Raffi holds up his hands in a placating gesture. "Okay, okay," he says with a rueful smile. "You got a bit of fire in you, huh? Well, let's head inside. Mr. C's been looking forward to this all damn morning."
As I trail behind Raffi, the other men stand aside without a word, though I can still feel their eyes on me as we walk up the steps and through the grand entryway. The interior of the house is just as breathtaking as the exterior, with ornate furnishings, marble floors, and a grand staircase that sweeps from the foyer to the upper floor. I fight the urge to gape, but it is hard not to stare.
"Nice, right?" Raffi asks over his shoulder. "Okay. We're through here."
I can hear a piano, someone tinkling idly on the keys from the room Raffi is leading me to, straight ahead. There's a plaque over the open double doors:Grand Salon.
Raffi gestures for me to wait a moment at the doorway as he goes into the room. "Mr. Castellani?" I hear him say.
The piano stops. "Is he here?"
"Yep."
"Delightful. Send him in."
I steel myself. This is my chance to make a mark, and I'm determined not to let it slip through my fingers. When Raffi reappears, he smiles at me again, and I try not to stare at that slightly crooked grin, the dimples that appear in his cheeks.
I'm here for a job, not…whatever else might be on offer.
"Good luck," he murmurs, and then gestures me in.
With a deep breath, I step into the grand salon, and behind me, Raffi closes up the double doors. I glance reflexively over my shoulder as he does, and he winks at me. Somehow it doesn't seem inappropriate. On the contrary, it feels...
Reassuring.
I take a moment to survey this grand salon and find it deserving of the name. It must run at least a third of the length of the whole house, strewn with antiques andobjets d'art. The French windows look out over the back of the property, and the gardens stretch as far as I can see. But my attention is inevitably drawn back to the man seated at the grand piano at the far end of the room. He's strikingly attractive, his blond hair messily, artfully styled, his pale eyes fixed intently on me as he continues playing softly at the piano. Even from across the room, I can sense an underlying intensity that unnerves me.
And I recognize this man. Not just from the many photographs of him online at premieres and parties. I've seen him at the Bellamy Grand several times, visiting or dining, and in once case at least, staying overnight. I've seen him deep in discussion with the hotel manager who told me about the interview. They must, it occurs to me now, have been talking about me.
I'm not sure why that makes me uneasy. I should be flattered.
"Darian Thornfield-Hayes," the man says, his voice strangely cold in contrast to the smile on his face. "Good morning." He stops playing, stands, and walks over to me. "I'm Julian Castellani. Thank yousomuch for coming in."
I try hard to keep his gaze. It's intense. Direct. Unblinking. "Thank you for asking to interview me," I reply, offering my hand. I feel a tremor of anticipation as he clasps it.
"I must say, the Bellamy had nothing but glowing things to say about you. They tell me you're quite the perfectionist." He is still staring at me curiously, his eyes scanning now, taking in my suit, giving an unconscious little nod of approval.
"I take pride in my work, that's all."
Julian chuckles, but still his blue eyes stay cold. "And modest, too. How endearing." He gestures to the little couch to one side. "Please, have a seat. I'd like to hear more about you."
Tentatively, I lower myself onto the seat, perching on the edge as Julian settles into the chair opposite me. He's extremely good-looking and charming. But all the same, there is something not quite right about him.
And Raffi DeLuca's words echo in my head:Maybe this isn't the right job for you after all.
"Tell me about yourself," he says.
"Well, I've been with the Bellamy for the past three years," I begin, my voice steadier than I feel. "I started as a bellhop after I finished my degree, and worked my way up to become assistant manager of guest services." I pause, considering my words carefully. "As I'm sure you know, the Bellamy is a prestigious hotel, and I take great pride in ensuring that every guest feels welcome."
Julian nods, expression attentive. "And do you deal with complaints?"
"We don't often have complaints at the Bellamy?—"
"Oh, of course not."
"—but if a guest is less than satisfied, I take action to not only satisfy them, but to exceed their expectations. We have many celebrities and people of influence, so…"
I go on. Once I start, I get into the flow of it. But I get the distinct impression that he's not really listening to me. That—despite how closely he seems to attend, how often he nods and asks meto go on—his questions and my answers aren't really what he's interested in.
