Did Someone Order Room Service?:
Did Someone Order Room Service?:
Charlotte Phillips
HarperImpulse Contemporary Romance NovellaWant to know more about Did Someone Order Room Service?GAME. SET. MATCH.Has American Tennis Pro Matt Stanton finally found his match in uptight hotel employee Layla Jones? Find out in this deliciously naughty novella - the second book in the Do Not Disturb Series!
Did Someone Order Room Service?
Charlotte Phillips
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
Contents
Copyright (#ufa31434d-be51-56d6-9b75-f92fbcfca508)
Dedication (#u4429e4d3-3614-58a8-97e8-3899c42709a2)
CHAPTER ONE (#udcbb7d25-310d-55d8-9b6f-21eff545fbe9)
CHAPTER TWO (#uacb36908-45b4-560c-89f7-33360937a6b9)
CHAPTER THREE (#uc7774e7e-2657-5d14-a7eb-098efd35b71f)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
Charlotte Phillips (#litres_trial_promo)
About HarperImpulse (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
HarperImpulse an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
77–85 Fulham Palace Road
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2013
Copyright © Charlotte Phillips
Cover Images © Shutterstock.com
Charlotte Phillips asserts the moral right
to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is
available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are
the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is
entirely coincidental.
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and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
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Ebook Edition © October 2013
ISBN: 9780007532049
Version 2014-09-30
Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.
For Barry, who is always there for me. With love and thanks.
CHAPTER ONE (#u4533b528-1a62-5f83-9a94-ab3bfa81edcf)
Layla Jones wondered, not for the first time, if there could be such a thing as an entire-adult-life crisis instead of just a mid-life one.
She reached the top of the stairs and turned to walk at speed down the hotel’s top floor corridor, heels sinking into the sumptuous ankle deep runner, phone clamped to her ear and eyes everywhere for the slightest sniff of another member of staff. Specifically anyone superior to her. Which actually amounted to quite a lot of people. Guest Services Agent was only a few steps above minion here at the Lavington Hotel. It had taken sixteen tries before her mother picked up the phone and she wasn’t about to hit disconnect after all that effort just because of a little thing like personal phone use during work time.
Unfortunately this wasn’t looking like a quick call since she apparently had to spell out the fact that what her so-called parent had done was unforgivable. She’d just have to dodge into a linen cupboard or something if push came to shove.
‘I lent you my savings because you wanted to set up a business,’ she said, and it sounded so laughable spoken out loud that she could scarcely believe she’d been so stupid. Her mother set up a business? In which universe would that be? ‘And instead you’ve blown the lot on travel plans and concert tickets.’
‘Don’t be so dramatic, darling.’ Behind her mother’s attempt at soothing she could hear an airport tannoy announcing some flight or other. ‘Chance of a lifetime this. Not just any concert tickets. This isn’t some flash-in-the-pan manufactured cutesy boy band, you know. We’re talking SweetVictory here. Their comeback tour and I’ve got backstage passes. Did you hear me? Backstage Passes! I’m with the band, darling. I never missed one of their shows back in the Eighties and I’m not going to start now.’
Layla gripped the phone briefly away from her ear as she processed this information, and thought for a moment that she really must call up hotel maintenance to get the top floor air-con checked because it was suddenly boiling in here. Her mother had never missed one of their shows, oh no, she’d spent half Layla’s childhood trailing around the world after them, wearing too much leather and hair mousse, while Layla outstayed her welcome with a progression of relatives.
Doors sped past, their glossy red number plates a blur. She didn’t have time for this. She had an hour or so at best to check the Kerry Suite was prepared to perfection before the last-minute guests moved in. After that she’d have to keep a permanent can-I-help-you smile on her face as she saw to their every whim when what she wanted to do was snarl at everyone within shouting distance. She made an enormous effort to lower her voice.
‘I was saving that money for a deposit on a flat,’ she said. Finally it had felt within her grasp that she might actually be able to put down some roots of her own. Steady job and her own place instead of the tiny rented studio with its grotty shared bathroom and her mother kipping on the sofa for a few months at a time when she wasn’t doing the festival season. ‘You told me it was just a start-up thing. You promised you’d pay me back in a week or two when your bank loan came through.’
‘And I will darling. Once the tour’s over I’ll be ready to get my teeth into that T-shirt business and you’ll get your money back quick smart. Just a few months that’s all.’
Layla mentally wrote off the cash. And when her mother turned up after this latest jaunt, just as she always did, murder might be on the cards.
‘How the hell did I get stuck with you as a parent?’ she wailed. ‘Why can’t you be like any normal mother? You should be teaching me how to make shortcrust pastry, handing down family recipes and lending me money to buy my first flat, not disappearing halfway round the world in a leather bustier and hair extensions.’
Her mother made a horrified noise.
‘Sounds like a bloody boring nightmare to me. What are you, living in the dark ages?’
‘No!’ Layla spat. ‘I’m living in the REAL WORLD!’
Temper completely lost now, she reached the end of the passageway and the door of the Kerry Suite with its red name plate. She flicked her pass card into the slot, threw open the door and stormed inside. The sitting room beyond was cool and quiet, October rain pattering softly against the high windows. The calm felt at odds with her scorching temper so she slammed the door hard enough to make the bottles in the mini-bar clink.
‘You know what?’ her mother’s voice was smooth and clear on the end of the line, tinged now with more than a hint of offended temper. ‘I’m not sure how the hell I got stuck with you.’
Layla paused, hand outstretched to reach the pad of light switches, her breath catching as her throat suddenly constricted.
‘What do you think is more important?’ her mother went on. ‘Getting to work on time? Counting the pennies? Or living life to the full, taking in every unpredictable turn, feeling alive? No one ever laid on their death bed, Layla, and wished they’d put in a few more hours at the day job. Life is passing you by, do you know that? You’ll get to old age, look back and realise you missed the whole bloody point.’ There was a pause followed by a mutter, which felt somehow even worse because it sounded like her mother was thinking out loud now instead of talking to her. ‘How can anyone so mind-numbingly dull share my gene pool? Sometimes I wonder why I ever bother coming back.’
Anger and hurt seemed to boil upwards from Layla’s toes to suffuse her whole body. Her pulse raced with it, her stomach churned with it and her lips pulled back from her teeth in a grimace of fury.
‘Alright then,’ she yelled, ‘if that’s the way you feel.’ Her voice rose steadily in pitch until it was so loud that it cracked in her throat and she snarled into the phone like some hideous fishwife. ‘Follow your saddo little groupie dream and DON’T BOTHER COMING BACK!’
She threw her arm back so far that her shoulder creaked and hurled the phone full-force across the semi-darkness of the room. There was a loud BONK! as it made contact with something on the other side of the couch and then it clattered to the floor beneath the flat screen TV.
‘Oi!’
Layla clapped both hands to her mouth in shock as a man got to his feet, hand rubbing his forehead and mussing his dark hair into haphazard spikes. Tall, broad-shoulders, chiselled jaw and lop sided grin, which actually was currently more of a grimace but which still gave the chocolate brown eyes a hint of wicked melt. Instantly recognisable, even without the usual pro tennis kit.
‘Let me guess,’ he said, his American drawl audible now that he wasn’t yelling. ‘Room service?’
She’d just clobbered the biggest crowd-pull in world tennis. And she’d be lucky to end this day without the sack.
****
The light flush that touched her peaches and cream complexion and the knit of a frown above the china blue eyes elevated her from pretty to seriously cute, and Matt Stanton walked around the sofa to get a better look at her. She was staring at him with ill-disguised disbelief, but really, he was used to star-struck. It was a good look in his opinion, it meant anything was possible.
She took a calming breath and smoothed a stray tendril of blonde hair back into place where it curled softly into her neck.
‘Guest Services,’ she corrected, her voice pleasant and professional. She held up a clipboard. Her coarse snarling of five minutes earlier still hung in the air between them. ‘My job is to make sure your stay runs as smoothly as possible.’
He stifled a laugh.
‘Not got off to the greatest of starts then,’ he said, rubbing his forehead.
She blushed again. He was beginning to enjoy the diversion. With the week of all-work-and-no-play that lay ahead of him it was an unexpected surprise. The phone had barely glanced off his head, but it would be such a shame to stop the show and point that out.
‘Or perhaps knocking out the guest is always part of the package?’ he said.
Worry flashed across her face as she made a panicky rush towards him.
‘I’m SO sorry about that,’ she said, stopping just shy of his personal space to stand on tiptoe and narrowing her eyes as she scrutinised his brow. He picked up a soft wave of her perfume, light and sweet, and his pulse jolted in response. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking. I just had a row, you know, so frustrating when you’re not actually in the room with someone.’ She shook her head, shrugged and smiled as if he must know exactly what she was talking about. His eyes zeroed in on her full upper lip, devoid of lipgloss but still absolutely delectable. ‘Lost it for a second, just a split second.’ She gazed at his forehead. ‘It didn’t break the skin, I can get you an ice pack if you like?’
