's a lunatic.”

“I don't think they should go. What does Mr. Eyre think, treating a woman like that? He's flirted with me in front of Miss Plash. He's not a nice man.”

“He's my employer,” Ivan said. “Please don't speak about him like that, especially here.”

“I'm hungry,” she said. “Instead of a quiet morning, you know what I had. Embarrassment, no privacy, and another ramble through the basement. I want a cup of tea and for Mr. Eyre to behave himself.” And a husband.

“I'll go down to the Coffee Room and get tea and toast for you both while Olga finishes the packing.”

Olga spoke up. “I was going to go downstairs myself.” Then she muttered something in Russian.

Ivan rolled his eyes. “I'll do it. Finish your task.”

* * *

Ivan took the steps from the fifth floor to the ground floor. He needed time to gather his thoughts. While he was grateful Mrs. Plash had been found, his entire existence felt muddled. Alecia wasn't the only person to have been denied her morning cup of tea. When he touched his chin he could feel the stubble. He didn't like to present himself in this unwashed fashion. Not only was it against the employee handbook, it just didn't look right in such an upscale establishment.

He went directly to Mr. Eyre's office.

“What?” the manager barked.

“Miss Loudon found Mrs. Plash. Olga is almost finished with the packing.”

“And Miss Plash?”

“Half an hour ago she was still hysterical.” Ivan shrugged.

Eyre glanced up. “The Grand Russe may be at sixes and sevens this morning, but I do recall you are a night watchman, not day staff. Why are you here, Salter?”

“I spent the night with Miss Loudon in the Piano Suite,” he admitted.

“You cad,” Eyre exclaimed. “Did they walk in on you?”

“Yes, sir.” He lifted his gaze to the ceiling.

“Have her confidence now, do you?” Eyre mused.

“I'm not sure how important that is, sir. This situation has come very close to home.”

“What do you mean?”

Ivan stared at the battered old ashtray on Eyre's desk. “I saw my, err, someone from my neighborhood with Mr. Marvin.”

Eyre frowned. “Mr. Marvin? I can't imagine he wants Ovolensky dead. Have they ever met?”

He straightened. “I wouldn't know, sir.”

“Any legitimate reason for Marvin to speak to this person?”

“The person is a Russian caterer.”

Eyre shook his head. “No, that won't do. Marvin isn't in charge of catering for the command performance.”

“There is a banquet scene in
Macbeth
.”

Eyre's eyebrows relaxed. He reached into his coat for his cigarette case. “Maybe he is staging the play Russian-style. Find out from Miss Loudon.”

“Very good, sir.” He was glad Eyre didn't seem to mind about the suite. Just as he'd expected from such a worldly sort.

“We're moving the Plashes to the boardinghouse where Olga lives. Do you know it?”

“Yes, sir.” Where everyone lived had come up in conversation when all the employees started work.

“Help with the transport, will you? You can add all this to your time card. Except the time with Miss Loudon. Although, now that you've become intimate, I wonder if you can ask her more direct questions. Have her find out more about the play, for instance.”

“I'm sure she knows about it already.”

“Find out for us, then. Where is she now?” Eyre asked with an air of impatience.

“With Mrs. Plash.”

“Excellent. You can answer the banquet question right away. I'd hate to think Mr. Marvin is involved in a conspiracy, but if he is, we might be able to stop it right here and now.”

Ivan nodded. He walked out, despairing. One night of singular beauty and now it had turned into an act of spy craft or commerce. And Alecia was cross with him. He knew her well enough to tell.

The day continued in the same fashion. Alecia had scarcely spoken to him during the transporting of the bags and the Plash women to the boardinghouse. Ivan didn't blame her, because he and Alecia had had absolutely no privacy and both women were completely distraught, Miss Plash by her failure to secure her man, and Mrs. Plash by contrition. The confused elderly woman was convinced she was to blame for the removal and apologized repeatedly. Alecia could calm her down for a minute or two, then the speech would begin again, as if Mrs. Plash had not said it two minutes before. No wonder Miss Plash had thrown herself into a frenzied lifestyle. The strain of dealing with her mother's condition must be acute.

Alecia didn't seem to mind, however. She was patience itself. If only she looked at him with the soft eyes of love, instead of daggered expressions that made it clear she had not forgiven him for the way their night had ended, and his complicity in removing the women from the Grand Russe.

And she didn't even know about the assassination plot.

He walked to the service corridor at nearly midnight, his feet dragging a bit. Very little rest and a great deal of mental strain over the previous day had taken their toll. He felt a little like he had during those days in Helsinki when he'd been mourning his dead family and trying to keep food in Vera's mouth. Now Vera was the one causing him pain by her refusal to let go of the past.

He saw Alecia sitting on the sofa in the corner where the nightclub back door was. Normally, she leaned against the wall to hear the music better. When he reached her, he realized she'd fallen asleep. Her eyes were closed and her lips were slightly pursed, as if she were ready for a kiss.

Should he carry her up to her room? As he puzzled this out, he seated himself next to her, and realized his feet ached. Surely at twenty-six he was too young to feel like this. His body felt as weighed down as his heart. But looking at this beautiful woman lightened him. He remembered tracing the line of that cheek with his tongue. Now he knew that slim, youthful body under her clothing, how her hips jutted out softly, how her belly gently rounded, how her nipples pointed up slightly. Those sounds she made when he licked her there.
Heaven help him.
He closed his eyes as his erection grew. All those girls from Russian summers had faded into ghosts, but he didn't believe he could ever forget making love to Alecia Loudon. He'd been her first.

He tucked his chin into his hand and stared at her. How often did he have a chance to memorize a woman's face? The close-ups of cinema stars were one thing, but they only lasted a moment. Alecia Loudon in repose was a treasure just for him.

Odd that he'd found peace here, while on the other side of the wall a trumpet blared and he could hear dozens of careless idlers at the nightclub, drinking their champagne, dancing the soles off their shoes, intriguing for their next romantic partner.

Alecia's head listed to the right and she jerked. Her eyelids fluttered. She placed her hands on the sofa cushions as if she felt she was losing balance, then her eyelids popped open. She stared right at him, but it only made her blink. Then she half smiled and looked as if she might fall back to sleep. An instant later, an expression of confusion crossed her lovely face. She stared down. Her hands moved over her gray skirt. Then her head turned and she perused the length of his body.

Ivan was grateful for the long coat that covered the evidence of his desire, inappropriate given that she hadn't known he was watching her.

“Where are we?” She yawned.

“Behind the nightclub.”

“I fell asleep?” Her expression was one of fascination rather than upset.

“Yes.” She had sleep sand in the corner of one eye. He found it shockingly intimate.

“I never do that. I must be exhausted. What a terrible day.”

“It was hard to see the Plashes go,” he agreed. “Poor women.”

“Sometimes frivolity hides a great deal of pain,” Alecia said. “I expect Miss Plash is that way. I knew girls in the village who behaved like her. They'd lost their sweethearts, fiancés, in the war. They'd get into the most shocking scrapes, girls who'd been so respectable before.”

“They talk about shell shock for soldiers,” Ivan said. “But I think there is a different kind for the civilians. We have our own kind of shock.”

“And our own kind of loss. I can never forget how my parents died. It haunts me. Why? They could have died in a train accident, or of influenza. Would it haunt me then?”

“I don't know. I don't think any doctors do.”

“No. The human mind is a strange place.”

They stared at each other for a moment. “I'm sorry we argued,” he said.