“It’s mine,” Rick said simply. “She left it to me.”
“The roof just fell in,” Tom piped up. “In Room 4.”
“Only one of the fridges in the kitchen is working,” Pyotr said.
“The plumbing in 2 is blocked,” Liam added.
Rick looked pained, but I didn’t think it was about our impromptu sitcom act.
“The place needs a hell of a lot of work,” the guy with him said, as if following up on a conversation he’d already had with Rick.
Arne turned swiftly, eyes blazing. “And who are you?”
The man didn’t flinch. “I’m here solely as Rick’s friend. My name’s Blake Marshall. I’m also a partner in an accounting firm.” He didn’t hold out his hand to shake, and it looked like a stand-off between him and Arne. Yet I felt as if he was still watching me from the corner of his eye. A prickle of warning ran down my spine.
Until Tom jabbed me in the ribs. “He’s a bean counter like you, Dante.”
Blake’s gaze snapped to me, openly now. I saw curiosity; assessment. I was always alert to how men looked at me. I was well used to it by now.
“Let’s sit down and chat things through,” Rick said. “If that’s okay with you all? Blake, will you join us?”
THREE
The hotel bar was in a room off the lobby and, although small, it was cosy and sheltered from view. Of course, there was no booze left. But, hey, we weren’t to blame—apart from the few bottles of beer we found in dusty boxes under the counter, when we first arrived. The Haven had been running down long before Aunt Pop went off in an ambulance, or so Arne had told me. It had been too much for her to handle. The number of guests had dwindled, Arne’s menu had reduced to the very basics, and the bar had been one of the first casualties.
We’d all introduced ourselves to Rick Thatcher and settled with a mixture of comfort and wariness. Liam fetched us all tea and coffee, Pyotr sat close to Arne as if he might need support, and Tom perched on a stool at the counter, playing on his phone and chatting under his breath to Micah.
“You still have the wine and spirits licence,” Blake said to Rick. He’d taken off his coat and jacket, and rolled up his sleeves. A slim file of papers rested in front of him on one of the rickety tables. “The public liability is up to date. So is everything to do with the business rates, and any tax returns. And as far as I know, the utilities are all paid.”
“They are.” Arne was still defensive towards Blake. “All the hotel money has been handled separately from our own.” He’d brought in the giant desk diary he kept under the counter at Reception, and he had his glasses on, which always made him look like a nerd. A good-looking nerd, of course. And he was wickedly smart.
“Take me through it all,” Rick said to him. “Please?”
Arne was mollified. “The guys have always paid for the room when they used it. I’ve kept a running account here, and it’s been banked into the business account. I’ve provided meals, but we’ve brought in the ingredients ourselves, most of the time. The laundry has been paid up until last month. We couldn’t afford to keep on the cleaning staff, but it’s in the rules that the guys keep the rooms clean after their booking.”
“The rules?”
“Just basic things.” Arne glanced at me and I nodded support. “We don’t take guys in off the street—escorts or clients. Most of us have had problems with that in the past. So, we only work with guys we know, and every client has to be booked in advance. And they pay in advance, too. Gives us a chance to check ’em out, if we think it’s needed. Then the escorts pay the hotel for the room. It’s all safe sex, sex-positive, no violence or coercion is tolerated. We don’t have the set up for any serious scenes, so it’s just vanilla stuff, occasionally some role play.”
“Or lots, for some of us.” Tom smirked, proving he was eavesdropping.
“I like the way you’ve done it. Having rules. Yet you’re all independent.” Rick nodded, as if he approved of it all. Arne looked surprised but pleased.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Rick had inherited a broken-down old building and a handful of escorts who’d been using it for their clients. Bloody bizarre. I wondered how soon he’d close the doors for good. If we’d be back to using the alleyways again by tonight.
In the background, at Reception, I could hear the water still dripping into the buckets.
When Arne took Rick to look at the state of the bedrooms, I moved away to one of the booths. Shortly after, Blake came over and sat beside me. The booths were snug, and he seemed very conscious of being close enough for us to have a semi-private conversation, but not so close we’d be touching.
I could look, though. My fascination with him was like a drug. He smelled cool, probably from time outside. A very slight, sexy cologne, which meant it wasn’t chain-store. Strong forearms; compact, muscled torso, with thick thighs inside what looked like very expensive trousers. His whole body seemed tightly coiled, as if he was outwardly calm but would be ready to spring into action when he was needed.
I just knew he would be spectacular in bed. The tide of desire sweeping through me was surprising—and a little unwelcome.
“Someone said you’re an accountant too,” he said, shrewd eyes fixed on me.
“I was.” I didn’t want to get drawn into this because I knew what the next question would inevitably be.
“How come you’re working as an escort?”
And there it was.
“It suits me. I like sex. I like money. It’s flexible hours. And it’s none of your damn business.” I might have stood up to leave if he hadn’t been blocking the way out of the booth.
“No, it’s not. I apologise.” But he kept looking at me. I didn’t mistake the sexual interest, especially this close. He would fuck me if I gave him the slightest encouragement. This didn’t feel like a transaction discussion, though. Blake Marshall took unusual care in his words, measuring them up before speaking and, unlike with other men, I couldn’t anticipate what he’d say. I wasn’t worried, but I was wary.
“Have you known Rick long?” I asked.
Blake nodded. “A couple of years. He’s a really solid guy.”
“But…?” I didn’t mistake the frown lines on his brow.
“I’m just worried about all this. On his behalf, of course.”
“Yeah? In what way?” He didn’t seem to take exception to my nosey questions.
“He wants to keep the Haven.”
“To run it as a hotel?” I thought about the ceiling falling on my head earlier in the evening. I remembered Liam’s shrieks when the shower in Room 2 doused him in freezing cold water. I remembered Arne’s near tears when the fridge died and a week’s worth of our food was spoiled. How the fuck was Rick, however capable he seemed, going to make all that right?
Blake looked weary. “I don’t know about opening to the public. But he wants to live here, at the very least. However, I don’t know how the hell he’ll manage that without raising a loan to repair the place.”