She looked at him quizzically and he held up a hand to stop the mad stream of consciousness apology. She clenched her hands together and looked up at him beseechingly.
‘Please don’t report it. I know you have every right, but I’ll get in so much trouble and I really…’ she shook her head and lowered her voice to a level that smacked of desperation. ‘…I really need this job.’
In terms of boredom, the day had just taken a very interesting upswing. In the storm of press attention, before he’d been smuggled out of the country by his team, getting any female company had been impossible. A month now, by his standards practically a drought. Soon he would be reduced to gnawing the table. And then providence, fate, whatever it was, had lobbed her into his path. He instantly decided he would have her, not a question of whether he could, more a question of howlong it would take him. A few hours maybe, if he played his cards right – that would be some kind of a record.
‘Well, I just don’t know,’ he said, leaning in to get a better look at her name badge. ‘My first stay in this particular hotel, hardly gives a good impression does it, Layla?’
Her face took on such a look of anguish that he couldn’t stand it.
‘Hey,’ he said, as she clutched her hands in her blonde hair. ‘I’m teasing. Chill out, of course I’m not going to report it. Anger, frustration, I can relate to that.’
He’d had his fair share of racquet throwing tantrums in the past, as his coach never tired of reminding him. Nothing wrong with a bit of fighting spirit and passion in his opinion. And as an added bonus, when it came to women there was a lot to be said for grabbing the upper hand when it presented itself.
He held up his hands.
‘It never happened.’
‘Omigod thank you SO much!’
She breathed out a massive audible sigh of relief and flung her arms around him. He breathed in the scent of her hair and took full advantage of the opportunity to slide a hand around her slender waist. The faint smell of her shampoo clung to her hair, something light with an edge of coconut that made him think of holidays.
‘You’re very welcome,’ he whispered.
Layla jumped and disengaged herself from him with a quick pace backwards. What the hell was she doing, hugging the guests? Professional distance, that was the mantra peddled in all the training sessions. Then again, there were extenuating circumstances. It wasn’t every day your mother spent your life savings on a stupid dream and you assaulted a celebrity with your mobile phone. Really, could she be expected to maintain professionalism under that kind of pressure? She felt his eyes on her as she straightened the dark skirt and jacket of her uniform and began to move around the room, plumping up velvet cushions and checking the mini-bar, each little task restoring an air of efficiency that would hopefully hide her fluster.
When she turned back to him he was leaning easily against the back of the sofa.
‘Everything seems to be in order,’ she said. ‘Now my job is to make sure your stay runs as smoothly as possible. Any arrangements you might need, transport, food requests, laundry services, any problems at all, you can let me know.’ She counted them off on her fingers. ‘Nothing is too much trouble.’
‘Really?’ he said, eyebrow cocked, holding her gaze a beat too long. There was a predatory smile on his lips and her stomach gave a slow and very deliberate cartwheel. He somehow managed to communicate an entire proposition in that one word.
He moved back to the sitting room area and sat down on one of the berry coloured velvet sofas, slinging arms along the back of it that were twined with muscle and the most powerful shoulders she’d ever seen.
‘Absolutely,’ she said, heat rising in her cheeks. ‘For the right guest at the right price, anything is doable. Room full of lilies? I’m your girl.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ he said. ‘When you barged in here unannounced I assumed you were a fan. I didn’t realise you were staff. I thought it was incredibly ironic, since I’ve been checked in here to stay away from them, that I’d ended up in the room with one.’
‘I’m not a fan,’ she said, then shrugged, ‘well I mean, I am, the whole world is a fan of yours really isn’t it? What I mean is, I’ve got my work hat on at the moment. Not my fan hat.’
Oh yes that sounded just bloody marvellous. Her cheeks burned as she caught the bemused expression on his face because he obviously thought she was saying that for effect, and in actual fact she’d blown her food shopping budget for a month on tickets to watch him play at Wimbledon the previous year. She was as smitten by him as the rest of the universe.
He was even hotter up close. Not that she’d thought that possible at the time. In all-white lawn tennis gear, with sweat tousling his dark hair and his lean muscular frame he’d been absolutely mesmerising.
And of course that had no bearing on the present. Dreaming about hot celebrities was one thing. Pure fantasy. The real world was a totally different ballgame. And unlike her mother Layla had no trouble keeping the two things separate.
‘I really must apologise that I wasn’t on hand for your arrival,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t expecting you quite yet.’
There had been a rushed meeting this morning to discuss and fine-tune the details of his last minute booking with them. It was standard practice when dealing with a guest as high profile as America’s tennis hero Matt Stanton. But when her shift had started this evening she’d been so busy getting out of earshot of the management and preoccupied with tracking down her mother that she’d come straight up to check the room the moment she arrived. As a result she’d missed any last minute schedule changes.
‘My people called ahead and circumvented check-in,’ he said. ‘I just came straight up here.’
‘And have you been shown around?’
It was somehow easier to deal with him when she kept herself in work mode. All those tried-and-tested and often-repeated stock hospitality phrases felt comfortingly familiar. She could hold her own when she was in work mode. Prided herself on it, actually, which was why the phone-throwing debacle was particularly toe-curling.
‘I can work out how to work the flat-screen TV and the hot tub controls, if that’s what you mean,’ he said. ‘I’m a veteran of hotel stays, I could probably even show you a thing or two.’ Matt glanced across the room at the mod-cons. ‘If it’s any consolation I only found out I was going to be staying here myself a few hours ago.’
The curt discussion with his coach flashed back through his mind, accompanied by a twinge of resentment, and his mood darkened a little. Last week’s big kiss ‘n’ tell revelation in the gossip columns, so close on the heels of the last one but this time backed up by blurry but perfectly recognisable mobile phone pictures, had combined with his recent slip in playing form to make his sponsors antsy and his management livid. They’d taken advantage of a break between tournaments to assert some authority while they reassessed his coaching. A time-out in London was the apparent solution. And not the kind of time-out he usually enjoyed.
The tennis circuit allowed for precious little downtime and the humiliation of being packed off to a lesser-known London boutique hotel instead of a swanky five-star celebrity choice, along with the list of instructions to stay out of sight, keep to his hotel suite when not training, no partying, no girls, no socialising, no damned life, had brought on a hot surge of angry rebellion. He might have succumbed on the hotel choice, but that didn’t mean he had to give in on the rest of it – right? And a hot against-the-ludicrous-rules fling would be just the thing to prove he still had a stake in his own life, since just now it felt like every damned aspect of it was being controlled by someone else.
‘Have a drink with me,’ he said standing up and crossing the room to the mini-bar. ‘It’s past seven, I’m stuck in for the evening, might as well make the most of it.’
He gestured back at the two velvet sofas, facing each other over a low table. She didn’t move, simply hovered by the door with her damn clipboard held up in front of her.
‘I’m supposed to be working,’ she said.
‘Didn’t you just get through telling me that I’m pretty much your job?’ he said. ‘If I want something, you’re meant to arrange it – is that how it works?’
‘Socialising with the guests isn’t really allowed.’
‘Even if the guest in question has requested your company? Even after you stumbled into their room without knocking and threw a telephone at their head?’
He saw a faint smile touch her lips and sensed her weakening even before she spoke. Of course she was weakening, they always did.
‘Just an orange juice then,’ she said.
Play it right and he could have her by the end of the day.
CHAPTER TWO (#u4533b528-1a62-5f83-9a94-ab3bfa81edcf)
Layla walked over to the sofa and perched on the edge of it, keeping her clipboard on her lap. He crossed the room and handed her the juice. She watched as he poured himself a mineral water.
She stared at the glass in his hand.
‘Mineral water,’ she said.
‘What of it?’
She shrugged.
‘I just thought your drink of choice would be something a bit stronger. Mineral water doesn’t exactly say hellraiser, does it?’
He grinned as he sat down opposite her and raised his glass.
‘Neither does orange juice. We’re perfect for each other.’
The blush was back. She looked down at her glass and he checked her left hand with the briefest glance. Always best to size up the conquest before he started out, and in his experience single girls caused the least trouble. And trouble right now was the last thing he needed.
No ring. Heat began to course through his veins as he looked at her, the full upper lip, the graceful curve of her neck highlighted by the curl of her blonde hair just below the jawline.
‘That’s different,’ she said. ‘I’m working.’
‘So am I. I might not be playing a tournament right now but the tennis season is so long, practically all year round.’ He took a sip of the water. ‘Even when I’m not competing the training is still full-on.
‘I see.’
‘There are other vices that don’t affect my game.’
At least in his opinion they didn’t affect it. His coach and sponsors might not agree.
She looked him in the eye, a flash of something there that he couldn’t fathom. As if she was sizing him up.
‘You mean groupies?’ she said loudly, blue eyes narrowing.
She was bold, he had to hand it to her. Then again, she’d probably read the gutter press this week, along with the rest of the world.
