Sweet Silver Bells. Rochelle Alers

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      The lights of downtown Charleston came into view as she listened to the automated voice issuing directions, driving through cobblestone streets lined on both sides with elegant homes still festooned in Christmas lights and decorations. It was the second week in January and it was as if the residents were reluctant to let go of the holiday.

      Maneuvering up to the hotel’s entrance, she slowed, coming to a complete stop in front of a valet wearing a white shirt, red bow tie, black vest and slacks.

      “How long are you staying, ma’am?”

      “I’ll be here for a couple of months.”

      “Are you Ms. Eaton?” the young man asked.

      She nodded. “Yes, I am.”

      The valet opened the driver’s-side door. “I’ll park your truck and have someone bring in your luggage.” Reaching into the back pocket of his slacks, he removed a walkie-talkie. “I need a bellhop out front.”

      Crystal reached for her handbag and the tote with her laptop and then slipped from behind the wheel. She managed to smother a moan. Her legs were stiff and her shoulders ached. She’d driven nearly six hundred miles, stopping in St. Augustine to refuel and order a fruit salad. The entire drive had taken her nearly twelve hours.

      What she wanted now was a leisurely bath before climbing into bed to sleep undisturbed throughout the night.

      She made her way into the lobby and over to the desk to check in, admiring its sophisticated opulence. Marble flooring, several glittering chandeliers and a massive glass-topped table in the center of the lobby cradled an enormous hand-painted ceramic vase filled with fresh flowers. Queen Anne chairs were positioned at round pedestal tables for guests to sit and relax.

      A woman with flawless brown skin, neatly braided hair and an infectious smile greeted Crystal as she approached the front desk. “Welcome to the Beaumont House. How may I help you?”

      “I’m Crystal Eaton,” she said, “and—”

      “Oh, Ms. Eaton, we’ve been expecting you,” the woman said. “Your accommodations will be handled by concierge.” She picked up the telephone, speaking quietly into the mouthpiece.

      In less than a minute, a tall man in a black tailored suit approached the desk. There was something about his bearing that reminded Crystal of her father. Raleigh Eaton’s good looks, refinement, charm, and legal and financial acumen had made him a very wealthy man and a magnet for women regardless of their age.

      Two years ago he’d divorced his fourth wife, and his current fiancée was thirty-five, only five years older than Crystal. Wherein Raleigh might have been unable to maintain a successful marriage of any duration, he wasn’t so reckless as not to have had his prospective wives sign a prenuptial agreement. The exception had been his first wife. The alimony payments deposited directly into Jasmine’s bank account like clockwork afforded the mother of his only child, coupled with her successful art business, a very comfortable lifestyle.

      The concierge extended his hand, while offering Crystal a friendly smile. He lowered his gaze rather than let her see the admiration in his gaze. Crystal Eaton was stunning. Her pixie-cut hairstyle, unblemished face, the color of polished mahogany, radiated good health, and her dark brown wide-set slanting eyes, pert nose and full, sensual mouth were enthralling.

      The perfection of her body matched her face: tall, slender and curvy in a pair of fitted black jeans, matching pullover sweater and leather flats.

      “Welcome, Ms. Eaton. I’m John Porter, your personal concierge. Mr. Beaumont has asked me to take care of all of your needs during your stay.”

      Crystal took his hand, finding it as soft as her own.

      “Thank you so much, Mr. Porter.”

      John reluctantly withdrew his hand. “Mr. Beaumont has arranged for you to stay in the penthouse. You will have the privilege of twenty-four-hour room service that includes laundry, dry-cleaning, housekeeping and meals.” He angled his head, smiling. “All of which are gratis. The penthouse staff is aware they’re not to accept tips from you. Don’t look so alarmed, Ms. Eaton,” he said when Crystal’s gave him a stunned look, her delicate jaw dropping. “They are compensated far beyond what the other employees earn,” he added when her mouth closed.

      She forced a smile she didn’t feel at that moment. “That’s good, because I wouldn’t want to take advantage of their services.”

      John cupped her elbow, directing her to the bank of elevators, and stopped in front of one with a sign indicating floors 8-PH. “Mr. Beaumont treats all of his employees quite well. I’m going to give you two room card keys. The red one will permit you elevator access to your floor and the green to your apartment.”

      He handed her an envelope with her name, punched the button and waited for the doors to open. Crystal walked into the car. He entered behind her and, reaching into the pocket of his suit jacket, removed a master key and inserted it into the PH slot. The doors closed, and the car rose silently.

      When she agreed to the terms in the contract between Beaumont Hotels and Eaton Interior and Design in which the owner of the hotel chain would provide lodging for the duration of the project, Crystal had expected to occupy a suite, not a penthouse apartment. She knew Algernon Beaumont was anxious for her to decorate the two boutique hotels before spring and the influx of tourists to the Lowcountry, and because she wasn’t married, didn’t have a fiancé, boyfriend or children, Crystal was able to accept the commission that would take her away from home for weeks at a time.

      The elevator doors opened and she stepped out into a carpeted hallway.

      John remained in the elevator. “You’re in penthouse two, which is on the left,” he informed Crystal. “The bellhop will bring up your luggage. If you need anything, please dial fifteen and either I or someone from my staff will procure it for you.”

      Crystal smiled at the very formal man. “Thank you. I doubt if I’ll need anything tonight.” All she wanted was a bath and a bed. Anything she did need would wait until the next day.

      John nodded. “Good night, Ms. Eaton.”

      “Good night, Mr. Porter.”

      She walked the short distance to the door labeled PH 2, opening the envelope and taking out one of the card keys.

      Crystal’s hand halted as she caught movement out the corner of her eye. She stole a glance at a tall, slender man dressed in a pair of cutoffs, a T-shirt and flip-flops closing the door to the other apartment as he walked toward the elevator. The contrast of the white shirt against his olive complexion was attention-grabbing. He was like a bronze statue come to life.

      After several seconds Crystal realized she was staring when their eyes met and held. Even from the distance she noticed the perfection of his features.

      “Good evening, neighbor,” he said.

      She went completely still as a shiver of awareness swept over her body. The man’s voice was deep and as utterly sensual as he appeared to be. “Good evening,” Crystal replied, smiling.

      “Are you checking in?” She nodded. Closing the distance between them, he extended his hand. “Joseph Cole-Wilson.”

      Shifting СКАЧАТЬ