With a sigh, Luke reached out, brushing Layla’s sweat-streaked curls from her face. His gaze was lovely like a field of grass under a summer sun, and Layla got lost in it a moment. The lines of his face smoothed as he watched her, compassion in him at last.
“I hope he treated you well at least, this date of yours. Even though his gift was shit.”
“He didn’t,” Layla sighed. “He bought me the cuff and dinner and ditched me at the table.”
“Asshole.”
“No more than you.”
“You need to find better men, Layloo.”
Reaching out, Luke touched her neck gently. It was his pet name for her, from back when they’d been dating. Only the housemates used it now, and something about it soothed her. Layla reached for him and with a sigh, Luke crawled up on the bed, sliding beneath the covers and wrapping her in his arms. Laying with her head on his smooth chest, Layla inhaled his soap and lemon-balm scent, fresh and clean. The neat freak of the house, Luke always smelled clean. Absently, his hand stroked her curls and she sighed, nearly asleep already.
“He offered me a job. At his hotel chain. Concierge. International.”
Luc’s fingers stilled. “Are you going to take it?”
“Arron thinks I should. He says I need a change in my life. I don’t know.”
Reaching into her dress’ cleavage, Layla pulled out the cream business card and the black credit card her mystery billionaire had given her. Tossing them to the bedside table, she snuggled into Luke, breathing deep of his fresh, clean scent.
Listening to his heartbeat and held in his strong arms, Layla fell into dreams – finding herself surrounded not by her bed anymore, but by orange trees growing up from barren sand dunes. Rooted into the drifts, they arched up around her like a bower as she stared off to a settling midnight dusk, slow winds curling the sand around her bare ankles. A cinnamon-jasmine musk eased around her with the desert zephyrs, intoxicating – as aquamarine eyes watched her from the vivid desert stars.
CHAPTER 4 – HAMSA
Luke was gone from Layla’s bed by the time she woke well past dawn. He’d left no wake-up call, no note, no nothing – as was his way. Just a bottle of aspirin and a tall glass of water on the bed-stand, plus a tin of calendula salve next to the Moroccan cuff and the cards Layla had dismissed the night before. Reaching out, Layla took up the water but not the aspirin, feeling much better than she had the previous night; vomiting was at least good for something. Drinking down the water, Layla inspected her left forearm where the cuff had been – seeing the livid red marks were gone and Luke’s salve wasn’t necessary.
Still on her bed-stand, the Moroccan cuff’s bone-white hamsa and fiery coral stared at her in the bright morning. Layla’s glance fell to her mystery guy’s embossed business card, the black credit card beneath it. Reaching out, she took up the credit card, wondering if it had any personal information on it. But all that was stamped into it was an ‘R’ with the card number and expiration date. Sliding out of bed, her black mini-dress rumpled from sleep, Layla padded over to her 1930’s-style mahogany desk and slid out the drawer. Fishing amidst pens, post-its, and pennies, she found her scissors. Taking them up, she held the credit card in her left hand.
And then snipped it cleanly in half, tossing both halves into the wastebasket.
“Screw his money.” She breathed to herself.
Feeling lighter, she turned toward the bed, reaching for her water glass to refill it, but her fingers fell to the business card instead. She was about to take it to the desk and snip it like she’d done the little black demon, but she hesitated as her fingertips slid over the international phone number. She hadn’t even gotten her mystery guy’s name. This phone number was her only way of reaching him; of saying yea or nay to his strange offer – and to him. Aquamarine eyes flecked with gold surfaced in Layla’s mind, along with the feel of sand blowing around her feet and the vague scent of jasmine.
She paused, remembering that she’d dreamed about his eyes – all night long.
Nope. Nope, nope, nope. He was Hot Guy Kryptonite, and one more of those was not what Layla needed in her life. Not now, not ever. Squaring her shoulders, Layla picked up the business card and tore it in half, depositing both halves in the wastebasket with the black credit card.
“Done.”
That was that. No more mystery guy, no more endless account, no more conflict. Feeling clear, Layla took up the water glass and stepped to the bathroom. Filling it, she listened to the house; it was empty. She had either slept really late or her inebriated housemates were sleeping later than her. Moving to the hall and sipping water, Layla’s glance fell on the big grandfather clock near the stairs. 12:30 p.m. Her eyebrows rose as she finished the glass. Gods, even after a late shift at the bar she rarely slept past eight.
“Must have needed it,” she mused. Returning to her room, she pulled the little black dress off over her head and ditched her leopard-print bra, though she left her matching leopard thong, then pulled on a soft grey v-neck sleep shirt that went down over her hips, fitting her curves. Padding downstairs barefoot, Layla rummaged through the second fridge. Five people was too many for one fridge, so they had a second one that mostly Layla and Luke shared. Finding eggs and bacon and red cabbage, she soon had a hangover-buster cooking with coffee in the Italian Bialetti espresso pot, stirring up a greens drink from powder they all shared. Luke was into good health, and always had a variety of natural items around.
Taking her breakfast and coffee to the stout mahogany dining room table, Layla pulled out a heavy chair and sat. Her laptop was already on the table, as were most of the housemates’ electronics, charging in the nearby power strip. Layla opened her laptop, starting her usual morning routine, as she didn’t have a shift at the bar until five p.m.
Facebook, Reddit; a brief stint on the website Futurism to see if there was anything interesting happening in the world. Her eggs were gone and her bacon nearly finished when she found herself migrating to job-search sites, typing inconciergeand getting a number of hits. Hilton, Radisson, a few resorts in exotic locales. Looking at listings, Layla’s brows rose. She was actually quite over-qualified for them, even Hilton’s international listings in Paris and Barcelona.
She was on the verge of clicking one of the Hilton listings to see how she should shape her resume, when the listing below it caught her eye. Outlined with a thin red box, the listing said plainlyConcierge – Red Letter Hotel, Paris, France.
Layla paused, her fingertips leaving the track-pad. Her cursor hovered over the listing, a breath away from clicking it. A strange sensation swamped her, a feeling like her head lifted from her body, floating up into the air as a flush of heat rushed through her.
Layla blinked, shaking off the sensation. She went to the all-knowledgeable Google and typed inRed Letter Hotel.One listing hit the front page, besides the Concierge position she’d come across on the job-search site – but other than that, the listings were duds. The top one took her to an elegant single-page website with a cream background and gilded filigree outlining the page, very Parisian. In the center was the same red embossed ‘R’ in the elegant font from the mystery man’s business card, with the golden crown surrounding it and the same international telephone number. Nothing else. No index, no nav bar, no social links. Right-clicking, Layla inspected the page and found nothing of additional help.
“Damn,” Layla muttered, making a mental note to ask Charlie about it later. Charlie was a web engineer, the top earner of their house actually, and would probably have additional ideas about how to scope for info on this strangely clandestine corporation.
Just then, Luke slammed in through the front door, hauling his urban-tricked bicycle up onto the hook mounted in the hall and shucking his helmet and sleek urban backpack. Mussing his black hair, he gave an exhausted sigh before he realized Layla was at the kitchen table. Giving her a glance, he kicked off his cycling shoes and hauled his sweaty shirt up off over his head, giving her an eyeful of what she could no longer have. Lean, mean muscles, that ridiculously cut six-pack, stark hip creases dipping down below the waistband of his cycling shorts. A broad chest and stronger shoulders than most cyclists, because of Crossfit.