‘Groupie is such an ugly word,’ he said. ‘Insulting somehow. Makes it sound like I take advantage of people and I can understand that because of the way the papers portray it, but that’s just not the way it is. I don’t have time for proper full-on relationships and I meet plenty of girls who feel exactly the same way as me. I’m single. I’m not doing anything wrong.’ He held her gaze steadily, waiting to gauge her reaction. ‘There’s a lot to be said for uncomplicated one-off flings,’ he said. ‘As long as both people know what they’re doing, know where they stand, I just don’t see what’s wrong with it.’
She gave a dismissive whatever-you-say shrug.
Uncomplicated. When did she do anything in her life that was that?
‘What about you?’ he said. ‘Who was it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘On the phone. Who was it? Husband? Boyfriend?’
‘My mother,’ she said shortly. God that made her sound like some saddo spinster who still lived at home with her parents. Whereas it was in fact the other way round. Her mother was the one sponging off her.
He didn’t look particularly judgemental. Maybe he had an insane parent tucked away somewhere too. Then again, who was she kidding? He was bound to have rich parents who’d poured money into his tennis career. She pictured him as a toddler wielding a racquet that was bigger than he was and a small twist of envy jabbed at her ribs. He would have had all the opportunities that a supportive family could give you. There was the difference between them. He had the world at his feet and she was one step away from the gutter.
‘Makes sense. You need a relative to invoke a tantrum that size.’
‘It was NOT some tantrum. I’m twenty four, not four. It was anger. Pure, white hot, tear-her-head-from-her-shoulders anger.’
He pulled a face.
‘Wow. Remind me not to get on the wrong side of you.’
She managed a smile and groped for a potted explanation before he could pigeon-hole her as scary freak.
‘She’s cleaned out my savings account and disappeared across the world on some ridiculous mid-life crisis trip.’ She pointed her pen at him. ‘The States. Your neck of the woods. I was trying to talk her down but she was already at the airport, tickets in hand, and nothing was going to stop her.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m normally a pretty level-headed person, I just lost it, that’s all. I’d been saving for years.’
Exasperation twisted her stomach again, this time with a sense of defeat that made her want to crash her head down on the coffee table next to the sofa. Her mother would be airborne now, winging her way across the Atlantic, and Layla might just as well have withdrawn her savings from the bank and chucked them in the bin for all the likelihood she had of ever seeing them again.
‘For what?’
She shrugged.
‘A place of my own.’
The chances of achieving that dream now were non-existent, certainly for the next few years. For some reason saying it out loud invoked a surge of despair that made her throat feel suddenly tight and achy. She swallowed like mad and bit her lower lip, hard to distract herself. She was absolutely not going to lose it in front of a stranger. Especially a stranger who had everything. He probably had half a dozen places of his own on various different continents.
‘Just you and your mom then?’ he said. ‘Any other relatives? Married, single, other?’
The only good thing about that question was that it distracted her from her misery. Was he actually sizing her up as a prospect? Good grief, was this how he operated – checking out his prey in a few quick sentences to see if they had strings attached or not? He was looking at her in a boldly appraising way that made her stomach feel like melty marshmallow, as if he could see right inside her. She took a calming sip of her orange juice.
‘Single,’ she said.
He continued to look at her expectantly. She would have loved to be the kind of confident person who felt no need to fill deliberate pauses in conversations, but the age-old need to be liked and respected had total control when it came to holding her tongue.
‘I don’t have time for relationships,’ she heard herself elaborating. He was nodding encouragement. ‘I’ve been trying to get on at work, save some money up for a flat.’ A rueful laugh bubbled out of her. ‘Not that I’ve actually got any savings anymore. And this job isn’t exactly nine-to-five. Socialising takes a bit of a back seat.’
‘Ah the job again,’ he said, sitting back a little on the sofa. ‘So there’s really no limit to any request I might make?’
A calming wave of relief that the conversation was back on a professional footing made her breathe easier.
‘Nope,’ she said, giving him an enthusiastic smile. ‘No limit. We had an actress not long ago who took a whole floor for her entourage and had every room repainted candy pink. Or on a lesser scale, scented candles in the room are a biggie. Or banks of flowers on every surface. No request too great, too off-the-wall, too diva … ’
She trailed away with the PR spiel as he continued to watch her, his gaze holding hers absolutely steady, the expression on his face like the cat who was about to steal the cream.
‘And what about more…personal requests.’
His eyes creased at the corners, the lopsided smile that had melted the hearts of the nation’s women played at his lips.
Her heart began thundering as if she’d just taken the four-storey hotel stairwell two at a time. He was coming onto her. Wasn’t he? Why on earth would someone like him look twice at someone like her? If it had been anyone else self-doubt might have won the day and she would have dismissed the idea out of hand, but then this was Matt Stanton. The track record of his personal life spoke for itself, he’d bedded more women than she’d had hot coffees.
She’d been a fan of his for years. It wasn’t just his skill and grace on the tennis court, it was the same thing that afflicted the rest of the female species. Women fell at his feet, at which point he picked them up, had the time of his life and then dropped them again just as abruptly. Most infuriating of all, that bachelor-playboy persona seemed to make him all the more desirable.
None of them seemed to mind. Even the kiss n’ tell stories were, when you got right down to it, ultimately complimentary, this morning’s offering a perfect case in point. She thought back to the morning tabloids – My hot aeroplane encounter with Mile-High Matt splashed across the front pages with accompanying grainy mobile phone pic of his naked and very muscular butt.
‘If you’re saying what I think you’re saying, I’m not a groupie,’ she heard herself say, thinking of her mother’s insane mission to follow a has-been rock group to another continent. No way was she being categorised alongside that.
Rock stars, tennis stars, it was all interchangeable. What it amounted to was basking in the fringes of someone else’s celebrity, as if the excitement in their lives would somehow rub off on your own supermarket-shopping nine-to-five-daily-grind existence.
‘I don’t care if you are or not,’ he said. ‘The popular press might have it down differently but whether you believe it or not that’s not the single characteristic I look for in a woman.’
‘But you’ve known me for five minutes,’ she protested.
He shrugged.
‘Why does that have to be a negative? If you think about it for a moment you’ll see it opens up a world of possibility. There’s no background hangups to get past, no baggage to talk over and get in the way, no irritating friends and family members to get along with. No hoops to jump through. Just you and me. This room. And whatever we want it to be.’
He leaned forward, reached a tentative hand out and stroked a finger gently across her cheek, the lightest of touches which sent sparks of heat flying through her.
OMG Matt Stanton just touched my cheek!
This was exactly the kind of situation her mother had chased since before Layla was born, and now it had simply presented itself to her as if by magic. An unexpected surge of righteous in-your-face defiance caught her by surprise. Dull and boring, was she? Life passing her by? The hottest man in world tennis had just propositioned her without needing so much as a hint of encouragement. She wasn’t even dressed up for Pete’s sake, she was wearing the usual hideous charcoal grey hotel uniform, name badge pinned to her lapel, happy-to-help smile pasted on her face. Not a leather bustier in sight.
Hot on the heels of the defiance came an idea that was so wildly outside her remit that it made her feel dizzy and she held her glass of orange juice tightly in both hands and took a calming sip of it to steady herself.
Her life as it stood at this moment in time wasn’t exactly scaling the dizzy heights of success, was it? Her mother’s parting words gnawed at her pride and self-belief deep down on a base level. Maybe she could have brushed them off if she was holding down some high-flying job and living an upwardly mobile life in a flat of her own, but the fact was, she wasn’t even close. However hard she might try to crush it, there was a tiny bit of her that wondered whether her mother might actually have a point when it came to life. What exactly had twenty four years of striving for respectability got her?
It had been no picnic staking a claim for common sense and normality in the middle of the chaotic one-crazy-minute-at-a-time lifestyle of her mother. Since reaching adulthood the desire for a place of her own had reached dizzying heights, the need for proper roots and security driving her on to work ever longer hours.
And just where exactly had it got her?
For the first time she could remember, looking into the melting brown eyes full of suggestion, with the day becoming crazier by the minute, she questioned her own judgement and beliefs.
Thanks to her mother she was as far away from saving a deposit up as ever. She had a tiny rented studio with sparse shared facilities and a job that left hardly any surplus at the end of the month for savings. The endless grind of that wore her down. Her friend Lucy, one of the many waitressing staff, had a buzzing social life which she lived to the full, never knowing or caring what the next moment might bring. Layla rarely had time or funds for any of that.
Why not do something outside her comfort zone for once? Her comfort zone hadn’t exactly delivered much in the way of comfort so far. The thought of doing something reckless and impulsive felt suddenly very exciting, as if she would be stepping outside her own nightmare of a life into a glamorous unpredictable world where anything could happen. For a moment there she actually weakened.
And then reality bit her squarely on the arse.
What was she doing? Was this the kind of thought that travelled around her mother’s brain on a loop? She was under no illusions about how exciting and interesting she was when put up against the draw of fame and fortune, her mother had spent her whole life illustrating that very point. She had no truck with fame or celebrities and was she really about to be seduced by the very thing she’d spent her whole life abhorring?
