In Bed With The Wild One. Colleen Collins
Читать онлайн книгу.
switched to my next favorite movie,” she explained. “Turns out it’s perfect for you. The Wild One. Yep. You’ve already got the leather jacket and everything. And you get to sleep under Marlon Brando’s picture. Cool, huh?”
“The Wild One?” Tyler shook his head. “The Pirate and the red one—what is it, Kismet?—are bad enough. I can’t wait to see what you’ve done to this one.”
Emily couldn’t wait, either. She could feel her eyes growing rounder at the mental images The Wild One evoked. She knew that movie. Leather jackets, motorcycles. Bad attitude. She gulped, trying to contain her growing excitement. Wow. It was perfect for Tyler.
But he didn’t seem to notice. He just scooped up his key and his duffel bag and went down the hall. As soon as he left, his best pal Beau went after him, skidding off the desk and showering pens and paper clips to the four winds.
As Emily watched Tyler’s well-shaped, jean-clad derriere disappear up the stairs, her mouth went dry. But his departure didn’t really dampen her enthusiasm. Once again, she thanked the Fates that had landed her in the midst of all this. Pirates and Kismet and The Wild One? This place was great!
She stepped up to the desk, eager to see what room awaited her. The way things had gone so far, maybe this would be perfect, too. Maybe there would be a Mata Hari room with her name on it, she mused. Or Xena, Warrior Princess.
“So, you’re checking in?” Kate inquired.
“Right. If you have a room.” After buttoning her suit jacket so it more completely covered the stain from the cognac spill, Emily hurriedly ran her hands through the basic brown strands of her chin-length bob. She hoped she wasn’t too much of a mess. After all, she had to look respectable enough to get a room.
“One room left,” Kate told her.
Emily smiled. See? Her luck was holding.
“Will you need help with your…? Oh.” Her host glanced over the desk and then back up at Emily. “No luggage?”
“Lost,” Emily replied quickly. “I think my bags got sent to, uh, Pago Pago by mistake.”
“Okay. Well, if you need me to call the airline and track that down for you, you let me know,” Kate offered sympathetically. “Usually lost baggage shows up in a day or two, but it never hurts to call. Just leave the tracking number and I’ll be happy to take care of it.”
“Tracking number. Right.”
Kate leaned forward, sniffing loudly. “What is that smell? Smells like, I don’t know, brandy or scotch or something. It’s really strong, isn’t it?”
Emily stiffened, but Kate didn’t appear to notice, or to pinpoint the source of the overpowering, boozy odor.
“I wonder what Beau got into now. I hope he didn’t knock over the decanter in the parlor.” She frowned. “You wouldn’t believe the things that cat thinks it’s funny to dip his tail in.”
“It’s not the cat.”
Kate paused. “No?”
“No. It’s me.”
“You?”
“A man on the plane spilled one of those tiny bottles of booze—cognac, I think—on me.” Emily gave a delicate whiff of her own. “Oh, dear. It really is potent, isn’t it?”
“Well, it could be worse. I mean, it’ll come out. Don’t you think?”
“I hope so.” Eager to change the subject, Emily pulled out her purse. She reached for a credit card, but put it back on the double. No credit cards as long as she was on the lam—too traceable by well-meaning family members. Her dad and brothers were bad enough, but her mother…sheesh. Once Judge Patience Burr-Chaplin found out her only daughter had skipped town, she was going to have a fit. And she wouldn’t rest until she located Emily.
“The least I can do is make it tough for her,” Emily murmured under her breath. With a faint smile, she added, “Do you need me to prepay? I have cash. I hope that’s okay.”
“Oh, sure. That’s great.” Kate looked up expectantly. “And how long will you be staying?”
Emily paused. How long would she be staying? The first answer that occurred to her was short and succinct.
As long as Tyler.
Chapter 3
BUT SHE DIDN’T SAY THAT. “I’ll be staying through the weekend, I think. Have to be back in the office on Monday.”
“Great.” Kate beamed at her. “You’ll be in the Pollyanna room.”
“The Pollyanna room?” she echoed. Pollyanna? But she was hoping for…“Isn’t there anything else?”
“Sorry,” Kate replied. “Pollyanna is the only room available. But I’m sure you’ll like it. It’s very lacy and feminine—just right for someone like you.”
“Someone like me…right.”
Which was exactly what she was trying to avoid.
“I’m really sorry.” The innkeeper lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone. “I completely understand. I think Pollyanna is kind of lame, too. But my mom made me add it. She thinks the other rooms are too—oh, I don’t know—slutty or something. Mothers.” She rolled her eyes. “Can’t live with them, and they won’t let you live without them.”
“I hear you.”
Kate edged the register book in front of her and then stooped down under the desk. From down there, she called, “Hang on. I have to get a pen off the floor—that darn Beau!” Straightening, she handed over a felt-tip. “Okay. Now I’ll need you to fill in your name and address.”
The register. The very one Tyler had signed a few minutes ago. With heightened anticipation, Emily pulled the book closer, eager to read whatever he’d written about himself.
But it was just a blank page. Darn it. Emily’s registration was the first one on a new page, and she was going to have to very conspicuously turn the page back if she wanted to read his information.
“Is there something wrong?” Kate inquired.
“Oh, no. Well,” she said, improvising, “this pen is dried out. Do you have a different one?”
As Kate once again ducked under the desk, Emily grabbed her chance, flipping the page back, squinting at the slash of rotten handwriting to make out “Tyler O’Toole, Chicago, IL,” and then several blank lines.
Quickly she put the register back the way it was, just in time for Kate to pop up with a pencil. Emily took it and scribbled down her own name and address.
Okay, so he wasn’t terribly good at filling out forms and he hadn’t given her much to go on. At least she knew his last name now. Tyler O’Toole.
Speaking of last names…she glanced down at her own. Was it wise to use her real name? Or smarter to go with a fake one just in case her mother started looking for her?
While Kate was occupied tidying up the pencil cup, Emily erased her last name and penciled in the first cool name that popped into her head. “Bond,” she wrote. Emily Bond.
After spinning the book around to read the name, Kate smiled. “Nice to meet you, Emily.” Then she turned to pull an old-fashioned key off a hook. “Okay. Pollyanna is the first room on the right at the top of the stairs. There’s a doll on the door—that’s how you’ll know it’s Pollyanna.”
“Pollyanna and baby dolls,” Emily murmured, feeling more disappointed by the minute. It sounded like her room when she was twelve. As the youngest child and the only girl in the Chaplin family, she’d had to endure all kinds of smothering, fussy stuff. “I’ll be sure to look for the doll.”