“Here we are, sir,” the porter said cheerfully as he opened the door to Rhys’s room. Setting the suitcase on the luggage rack, he crossed the room and hauled open the drapes. “The sunshine’s free.”

      Rhys lifted an eyebrow at him, but he smiled anyway. Bloke was trying, at least, although he hadn’t stopped chattering all the way upstairs in the creaking lift.

      “Phone’s here,” the porter said, pointing unnecessarily at the telephone on the ancient maple desk. “And this is the bathroom.” Opening a door beside the closet, he poked his head inside to find the light. “You can always call for more towels if you need them. And the menu is in the drawer in the desk.”

      “Menu?” Rhys said absently. He was testing the mattress, which most likely had a good five years on him. The bedspread alone looked to be vintage 1950.

      “Yes, sir.” The kid beamed. “Our restaurant is an institution here in the city. The Coach and Four. We don’t offer room service, but the restaurant is open for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. There’s a menu in the drawer.”

      No room service, eh? Rhys found the menu and scanned it. Crikey, even the food was from another era. Chicken Veronique? He thought that had gone out with girdles, black-and-white TV, and party lines. And French onion soup? Holy hell. He’d have a word with Olivia about that posthaste.

      “Anything else I can do for you, sir?” the porter asked. He was shifting from foot to foot, hands behind his back. If he was trying not to look too eager for a tip, he was failing miserably, Rhys thought. Not that he blamed him. He hadn’t seen anyone else in the lobby or in the halls on the way upstairs. Tips must be few and far between at Callender House. And the kid had already recognized him as one of the contestants on Fork in the Road, with a blurted, “Hey, you’re that British chef on the TV show!”

      He pulled a five out of his jeans pocket and handed it to the kid. “Thanks for the help.”

      “Thank you, sir.” Just short of bowing and scraping, the porter backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.

      Rhys turned in a circle once he was alone. Then he sniffed the air. Musty, just a bit. As if the room had been shut up for too long. Someone should tell Olivia to have housekeeping air the place more often. Better for business all around.

      Dull green and blue, stripes on the walls and flowers on the bed, a Renoir print over the bureau and a telly that would have looked more at home with rabbit ears. The room was really a bit shabby, wasn’t it? Vintage or not, the coverlet was threadbare, and the rug underfoot wasn’t much better. Once upon a time, the furniture and fittings must have been the height of style, but that time was far in the past. As in, decades. The cornices and cross-and-bible doors—old solid wood ones, he bet—were a brilliant touch, though. Probably wouldn’t find them in the new hotels, unless they were made of MDF.

      It was a bit sad, really, he thought as he pulled out the desk chair and sat down. The room seemed to know it had been neglected. The armoire was practically cringing in embarrassment, and the curtains were stiff as a dowager at the vicar’s Sunday tea.

      Bloody hell. He ran his hands through his hair restlessly. No more metaphors, man! He’d gone absolutely barking mad. What was he doing? Callender House, shabby or not, was none of his affair.

      But it was a bargain, he told himself as he dumped the contents of his suitcase onto the bed and rummaged through his things for a clean shirt. He was amazed tourists weren’t banging down the doors to take advantage. It was a wonder that Olivia didn’t look into advertising, a few mentions on a travel Web site or two…

      There he went again. He grunted as he pulled off his sticky shirts and replaced them with a new one. He wasn’t the sort to let a cabbie run down some innocent woman, but following her into a hotel? Checking into that hotel? Ticking off all the ways she could save said hotel from ruin, if not bankruptcy? He was no knight in shining armor. He snorted at the idea as he tossed clothes into the bureau drawers. And as far as he knew, Olivia wasn’t a damsel in distress.

      Even if she looked a bit like one. Soft around the edges, like a full-blown rose, round and sweet. Even if it was beginning to feel a bit like fate had drawn him to that very spot on the sidewalk this morning, to her. He could still hear the bell going off in his head, a happy silver peal, as if his wandering had come to an end.

      “Oh, bloody hell,” he barked into the silent room, slamming his suitcase shut. He really had gone mad. He didn’t even know her, for Christ’s sweet sake.

      But there was always the chance that he would see her if he strolled down to the restaurant for a quick meal. And that was the point of it, wasn’t it? He wanted to see her again. Wanted a chance to actually talk to her, when he wasn’t covered in mocha and facing the strewn contents of his suitcase on the sidewalk.

      That was all. A bit of flirtation. A welcome-to-New-York meal with a pretty girl. Nothing more.

      Shaking his head at himself, he pocketed his room key and walked into the hall—and nearly collided with a tiny little woman in a hot pink turban and enough lipstick to coat the walls of his room.

      “Oh dear,” she murmured, pressing a hand to her breast and batting a pair of frightening false eyelashes at him. “You almost knock me over, young man.” Almost was pronounced with a very Russian Z.

      “My apologies, ma’am,” he said, backing up against the wall when she drifted closer, a trio of scarves fluttering at her throat.

      “Yelena Belyakova,” she said, grasping his hand before he could snatch it away. When he didn’t respond quickly enough, she added, “Madam Belyakova,