She grimly ignored the delicious flip flops going on in her stomach as he smiled at her and forced herself to put her glass down on the table. She stood up, put a few paces between them and swallowed hard to channel calm and squash the surge of you’re-not-turning-him-down-are-you disappointment that had begun to rise in her stomach to replace the butterflies. He didn’t get up, simply lounged back on the sofa looking up at her in amusement, a smile still playing about his lips. He was utterly, breathtakingly gorgeous. But the fact that she owned a calendar depicting him in a different bare-torsoed pose for each month of the year had no place whatsoever in this debate.
‘I need to check on a few things downstairs,’ she said, leaning in to grab her clipboard from the table and backing away at speed. ‘If you need anything, call the number for Guest Services. It’s attached to the phone.’
She heard his relaxed laugh as she headed for the door.
‘I’ll do that,’ he called after her.
****
‘I’ve just been hit on by Matt Stanton,’ Layla said, scratching her head. ‘At least I think I have.’
Now she was out of the gorgeous luxury of the Kerry Suite and back down here in the reality check that was the sparse staff quarters of the hotel, she began to question her own perception. Why the hell would Matt Stanton hit on her? He could have anyone he chose.
Her friend Lucy’s eyebrows met in a frown and she quit making coffee to give Layla her full attention.
‘You’ve what?’
Layla glanced quickly around her and lowered her voice to an uncertain whisper.
‘I think I’ve just been hit on by Matt Stanton,’ she repeated.
Lucy squealed mad laughter.
‘You kill me! Course you have! And I’m marrying George Clooney this weekend. He’s popping over to pick me up in his private jet.’
There was a brief stab of indignant offense because she was clearly so undesirable that the idea of Matt Stanton giving her a second glance was a joke.
‘He’s staying in the Kerry Suite on the top floor,’ Layla said. ‘It’s all been hushed up because he’s having trouble with the press and he needed a last-minute bolthole to get away from all the fuss.’
Layla waited patiently until the laughter petered out and an expression of incredulity replaced it.
‘The Matt Stanton? The tennis playboy with the abs to die for? He’s staying here? Omigod I’m such a fan.’ She stared into space, her mind obviously working overtime. ‘I wonder if I can get a transfer from waiting tables into room service for the week. You know, in case he orders some food in, or champagne. Some of those celebs are like that you know, don’t like slumming it in the public restaurant with the rest of us.’
Oh for Pete’s sake.
‘He said he doesn’t usually drink champagne,’ Layla said. ‘He had mineral water and I had orange juice.’
‘You had a drink with him?’
Did she have to sound so amazed by that fact?
‘Yes. And he was going on about personal requests.’
Lucy rolled her eyes enviously at the ceiling.
‘I am soooo jealous! So when are you going to follow it up? You know…’ she winked at Layla ‘…make your next move?’
She spoke as if it was perfectly natural to throw yourself at a celebrity if he happened to wander into your path.
‘I’m not. Of course I’m not. It’s more than my job’s worth.’
Although actually her job wasn’t worth an awful lot right now, was it? She was busting a gut all hours and stuck in dismal rental accommodation for the foreseeable future. Disappointment suddenly seemed to be mixing with something else in her churning stomach. Something that felt an awful lot like regret.
‘It’s not more than mine’s worth,’ Lucy said, grinning.
‘So you wouldn’t have any scruples about having a fling with Matt Stanton then, even though he has the worst reputation ever for womanising. It would never lead to anything. He’s on the front of the tabloids with a different girl every week. Wouldn’t that bother you?’
Lucy shrugged and stirred a spoonful of sugar into her coffee mug.
‘Why would it? It would just be a quickie and it would actually be one to remember for once. Why make it such a big deal? Imagine having a fling with Matt Stanton.’ She sighed wistfully. ‘He’s absolutely gorgeous. And anyway everyone has ill-conceived flings in their past. One-night-stands that you wish you’d never done. Holiday romances that you shag on the beach and then never see again.’
‘I don’t,’ Layla said.
‘Yeah well, you’re not like the rest of us are you?’ She pointed at Layla with her teaspoon. ‘You’re…you know…sensible.’
She apparently tried to put a positive spin on that statement by adding a consoling smile, but it had no effect whatsoever.
When you got right down to it that was just another way of calling her boring. And she’d heard that once too often today.
‘Anyway,’ Lucy picked up her coffee mug and headed off towards the kitchens. ‘He was probably only messing about anyway. I mean, come on, he could have anyone he wanted, right?’
Tact was certainly not Lucy’s strong point. For some reason that parting comment grated hideously, the clear implication being that she had to be mistaken. Sensible, boring and now deluded that he could even have been interested in her at all. An inner defiance surfaced that might have been there all along, but more likely came from that final straw of a dismissive comment on the back of the crappy day from hell she’d had so far.
Five minutes later and she was stalking back down the top floor passageway at top speed, heart thundering loud enough in her ears to drown out the tired old voice in her head that had kept her on the straight and narrow all these years.
He opened the door of the suite on her first knock and she burst into the room, riding the wave of defiant impulsiveness and crappy-day-from-hellness. The feeling it gave her turned out to be surprisingly liberating. Suddenly, unfettered by her endless drive for respect and normality, anything felt possible. She caught the briefest glimpse of his eyes widening in surprise as before she could change her mind, she stood on her tiptoes, curled one arm around his neck and planted a kiss squarely on his mouth.
CHAPTER THREE (#u4533b528-1a62-5f83-9a94-ab3bfa81edcf)
Too stunned to do anything but stand there, he froze until she pulled away, breathing hard. The look in her wide eyes was a mixture of shock and exhilaration.
It wasn’t often that women surprised him. He’d been faintly amused by her determination to give him the brush-off. It all added to the fun, right? He certainly hadn’t expected Miss Straight-Down-The-Line to do a u-turn all by herself, and had in fact been idling away the half hour since she’d left the suite considering his own next move. Yet apparently his charm had a presence of its own, continuing to work even when he wasn’t present. And now that she had made that u-turn, it would be rude not to respond, right?
Initially caught off-guard, he quickly reclaimed control of the situation. He looked down into the china blue eyes and took in her short, quick breaths and the expression on her face of nervous excitement. Really, she was so cute. He took his time to savour the triumph as he slid his hands into her far-too-tidy hair and angled her jaw perfectly with a stroke of his thumbs. Slowly now, his pace not hers, he kissed her.
The touch of his lips and the slide of his hand around her waist sent delicious sparks of heat flying down her spine. Rationality almost made a last-minute comeback. One little move and she could still undo this madness, she could have the status of the girl who’d knocked back Matt Stanton, maybe that could have its own special kudos. She could go right on back to the daily grind, the work-hard-and-get-nowhere treadmill that she’d been on for years.
Maybe on a normal day rationality might have stood a chance. But today second thoughts didn’t seem to have an awful lot going for them. After the day she’d had the thought of behaving badly and tasting life seemed like the best idea she’d had in years. Why not find out exactly what it was she was supposed to be missing out on. At least then she could argue her point with her nutty mother from a position of knowledge. And let’s face it, behaving well for the last twenty four years hadn’t really yielded any results, had it?
She shoved away the voice of reason and let herself melt against him. There was no grabbing, no fast moves, he was making it clear that every step of this was something to relish, not a crazy rush. Just one single connection, his lips against hers, slowly intensified by his hand as he slipped it into her hair to cradle the nape of her neck. Tingling heat spiralled through her body to pool in an intense flutter between her legs.
And all the while the neon sign flashed in her mind.
Matt Stanton is KISSING YOU! You have his calendar hanging downstairs in your locker!
He took her lower lip between his own and sucked gently, caressing her lips apart with his tongue. Her hands crept around his neck, wanting more of that delicious connection, and excitement rose inside her like a crowd of butterflies, masking reality, buffering out the inhibiting real world of choices and consequences.
Losing herself.
She let her hands slide up his chest and knitted fingers behind his neck. His shoulders were gorgeous. The breadth of them. The solidity. And the strength in his arms and hands, the latent power beneath his lightness of touch. You could feel protected from anything wrapped in arms like those.
This was the ultimate in shallow encounters and that in itself felt suddenly exciting. Work was forgotten. Responsibility was forgotten. This was about proving a point – to her mother, damn right, but more importantly to herself. Payback time and damn the consequences. This moment was hers, she could take what pleasure she wanted from it. No complications. That thought was somehow freeing and intoxicating and she tugged at his polo shirt, pulled it free from his jeans, wanting to explore. He slid a hand around her waist and tugged her further into the room kissing her as he went, stopping briefly to pull the shirt over his head and throw it to the floor. Free now to touch him, she slid curious hands slowly up his tanned chest to his huge shoulders. Not a scrap of fat laced his body. Desire burned hotly through her at the feel of taut skin sheathing hard muscle.
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Charlotte Phillips
HarperImpulse Contemporary Romance NovellaWant to know more about Did Someone Order Room Service?GAME. SET. MATCH.Has American Tennis Pro Matt Stanton finally found his match in uptight hotel employee Layla Jones? Find out in this deliciously naughty novella - the second book in the Do Not Disturb Series!
