Did Someone Order Room Service?:. Charlotte Phillips
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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.
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