The entire hotel boasts only twelve rooms, all suites, with four on each of the three floors. The top level features an outdoor bar, a small gym, and a rooftop pool.
“If it’s as charming as the pictures, this is going to be a wonderful getaway,” Damien says, closing the brochure I’d handed him once our driver had reached the city.
“Oh, it will be.” I shoot him a sideways grin. “I’m ashamed of you, Mr. Stark. You usually pay more attention to what you read.”
He eyes my bare thigh. I’m wearing leather boots and a light sweater, but I’ve paired them with a soft suede skirt that’s slit high enough that I’d have a talk with Abby, my partner, if she ever wore something similar to an office presentation.
For my purposes today, though, I think it’s just right.
“I was a bit distracted,” he says dryly. “What did I miss?”
“It’s one of Jackson’s designs.”
“Is it?” He studies the brochure some more. “You’re right. I should have recognized his style. His building, too?”
I shake my head. “No. Just architectural and construction services. Sylvia said the owner bought the building to use the ground floor retail space. Reginald Aubert.”
“I know that name. The son of Jerome Aubert,” he says, referring to the world-famous jeweler whose name, in the right circles, anyway, is at least as familiar as Cartier. “Reginald hasn’t reached his father’s level yet, but I hear he’s trying. And that he’s pretty skilled himself.”
“Apparently, he contacted Jackson about doing something clever with the rest of the building, and Jackson came up with the office rental and elite hotel concept.”
“That is clever,” Damien said. “But Jackson rarely has a bad idea.”
“Runs in the family,” I say, then lean over to give him a kiss as our driver pulls to a stop by the valet stand.
“I believe you’ve met my father…”
I frown. “Good point. I guess it must skip a generation.”
As Damien laughs, the driver lowers the privacy screen. “Will there be anything else, Mr. Stark?”
“No, thank you, William,” Damien says. He’s never met the man before, but he’s one of the full-time drivers for the Stark Century Manhattan Hotel, where we’ll be going tomorrow to meet up with Dallas, Jane, and the girls. “Feel free to take the rest of the day off,” he adds, passing William a generous tip. “I’ll let them know I authorized it.”
“Thank you, sir. Are you sure you don’t want me to wait? Will you and Mrs. Stark be needing a ride to the sights? Or to dinner later?”
We had lunch with Dallas, Jane, and the girls in Southampton, and it’s now already past three, so it’s a reasonable question. Damien looks at me, and I shake my head. “That’s very kind, William, but we’ll be dining in. You enjoy your night off.”
He nods, thanks us both again, and we slide out of the car as soon as the valet opens the door. It’s Saturday, and the jewelry store closed at two, but we spend some time looking at the pieces in the window. They sparkle and shine behind glass that is surely protected and armed to the hilt.
“A law firm will be on the second floor and an accounting firm has rented the third,” I say, looking at the directory before we take the pristine elevator to the fourth floor. “Sylvia said they’re not in yet. The store and hotel only opened last week.” I flash a grin. “Everything still has that new car smell.”
He laughs as the doors slide open and we step out into the classy, well-appointed reception area. The hotel may be new, but it’s clear the staff is experienced, and soon we’re following the bellboy to our suite, our two overnight bags slung over his shoulder.
We take the elevator up to the seventh floor, where the bellboy guides us to our spacious park-view suite. “My big brother did well,” Damien says, looking around the beautifully appointed space, complete with a kitchen, media area, and three bedrooms.
“No kidding.”
He tips the bellboy, and when we’re alone, he pulls me toward the couch. “I’m guessing we have dinner plans.”
“We do,” I say. “But the reservation isn’t until eight. I thought we could check out the bar downstairs before that. Sylvia says it’s classy as hell. Dark and intimate.”
He sits, tumbling me down with him onto his lap. “I like intimate.”
“Yeah?” I laugh as I squirm a little. “Me, too.”
He grins. “So you have me at your mercy. Whatever will you do with me?”
“All sorts of naughty things, Mr. Stark—but you’ll have to wait until after dark.”
His brows rise. “Oh? What do you have planned now?”
I slide off his lap and take his hand, then tug him to the huge windows. They open inward, and we step onto the narrow balcony. “That,” I say, leaning back against him as he wraps me in his arms. “I thought we could go to the park.” I twist so that I can look back at him. “A romantic carriage ride, then a shower, then drinks downstairs before dinner.”
“And after dinner?”
I spin in his arms, then lean back so that I’m looking up at him. I think about the little package wrapped up in my purse, and my pulse kicks in as I imagine him opening it.
“Then, Mr. Stark, we celebrate.”
“Do we?” His lips curve into a teasing grin. “What’s the occasion?”
“We are.”
Whiskey-Charlie, the bar just off the lobby, is as wonderful as Sylvia promised. Dark and atmospheric, with a warm glow coming from a wall of muted light behind the glass shelves that hold an array of liquor bottles.
The bartender waves to us as we enter—a tall man in his mid-thirties with the kind of broad shoulders that makes me think of football. He has shocking red hair, and neither Damien nor I are surprised when he introduces himself as Red and tells us to take a seat anywhere.
The bar is open to the public, but it’s not crowded. In fact, there are only three other parties in the place. A couple sitting at a two-top, both sipping wine, but neither looking at the other. A first date, I think. And not one that’s going well. An older couple sits near the window, beaming at each other and talking softly as they sip martinis. Anniversary, I tell myself.
Near the front is the third group, a threesome. A man with hair as dark as Damien’s laughs with a woman dripping with jewelry that gleams like starlight in the dim lighting. Another woman, not quite as decked out, talks on her cell phone at his other side. A double-date, perhaps, and the fourth has yet to show?
I assume the paucity of customers is because of the newness of the hotel. “You’re right,” Red says when I ask him as much when he comes to our booth to take our order.
He’s got an easy manner about him, as if we’ve all been friends forever. “These first two weeks we haven’t advertised the bar at all. Reginald over there—Reginald Aubert,” he clarifies as he points to the lean man with the two women. “He’s the building’s owner. He asked my pop to do a few weeks of dry runs before we start advertising. The operation of the bar reflects on the hotel overall.”