Did Someone Order Room Service?
Charlotte Phillips
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
Contents
Copyright (#ufa31434d-be51-56d6-9b75-f92fbcfca508)
Dedication (#u4429e4d3-3614-58a8-97e8-3899c42709a2)
CHAPTER ONE (#udcbb7d25-310d-55d8-9b6f-21eff545fbe9)
CHAPTER TWO (#uacb36908-45b4-560c-89f7-33360937a6b9)
CHAPTER THREE (#uc7774e7e-2657-5d14-a7eb-098efd35b71f)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
Charlotte Phillips (#litres_trial_promo)
About HarperImpulse (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
HarperImpulse an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
77–85 Fulham Palace Road
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2013
Copyright © Charlotte Phillips
Cover Images © Shutterstock.com
Charlotte Phillips asserts the moral right
to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is
available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are
the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is
entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International
and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
By payment of the required fees, you have been granted
the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access
and read the text of this e-book on screen.
No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,
downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or
stored in or introduced into any information storage and
retrieval system, in any form or by any means,
whether electronic or mechanical, now known or
hereinafter invented, without the express
written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © October 2013
ISBN: 9780007532049
Version 2014-09-30
Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.
For Barry, who is always there for me. With love and thanks.
CHAPTER ONE (#u4533b528-1a62-5f83-9a94-ab3bfa81edcf)
Layla Jones wondered, not for the first time, if there could be such a thing as an entire-adult-life crisis instead of just a mid-life one.
She reached the top of the stairs and turned to walk at speed down the hotel’s top floor corridor, heels sinking into the sumptuous ankle deep runner, phone clamped to her ear and eyes everywhere for the slightest sniff of another member of staff. Specifically anyone superior to her. Which actually amounted to quite a lot of people. Guest Services Agent was only a few steps above minion here at the Lavington Hotel. It had taken sixteen tries before her mother picked up the phone and she wasn’t about to hit disconnect after all that effort just because of a little thing like personal phone use during work time.
Unfortunately this wasn’t looking like a quick call since she apparently had to spell out the fact that what her so-called parent had done was unforgivable. She’d just have to dodge into a linen cupboard or something if push came to shove.
‘I lent you my savings because you wanted to set up a business,’ she said, and it sounded so laughable spoken out loud that she could scarcely believe she’d been so stupid. Her mother set up a business? In which universe would that be? ‘And instead you’ve blown the lot on travel plans and concert tickets.’
‘Don’t be so dramatic, darling.’ Behind her mother’s attempt at soothing she could hear an airport tannoy announcing some flight or other. ‘Chance of a lifetime this. Not just any concert tickets. This isn’t some flash-in-the-pan manufactured cutesy boy band, you know. We’re talking SweetVictory here. Their comeback tour and I’ve got backstage passes. Did you hear me? Backstage Passes! I’m with the band, darling. I never missed one of their shows back in the Eighties and I’m not going to start now.’
Layla gripped the phone briefly away from her ear as she processed this information, and thought for a moment that she really must call up hotel maintenance to get the top floor air-con checked because it was suddenly boiling in here. Her mother had never missed one of their shows, oh no, she’d spent half Layla’s childhood trailing around the world after them, wearing too much leather and hair mousse, while Layla outstayed her welcome with a progression of relatives.
Doors sped past, their glossy red number plates a blur. She didn’t have time for this. She had an hour or so at best to check the Kerry Suite was prepared to perfection before the last-minute guests moved in. After that she’d have to keep a permanent can-I-help-you smile on her face as she saw to their every whim when what she wanted to do was snarl at everyone within shouting distance. She made an enormous effort to lower her voice.
‘I was saving that money for a deposit on a flat,’ she said. Finally it had felt within her grasp that she might actually be able to put down some roots of her own. Steady job and her own place instead of the tiny rented studio with its grotty shared bathroom and her mother kipping on the sofa for a few months at a time when she wasn’t doing the festival season. ‘You told me it was just a start-up thing. You promised you’d pay me back in a week or two when your bank loan came through.’
‘And I will darling. Once the tour’s over I’ll be ready to get my teeth into that T-shirt business and you’ll get your money back quick smart. Just a few months that’s all.’
Layla mentally wrote off the cash. And when her mother turned up after this latest jaunt, just as she always did, murder might be on the cards.
‘How the hell did I get stuck with you as a parent?’ she wailed. ‘Why can’t you be like any normal mother? You should be teaching me how to make shortcrust pastry, handing down family recipes and lending me money to buy my first flat, not disappearing halfway round the world in a leather bustier and hair extensions.’
Her mother made a horrified noise.
‘Sounds like a bloody boring nightmare to me. What are you, living in the dark ages?’
‘No!’ Layla spat. ‘I’m living in the REAL WORLD!’
Temper completely lost now, she reached the end of the passageway and the door of the Kerry Suite with its red name plate. She flicked her pass card into the slot, threw open the door and stormed inside. The sitting room beyond was cool and quiet, October rain pattering softly against the high windows. The calm felt at odds with her scorching temper so she slammed the door hard enough to make the bottles in the mini-bar clink.
‘You know what?’ her mother’s voice was smooth and clear on the end of the line, tinged now with more than a hint of offended temper. ‘I’m not sure how the hell I got stuck with you.’
Layla paused, hand outstretched to reach the pad of light switches, her breath catching as her throat suddenly constricted.
‘What do you think is more important?’ her mother went on. ‘Getting to work on time? Counting the pennies? Or living life to the full, taking in every unpredictable turn, feeling alive? No one ever laid on their death bed, Layla, and wished they’d put in a few more hours at the day job. Life is passing you by, do you know that? You’ll get to old age, look back and realise you missed the whole bloody point.’ There was a pause followed by a mutter, which felt somehow even worse because it sounded like her mother was thinking out loud now instead of talking to her. ‘How can anyone so mind-numbingly dull share my gene pool? Sometimes I wonder why I ever bother coming back.’
Anger and hurt seemed to boil upwards from Layla’s toes to suffuse her whole body. Her pulse raced with it, her stomach churned with it and her lips pulled back from her teeth in a grimace of fury.
‘Alright then,’ she yelled, ‘if that’s the way you feel.’ Her voice rose steadily in pitch until it was so loud that it cracked in her throat and she snarled into the phone like some hideous fishwife. ‘Follow your saddo little groupie dream and DON’T BOTHER COMING BACK!’
She threw her arm back so far that her shoulder creaked and hurled the phone full-force across the semi-darkness of the room. There was a loud BONK! as it made contact with something on the other side of the couch and then it clattered to the floor beneath the flat screen TV.
‘Oi!’
Layla clapped both hands to her mouth in shock as a man got to his feet, hand rubbing his forehead and mussing his dark hair into haphazard spikes. Tall, broad-shoulders, chiselled jaw and lop sided grin, which actually was currently more of a grimace but which still gave the chocolate brown eyes a hint of wicked melt. Instantly recognisable, even without the usual pro tennis kit.
‘Let me guess,’ he said, his American drawl audible now that he wasn’t yelling. ‘Room service?’
She’d just clobbered the biggest crowd-pull in world tennis. And she’d be lucky to end this day without the sack.
****
The light flush that touched her peaches and cream complexion and the knit of a frown above the china blue eyes elevated her from pretty to seriously cute, and Matt Stanton walked around the sofa to get a better look at her. She was staring at him with ill-disguised disbelief, but really, he was used to star-struck. It was a good look in his opinion, it meant anything was possible.
She took a calming breath and smoothed a stray tendril of blonde hair back into place where it curled softly into her neck.
‘Guest Services,’ she corrected, her voice pleasant and professional. She held up a clipboard. Her coarse snarling of five minutes earlier still hung in the air between them. ‘My job is to make sure your stay runs as smoothly as possible.’
He stifled a laugh.
‘Not got off to the greatest of starts then,’ he said, rubbing his forehead.
She blushed again. He was beginning to enjoy the diversion. With the week of all-work-and-no-play that lay ahead of him it was an unexpected surprise. The phone had barely glanced off his head, but it would be such a shame to stop the show and point that out.
‘Or perhaps knocking out the guest is always part of the package?’ he said.
Worry flashed across her face as she made a panicky rush towards him.
‘I’m SO sorry about that,’ she said, stopping just shy of his personal space to stand on tiptoe and narrowing her eyes as she scrutinised his brow. He picked up a soft wave of her perfume, light and sweet, and his pulse jolted in response. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking. I just had a row, you know, so frustrating when you’re not actually in the room with someone.’ She shook her head, shrugged and smiled as if he must know exactly what she was talking about. His eyes zeroed in on her full upper lip, devoid of lipgloss but still absolutely delectable. ‘Lost it for a second, just a split second.’ She gazed at his forehead. ‘It didn’t break the skin, I can get you an ice pack if you like?’
She looked at him quizzically and he held up a hand to stop the mad stream of consciousness apology. She clenched her hands together and looked up at him beseechingly.
