She sat back in her chair and forced herself to remain calm. “Isn’t that a bit unorthodox?”
“Works for me.” His eyes penetrated, reading her every doubt, driving away each one. “I know that you can do better than Killer Body.”
“But your wife can’t?” She felt herself flush at the mean-spirited response. But he didn’t flare back, only nodded.
“Sadly, she’s of an age where the possibilities are limited. Not like you.”
The bitchy side of her tried to do mental arithmetic, wondering how old Rochelle really was. No, she shouldn’t do that, and to ask would be below her.
“I think I’d be wonderful with a little talk show,” she said.
“Better than wonderful, and you don’t need Killer Body to get there.” He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “Why don’t you let me see what I can get going, and in the meantime, I’ll advance you some cash?”
Could it be this easy? Give up Killer Body, have enough cash to bail herself out of this financial mess until her divorce settlement? Get her own talk show? Damn, she wished she and Alain were on speaking terms. He’d know what to do. He always did. Divorce was so rotten the way it sucked the friendship and trust away, along with the marriage. What would Alain say? she wondered, and as she did so, she heard the answer in her mind.
She patted his hand, removed her own and sat as straight as possible in the chair. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ll need time to think.”
The hotel room looked friendlier than it had when she’d left it. She’d taken the shuttle back and had the driver stop for fries and a soft-serve cone, which, while softer than when it arrived in her hands, was still substantial enough to support the little topping of Baileys once she was back in the room. Marvelous—medicinal, almost—the icy cocoa, boozy cream swirling aroundthe salty potatoes. Standing in the bathroom of her hotel room, she consumed every one of the fries. What the hell was she going to do?
She didn’t know when she fell asleep, only that she had been jerked awake by an invasive noise of some kind. She sat up in bed. A bad dream? No, not a dream. A siren was blaring, reverberating in her head. Her first thought, halfway between consciousness and the other side, was that she still smoked, that she was still a rebellious high school kid in Texas. Crazy. This was real, and she had no choice but to deal with it.
She went to the door, opened it just enough to peek out, just to be sure she wasn’t crazy.
Good Lord. The hall was swarming with partially clad men and women, many in the Westin terry-cloth robes, just like the one she’d put on earlier. Damned if she’d put it on again. She ran back and slipped her long, heavy macramé sweater over her Victoria’s Secret T-shirt. As she stepped outside the room, frozen with fear, she heard an authoritative male voice announce, “The elevator’s closed. Use the stairs.”
Never had she seen so many bathrobes in one place. Strangers clattered down the dank-smelling steel staircase. They were all together here, all of them who’d been stopped in their pursuit of the evening—the ones getting drunk, the ones freshly or partially laid, the ones, like she, who had just been trying to sleep.
Down they ran, down the stairs. The faster ones burst ahead, as if speed were their right. The slower ones clutched the rail. At least a couple sobbed.
“We’ll be all right,” shouted a cheerful voice Gabby realized came from within her. “Just stay calm. We must all do that.”
Somebody stronger than she slammed into her, knocking her out of the way. “Move faster, damn it. Do you want to die?”
She grabbed the rail and let the person in shorts and a gray sweatshirt shoot by. Man or woman? Who knew which at thishour? They were all terrified and driven by the noise pounding into them.
Frightened as she was, something told her that she’d live, that she’d be all right. This wasn’t the end; it was a test of some kind. For all she knew, Bobby Warren could have set it up to see how she handled herself in an emergency. Yes, that was it, just another test. She’d had them since she was in elementary school, staring up at the monkey bars. She’d do now what her grandma had taught her to do then. Stand up straight, move carefully along these steel monkey bars, and she would do just fine.
At the end of the steps, the heavy mushroom-colored door opened onto the street. They flowed through it in a tidal wave of anxiety. Once outside, no one ran. They walked and waited outside the front of the hotel that had looked so glamorous only hours before.
“It’s okay to go back to your rooms, folks,” a soft female voice announced. “You can use the elevators.”
A partially clad man, his Westin bathrobe barely belted, stepped up to the front desk. “I want to hear that from someone in authority.”
A woman in a black jacket and slacks stepped forward. “You just did.”
Before she thought better of it, Gabriella applauded. Others joined her. The woman smiled.
“We’re sorry for the inconvenience,” she said. “You’ll all receive a complimentary room tonight.”
Complimentary,as infree.Gabriella went up to the woman at the registration desk. She asked questions. She thanked her for the complimentary room. She walked back to the elevator, contemplating the irony of it all.
Gabriella rode the elevator, shoved between so many Westin bathrobes, that she felt ready to suffocate in white terry cloth at any moment. She’d never needed to talk to Alain the way she needed to right now. He’d understand; he’d tell her what to do, which was probably something like, “Get out of that bloody hotel, love. I’ll be right there.”
But she and Alain were finished. And even if she did call him, he’d probably be in bed with Judith. She was the real reason Gabriella had let the relationship with David get out of control. The bitch had pretended to be her friend, then bedded poor Alain the moment she got him drunk enough.
Poor Alain.That showed how bad off she was. To think of the cheating swine as poor anybody.
The elevator doors slid open at the seventh floor, and Gabriella stepped out.