‘Please don’t report it. I know you have every right, but I’ll get in so much trouble and I really…’ she shook her head and lowered her voice to a level that smacked of desperation. ‘…I really need this job.’
In terms of boredom, the day had just taken a very interesting upswing. In the storm of press attention, before he’d been smuggled out of the country by his team, getting any female company had been impossible. A month now, by his standards practically a drought. Soon he would be reduced to gnawing the table. And then providence, fate, whatever it was, had lobbed her into his path. He instantly decided he would have her, not a question of whether he could, more a question of howlong it would take him. A few hours maybe, if he played his cards right – that would be some kind of a record.
‘Well, I just don’t know,’ he said, leaning in to get a better look at her name badge. ‘My first stay in this particular hotel, hardly gives a good impression does it, Layla?’
Her face took on such a look of anguish that he couldn’t stand it.
‘Hey,’ he said, as she clutched her hands in her blonde hair. ‘I’m teasing. Chill out, of course I’m not going to report it. Anger, frustration, I can relate to that.’
He’d had his fair share of racquet throwing tantrums in the past, as his coach never tired of reminding him. Nothing wrong with a bit of fighting spirit and passion in his opinion. And as an added bonus, when it came to women there was a lot to be said for grabbing the upper hand when it presented itself.
He held up his hands.
‘It never happened.’
‘Omigod thank you SO much!’
She breathed out a massive audible sigh of relief and flung her arms around him. He breathed in the scent of her hair and took full advantage of the opportunity to slide a hand around her slender waist. The faint smell of her shampoo clung to her hair, something light with an edge of coconut that made him think of holidays.
‘You’re very welcome,’ he whispered.
Layla jumped and disengaged herself from him with a quick pace backwards. What the hell was she doing, hugging the guests? Professional distance, that was the mantra peddled in all the training sessions. Then again, there were extenuating circumstances. It wasn’t every day your mother spent your life savings on a stupid dream and you assaulted a celebrity with your mobile phone. Really, could she be expected to maintain professionalism under that kind of pressure? She felt his eyes on her as she straightened the dark skirt and jacket of her uniform and began to move around the room, plumping up velvet cushions and checking the mini-bar, each little task restoring an air of efficiency that would hopefully hide her fluster.
When she turned back to him he was leaning easily against the back of the sofa.
‘Everything seems to be in order,’ she said. ‘Now my job is to make sure your stay runs as smoothly as possible. Any arrangements you might need, transport, food requests, laundry services, any problems at all, you can let me know.’ She counted them off on her fingers. ‘Nothing is too much trouble.’
‘Really?’ he said, eyebrow cocked, holding her gaze a beat too long. There was a predatory smile on his lips and her stomach gave a slow and very deliberate cartwheel. He somehow managed to communicate an entire proposition in that one word.
He moved back to the sitting room area and sat down on one of the berry coloured velvet sofas, slinging arms along the back of it that were twined with muscle and the most powerful shoulders she’d ever seen.
‘Absolutely,’ she said, heat rising in her cheeks. ‘For the right guest at the right price, anything is doable. Room full of lilies? I’m your girl.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ he said. ‘When you barged in here unannounced I assumed you were a fan. I didn’t realise you were staff. I thought it was incredibly ironic, since I’ve been checked in here to stay away from them, that I’d ended up in the room with one.’
‘I’m not a fan,’ she said, then shrugged, ‘well I mean, I am, the whole world is a fan of yours really isn’t it? What I mean is, I’ve got my work hat on at the moment. Not my fan hat.’
Oh yes that sounded just bloody marvellous. Her cheeks burned as she caught the bemused expression on his face because he obviously thought she was saying that for effect, and in actual fact she’d blown her food shopping budget for a month on tickets to watch him play at Wimbledon the previous year. She was as smitten by him as the rest of the universe.
He was even hotter up close. Not that she’d thought that possible at the time. In all-white lawn tennis gear, with sweat tousling his dark hair and his lean muscular frame he’d been absolutely mesmerising.
And of course that had no bearing on the present. Dreaming about hot celebrities was one thing. Pure fantasy. The real world was a totally different ballgame. And unlike her mother Layla had no trouble keeping the two things separate.
‘I really must apologise that I wasn’t on hand for your arrival,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t expecting you quite yet.’
There had been a rushed meeting this morning to discuss and fine-tune the details of his last minute booking with them. It was standard practice when dealing with a guest as high profile as America’s tennis hero Matt Stanton. But when her shift had started this evening she’d been so busy getting out of earshot of the management and preoccupied with tracking down her mother that she’d come straight up to check the room the moment she arrived. As a result she’d missed any last minute schedule changes.
‘My people called ahead and circumvented check-in,’ he said. ‘I just came straight up here.’
‘And have you been shown around?’
It was somehow easier to deal with him when she kept herself in work mode. All those tried-and-tested and often-repeated stock hospitality phrases felt comfortingly familiar. She could hold her own when she was in work mode. Prided herself on it, actually, which was why the phone-throwing debacle was particularly toe-curling.
‘I can work out how to work the flat-screen TV and the hot tub controls, if that’s what you mean,’ he said. ‘I’m a veteran of hotel stays, I could probably even show you a thing or two.’ Matt glanced across the room at the mod-cons. ‘If it’s any consolation I only found out I was going to be staying here myself a few hours ago.’
The curt discussion with his coach flashed back through his mind, accompanied by a twinge of resentment, and his mood darkened a little. Last week’s big kiss ‘n’ tell revelation in the gossip columns, so close on the heels of the last one but this time backed up by blurry but perfectly recognisable mobile phone pictures, had combined with his recent slip in playing form to make his sponsors antsy and his management livid. They’d taken advantage of a break between tournaments to assert some authority while they reassessed his coaching. A time-out in London was the apparent solution. And not the kind of time-out he usually enjoyed.
The tennis circuit allowed for precious little downtime and the humiliation of being packed off to a lesser-known London boutique hotel instead of a swanky five-star celebrity choice, along with the list of instructions to stay out of sight, keep to his hotel suite when not training, no partying, no girls, no socialising, no damned life, had brought on a hot surge of angry rebellion. He might have succumbed on the hotel choice, but that didn’t mean he had to give in on the rest of it – right? And a hot against-the-ludicrous-rules fling would be just the thing to prove he still had a stake in his own life, since just now it felt like every damned aspect of it was being controlled by someone else.
‘Have a drink with me,’ he said standing up and crossing the room to the mini-bar. ‘It’s past seven, I’m stuck in for the evening, might as well make the most of it.’
He gestured back at the two velvet sofas, facing each other over a low table. She didn’t move, simply hovered by the door with her damn clipboard held up in front of her.
‘I’m supposed to be working,’ she said.
‘Didn’t you just get through telling me that I’m pretty much your job?’ he said. ‘If I want something, you’re meant to arrange it – is that how it works?’
‘Socialising with the guests isn’t really allowed.’
‘Even if the guest in question has requested your company? Even after you stumbled into their room without knocking and threw a telephone at their head?’
He saw a faint smile touch her lips and sensed her weakening even before she spoke. Of course she was weakening, they always did.
‘Just an orange juice then,’ she said.
Play it right and he could have her by the end of the day.
CHAPTER TWO (#u4533b528-1a62-5f83-9a94-ab3bfa81edcf)
Layla walked over to the sofa and perched on the edge of it, keeping her clipboard on her lap. He crossed the room and handed her the juice. She watched as he poured himself a mineral water.
She stared at the glass in his hand.
‘Mineral water,’ she said.
‘What of it?’
She shrugged.
‘I just thought your drink of choice would be something a bit stronger. Mineral water doesn’t exactly say hellraiser, does it?’
He grinned as he sat down opposite her and raised his glass.
‘Neither does orange juice. We’re perfect for each other.’
The blush was back. She looked down at her glass and he checked her left hand with the briefest glance. Always best to size up the conquest before he started out, and in his experience single girls caused the least trouble. And trouble right now was the last thing he needed.
No ring. Heat began to course through his veins as he looked at her, the full upper lip, the graceful curve of her neck highlighted by the curl of her blonde hair just below the jawline.
‘That’s different,’ she said. ‘I’m working.’
‘So am I. I might not be playing a tournament right now but the tennis season is so long, practically all year round.’ He took a sip of the water. ‘Even when I’m not competing the training is still full-on.
‘I see.’
‘There are other vices that don’t affect my game.’
At least in his opinion they didn’t affect it. His coach and sponsors might not agree.
She looked him in the eye, a flash of something there that he couldn’t fathom. As if she was sizing him up.
‘You mean groupies?’ she said loudly, blue eyes narrowing.
She was bold, he had to hand it to her. Then again, she’d probably read the gutter press this week, along with the rest of the world.
‘Groupie is such an ugly word,’ he said. ‘Insulting somehow. Makes it sound like I take advantage of people and I can understand that because of the way the papers portray it, but that’s just not the way it is. I don’t have time for proper full-on relationships and I meet plenty of girls who feel exactly the same way as me. I’m single. I’m not doing anything wrong.’ He held her gaze steadily, waiting to gauge her reaction. ‘There’s a lot to be said for uncomplicated one-off flings,’ he said. ‘As long as both people know what they’re doing, know where they stand, I just don’t see what’s wrong with it.’
She gave a dismissive whatever-you-say shrug.
Uncomplicated. When did she do anything in her life that was that?
‘What about you?’ he said. ‘Who was it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘On the phone. Who was it? Husband? Boyfriend?’
‘My mother,’ she said shortly. God that made her sound like some saddo spinster who still lived at home with her parents. Whereas it was in fact the other way round. Her mother was the one sponging off her.
He didn’t look particularly judgemental. Maybe he had an insane parent tucked away somewhere too. Then again, who was she kidding? He was bound to have rich parents who’d poured money into his tennis career. She pictured him as a toddler wielding a racquet that was bigger than he was and a small twist of envy jabbed at her ribs. He would have had all the opportunities that a supportive family could give you. There was the difference between them. He had the world at his feet and she was one step away from the gutter.
‘Makes sense. You need a relative to invoke a tantrum that size.’
‘It was NOT some tantrum. I’m twenty four, not four. It was anger. Pure, white hot, tear-her-head-from-her-shoulders anger.’
He pulled a face.
‘Wow. Remind me not to get on the wrong side of you.’
She managed a smile and groped for a potted explanation before he could pigeon-hole her as scary freak.
‘She’s cleaned out my savings account and disappeared across the world on some ridiculous mid-life crisis trip.’ She pointed her pen at him. ‘The States. Your neck of the woods. I was trying to talk her down but she was already at the airport, tickets in hand, and nothing was going to stop her.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m normally a pretty level-headed person, I just lost it, that’s all. I’d been saving for years.’
Exasperation twisted her stomach again, this time with a sense of defeat that made her want to crash her head down on the coffee table next to the sofa. Her mother would be airborne now, winging her way across the Atlantic, and Layla might just as well have withdrawn her savings from the bank and chucked them in the bin for all the likelihood she had of ever seeing them again.
‘For what?’
She shrugged.
‘A place of my own.’
The chances of achieving that dream now were non-existent, certainly for the next few years. For some reason saying it out loud invoked a surge of despair that made her throat feel suddenly tight and achy. She swallowed like mad and bit her lower lip, hard to distract herself. She was absolutely not going to lose it in front of a stranger. Especially a stranger who had everything. He probably had half a dozen places of his own on various different continents.
‘Just you and your mom then?’ he said. ‘Any other relatives? Married, single, other?’
The only good thing about that question was that it distracted her from her misery. Was he actually sizing her up as a prospect? Good grief, was this how he operated – checking out his prey in a few quick sentences to see if they had strings attached or not? He was looking at her in a boldly appraising way that made her stomach feel like melty marshmallow, as if he could see right inside her. She took a calming sip of her orange juice.
‘Single,’ she said.
He continued to look at her expectantly. She would have loved to be the kind of confident person who felt no need to fill deliberate pauses in conversations, but the age-old need to be liked and respected had total control when it came to holding her tongue.
‘I don’t have time for relationships,’ she heard herself elaborating. He was nodding encouragement. ‘I’ve been trying to get on at work, save some money up for a flat.’ A rueful laugh bubbled out of her. ‘Not that I’ve actually got any savings anymore. And this job isn’t exactly nine-to-five. Socialising takes a bit of a back seat.’
‘Ah the job again,’ he said, sitting back a little on the sofa. ‘So there’s really no limit to any request I might make?’
A calming wave of relief that the conversation was back on a professional footing made her breathe easier.
‘Nope,’ she said, giving him an enthusiastic smile. ‘No limit. We had an actress not long ago who took a whole floor for her entourage and had every room repainted candy pink. Or on a lesser scale, scented candles in the room are a biggie. Or banks of flowers on every surface. No request too great, too off-the-wall, too diva … ’
She trailed away with the PR spiel as he continued to watch her, his gaze holding hers absolutely steady, the expression on his face like the cat who was about to steal the cream.
‘And what about more…personal requests.’
His eyes creased at the corners, the lopsided smile that had melted the hearts of the nation’s women played at his lips.
Her heart began thundering as if she’d just taken the four-storey hotel stairwell two at a time. He was coming onto her. Wasn’t he? Why on earth would someone like him look twice at someone like her? If it had been anyone else self-doubt might have won the day and she would have dismissed the idea out of hand, but then this was Matt Stanton. The track record of his personal life spoke for itself, he’d bedded more women than she’d had hot coffees.
She’d been a fan of his for years. It wasn’t just his skill and grace on the tennis court, it was the same thing that afflicted the rest of the female species. Women fell at his feet, at which point he picked them up, had the time of his life and then dropped them again just as abruptly. Most infuriating of all, that bachelor-playboy persona seemed to make him all the more desirable.
None of them seemed to mind. Even the kiss n’ tell stories were, when you got right down to it, ultimately complimentary, this morning’s offering a perfect case in point. She thought back to the morning tabloids – My hot aeroplane encounter with Mile-High Matt splashed across the front pages with accompanying grainy mobile phone pic of his naked and very muscular butt.
‘If you’re saying what I think you’re saying, I’m not a groupie,’ she heard herself say, thinking of her mother’s insane mission to follow a has-been rock group to another continent. No way was she being categorised alongside that.
Rock stars, tennis stars, it was all interchangeable. What it amounted to was basking in the fringes of someone else’s celebrity, as if the excitement in their lives would somehow rub off on your own supermarket-shopping nine-to-five-daily-grind existence.
‘I don’t care if you are or not,’ he said. ‘The popular press might have it down differently but whether you believe it or not that’s not the single characteristic I look for in a woman.’
‘But you’ve known me for five minutes,’ she protested.
He shrugged.
‘Why does that have to be a negative? If you think about it for a moment you’ll see it opens up a world of possibility. There’s no background hangups to get past, no baggage to talk over and get in the way, no irritating friends and family members to get along with. No hoops to jump through. Just you and me. This room. And whatever we want it to be.’
He leaned forward, reached a tentative hand out and stroked a finger gently across her cheek, the lightest of touches which sent sparks of heat flying through her.
OMG Matt Stanton just touched my cheek!
This was exactly the kind of situation her mother had chased since before Layla was born, and now it had simply presented itself to her as if by magic. An unexpected surge of righteous in-your-face defiance caught her by surprise. Dull and boring, was she? Life passing her by? The hottest man in world tennis had just propositioned her without needing so much as a hint of encouragement. She wasn’t even dressed up for Pete’s sake, she was wearing the usual hideous charcoal grey hotel uniform, name badge pinned to her lapel, happy-to-help smile pasted on her face. Not a leather bustier in sight.
Hot on the heels of the defiance came an idea that was so wildly outside her remit that it made her feel dizzy and she held her glass of orange juice tightly in both hands and took a calming sip of it to steady herself.
Her life as it stood at this moment in time wasn’t exactly scaling the dizzy heights of success, was it? Her mother’s parting words gnawed at her pride and self-belief deep down on a base level. Maybe she could have brushed them off if she was holding down some high-flying job and living an upwardly mobile life in a flat of her own, but the fact was, she wasn’t even close. However hard she might try to crush it, there was a tiny bit of her that wondered whether her mother might actually have a point when it came to life. What exactly had twenty four years of striving for respectability got her?
It had been no picnic staking a claim for common sense and normality in the middle of the chaotic one-crazy-minute-at-a-time lifestyle of her mother. Since reaching adulthood the desire for a place of her own had reached dizzying heights, the need for proper roots and security driving her on to work ever longer hours.
And just where exactly had it got her?
For the first time she could remember, looking into the melting brown eyes full of suggestion, with the day becoming crazier by the minute, she questioned her own judgement and beliefs.
Thanks to her mother she was as far away from saving a deposit up as ever. She had a tiny rented studio with sparse shared facilities and a job that left hardly any surplus at the end of the month for savings. The endless grind of that wore her down. Her friend Lucy, one of the many waitressing staff, had a buzzing social life which she lived to the full, never knowing or caring what the next moment might bring. Layla rarely had time or funds for any of that.
Why not do something outside her comfort zone for once? Her comfort zone hadn’t exactly delivered much in the way of comfort so far. The thought of doing something reckless and impulsive felt suddenly very exciting, as if she would be stepping outside her own nightmare of a life into a glamorous unpredictable world where anything could happen. For a moment there she actually weakened.
And then reality bit her squarely on the arse.
What was she doing? Was this the kind of thought that travelled around her mother’s brain on a loop? She was under no illusions about how exciting and interesting she was when put up against the draw of fame and fortune, her mother had spent her whole life illustrating that very point. She had no truck with fame or celebrities and was she really about to be seduced by the very thing she’d spent her whole life abhorring?
She grimly ignored the delicious flip flops going on in her stomach as he smiled at her and forced herself to put her glass down on the table. She stood up, put a few paces between them and swallowed hard to channel calm and squash the surge of you’re-not-turning-him-down-are-you disappointment that had begun to rise in her stomach to replace the butterflies. He didn’t get up, simply lounged back on the sofa looking up at her in amusement, a smile still playing about his lips. He was utterly, breathtakingly gorgeous. But the fact that she owned a calendar depicting him in a different bare-torsoed pose for each month of the year had no place whatsoever in this debate.
‘I need to check on a few things downstairs,’ she said, leaning in to grab her clipboard from the table and backing away at speed. ‘If you need anything, call the number for Guest Services. It’s attached to the phone.’
She heard his relaxed laugh as she headed for the door.
‘I’ll do that,’ he called after her.
****
‘I’ve just been hit on by Matt Stanton,’ Layla said, scratching her head. ‘At least I think I have.’
Now she was out of the gorgeous luxury of the Kerry Suite and back down here in the reality check that was the sparse staff quarters of the hotel, she began to question her own perception. Why the hell would Matt Stanton hit on her? He could have anyone he chose.
Her friend Lucy’s eyebrows met in a frown and she quit making coffee to give Layla her full attention.
‘You’ve what?’
Layla glanced quickly around her and lowered her voice to an uncertain whisper.
‘I think I’ve just been hit on by Matt Stanton,’ she repeated.
Lucy squealed mad laughter.
‘You kill me! Course you have! And I’m marrying George Clooney this weekend. He’s popping over to pick me up in his private jet.’
There was a brief stab of indignant offense because she was clearly so undesirable that the idea of Matt Stanton giving her a second glance was a joke.
‘He’s staying in the Kerry Suite on the top floor,’ Layla said. ‘It’s all been hushed up because he’s having trouble with the press and he needed a last-minute bolthole to get away from all the fuss.’
Layla waited patiently until the laughter petered out and an expression of incredulity replaced it.
‘The Matt Stanton? The tennis playboy with the abs to die for? He’s staying here? Omigod I’m such a fan.’ She stared into space, her mind obviously working overtime. ‘I wonder if I can get a transfer from waiting tables into room service for the week. You know, in case he orders some food in, or champagne. Some of those celebs are like that you know, don’t like slumming it in the public restaurant with the rest of us.’
Oh for Pete’s sake.
‘He said he doesn’t usually drink champagne,’ Layla said. ‘He had mineral water and I had orange juice.’
‘You had a drink with him?’
Did she have to sound so amazed by that fact?
‘Yes. And he was going on about personal requests.’
Lucy rolled her eyes enviously at the ceiling.
‘I am soooo jealous! So when are you going to follow it up? You know…’ she winked at Layla ‘…make your next move?’
She spoke as if it was perfectly natural to throw yourself at a celebrity if he happened to wander into your path.
‘I’m not. Of course I’m not. It’s more than my job’s worth.’
Although actually her job wasn’t worth an awful lot right now, was it? She was busting a gut all hours and stuck in dismal rental accommodation for the foreseeable future. Disappointment suddenly seemed to be mixing with something else in her churning stomach. Something that felt an awful lot like regret.
‘It’s not more than mine’s worth,’ Lucy said, grinning.
‘So you wouldn’t have any scruples about having a fling with Matt Stanton then, even though he has the worst reputation ever for womanising. It would never lead to anything. He’s on the front of the tabloids with a different girl every week. Wouldn’t that bother you?’
Lucy shrugged and stirred a spoonful of sugar into her coffee mug.
‘Why would it? It would just be a quickie and it would actually be one to remember for once. Why make it such a big deal? Imagine having a fling with Matt Stanton.’ She sighed wistfully. ‘He’s absolutely gorgeous. And anyway everyone has ill-conceived flings in their past. One-night-stands that you wish you’d never done. Holiday romances that you shag on the beach and then never see again.’
‘I don’t,’ Layla said.
‘Yeah well, you’re not like the rest of us are you?’ She pointed at Layla with her teaspoon. ‘You’re…you know…sensible.’
She apparently tried to put a positive spin on that statement by adding a consoling smile, but it had no effect whatsoever.
When you got right down to it that was just another way of calling her boring. And she’d heard that once too often today.
‘Anyway,’ Lucy picked up her coffee mug and headed off towards the kitchens. ‘He was probably only messing about anyway. I mean, come on, he could have anyone he wanted, right?’
Tact was certainly not Lucy’s strong point. For some reason that parting comment grated hideously, the clear implication being that she had to be mistaken. Sensible, boring and now deluded that he could even have been interested in her at all. An inner defiance surfaced that might have been there all along, but more likely came from that final straw of a dismissive comment on the back of the crappy day from hell she’d had so far.
Five minutes later and she was stalking back down the top floor passageway at top speed, heart thundering loud enough in her ears to drown out the tired old voice in her head that had kept her on the straight and narrow all these years.
He opened the door of the suite on her first knock and she burst into the room, riding the wave of defiant impulsiveness and crappy-day-from-hellness. The feeling it gave her turned out to be surprisingly liberating. Suddenly, unfettered by her endless drive for respect and normality, anything felt possible. She caught the briefest glimpse of his eyes widening in surprise as before she could change her mind, she stood on her tiptoes, curled one arm around his neck and planted a kiss squarely on his mouth.
CHAPTER THREE (#u4533b528-1a62-5f83-9a94-ab3bfa81edcf)
Too stunned to do anything but stand there, he froze until she pulled away, breathing hard. The look in her wide eyes was a mixture of shock and exhilaration.
It wasn’t often that women surprised him. He’d been faintly amused by her determination to give him the brush-off. It all added to the fun, right? He certainly hadn’t expected Miss Straight-Down-The-Line to do a u-turn all by herself, and had in fact been idling away the half hour since she’d left the suite considering his own next move. Yet apparently his charm had a presence of its own, continuing to work even when he wasn’t present. And now that she had made that u-turn, it would be rude not to respond, right?
Initially caught off-guard, he quickly reclaimed control of the situation. He looked down into the china blue eyes and took in her short, quick breaths and the expression on her face of nervous excitement. Really, she was so cute. He took his time to savour the triumph as he slid his hands into her far-too-tidy hair and angled her jaw perfectly with a stroke of his thumbs. Slowly now, his pace not hers, he kissed her.
The touch of his lips and the slide of his hand around her waist sent delicious sparks of heat flying down her spine. Rationality almost made a last-minute comeback. One little move and she could still undo this madness, she could have the status of the girl who’d knocked back Matt Stanton, maybe that could have its own special kudos. She could go right on back to the daily grind, the work-hard-and-get-nowhere treadmill that she’d been on for years.
Maybe on a normal day rationality might have stood a chance. But today second thoughts didn’t seem to have an awful lot going for them. After the day she’d had the thought of behaving badly and tasting life seemed like the best idea she’d had in years. Why not find out exactly what it was she was supposed to be missing out on. At least then she could argue her point with her nutty mother from a position of knowledge. And let’s face it, behaving well for the last twenty four years hadn’t really yielded any results, had it?
She shoved away the voice of reason and let herself melt against him. There was no grabbing, no fast moves, he was making it clear that every step of this was something to relish, not a crazy rush. Just one single connection, his lips against hers, slowly intensified by his hand as he slipped it into her hair to cradle the nape of her neck. Tingling heat spiralled through her body to pool in an intense flutter between her legs.
And all the while the neon sign flashed in her mind.
Matt Stanton is KISSING YOU! You have his calendar hanging downstairs in your locker!
He took her lower lip between his own and sucked gently, caressing her lips apart with his tongue. Her hands crept around his neck, wanting more of that delicious connection, and excitement rose inside her like a crowd of butterflies, masking reality, buffering out the inhibiting real world of choices and consequences.
Losing herself.
She let her hands slide up his chest and knitted fingers behind his neck. His shoulders were gorgeous. The breadth of them. The solidity. And the strength in his arms and hands, the latent power beneath his lightness of touch. You could feel protected from anything wrapped in arms like those.
This was the ultimate in shallow encounters and that in itself felt suddenly exciting. Work was forgotten. Responsibility was forgotten. This was about proving a point – to her mother, damn right, but more importantly to herself. Payback time and damn the consequences. This moment was hers, she could take what pleasure she wanted from it. No complications. That thought was somehow freeing and intoxicating and she tugged at his polo shirt, pulled it free from his jeans, wanting to explore. He slid a hand around her waist and tugged her further into the room kissing her as he went, stopping briefly to pull the shirt over his head and throw it to the floor. Free now to touch him, she slid curious hands slowly up his tanned chest to his huge shoulders. Not a scrap of fat laced his body. Desire burned hotly through her at the feel of taut skin sheathing hard muscle.
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Charlotte Phillips
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 28.04.2024
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О книге: HarperImpulse Contemporary Romance NovellaWant to know more about Did Someone Order Room Service?GAME. SET. MATCH.Has American Tennis Pro Matt Stanton finally found his match in uptight hotel employee Layla Jones? Find out in this deliciously naughty novella – the second book in the Do Not Disturb Series!