Mission: Irresistible. Sharon Sala
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they descended the well-lit steps to the beach below, the silence between them was awkward, but when they reached the sand and Ally bent down to take off her shoes, something changed. Maybe it was the sound of rolling surf, or the path of moonlight stretching upon the water. And maybe, it was just the fact that in that moment, Ally quit thinking about why she’d come and began to focus on where she was. She turned, staring in awe at the luminous majesty before her.
“How beautiful.”
“Yes…beautiful,” East said.
Ally was so caught up in the view, she didn’t realize that he was staring at her and not the moon.
Time passed. The moon climbed higher in the night sky and the wind rose with it. A sense of sadness came upon her, knowing that this night and the spell of it all would never come again in quite the same way. Impulsively, she took a step toward the ocean, but East’s grip on her arm tightened, and he held her back.
“It’s too cold,” he said softly.
She started to argue. All she’d wanted was to feel the pull of the ocean against her feet to see if it matched the rhythm of her heart, and then she realized that coddling a flight of fancy was not why she’d come. And, since she’d already broken the tenuous connection they’d made with her thoughtless remark earlier, she felt obliged to call it a night.
“Of course, you’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s late and I’m sure you have more important things to do than baby-sit me.” She handed him his sports coat. “Thank you for the loan. I think I’ll go to bed now.”
East found himself holding his jacket as Ally bolted toward the steps leading back to the hotel.
“Well, hell,” East muttered, then followed her ascent, but by the time he entered the lobby, she was nowhere in sight.
East’s sleepless night was exacerbated by the turmoil to which he awoke the next morning. Both a knock on his door and the frantic ringing of both his cell phone and telephone had him on his feet and grabbing for a pair of sweats before he’d barely opened his eyes. He grabbed the cell phone on the way to the door, growling a response into the receiver as he unlocked the door.
The chef was on the cell phone yelling in his ear as Foster Martin, the assistant manager, dashed inside his apartment with a separate, but equally frustrating problem. He clenched his jaw, motioning for Foster to sit as he turned his attention to the man on his cell phone.
“Please hold a moment, my other phone is ringing.”
He answered the phone on the table without showing his frustration.
“This is Kirby.”
“Mr. Kirby, this is Detweiler.”
East flinched. The only time his head of security called was when there was a problem.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“There’s a woman giving birth in Room two, one, five.”
East groaned. The last time this happened, the woman filed a lawsuit against them for not having a doctor on staff. She didn’t win, but it was a hassle that lasted the better part of six months. He didn’t want a repeat performance.
“You’ve called 9-1-1?”
“They’re on the way.”
“How far along is she?”
Detweiler began to stutter. “Far along? Hell if I know. She’s at the screaming stage, if that’s what you want to know.”
East almost chuckled. If he remembered correctly, Detweiler was a bachelor.
“I don’t suppose there’s a doctor registered?” East asked.
Foster jumped up from where he’d been sitting, waving his hands even more in an attempt to get East’s attention.
“There is, there is,” Foster cried. “His name is Butcher. I remember thinking that would be a terrible name for a doctor to have.”
East gave Foster a nod and then returned to his conversation with his security chief.
“Check with registration. There’s a Doctor Butcher staying here. Get him to the woman’s room asap. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“He’s in three hundred,” Foster said. “I checked him in myself yesterday.”
“Did you hear that?” East asked.
“Yeah, Room three hundred,” Detweiler said, and hung up.
Foster started to speak when East motioned to the cell phone he was still holding.
“Hello, Pete, you still there?” East asked.
A soft curse rolled across East’s eardrum, followed by a burst of anger. “Pierre, Pierre, I told you to call me Pierre. And I do not like to be kept waiting.”
East’s voice lowered. “Look Fullbright, pull that French stuff with someone who hasn’t known you since sixth grade, okay?”
Pete Fullbright cursed once more, with emphasis, then sighed.
“The entire meat shipment is bad. What the hell do you suggest we serve three hundred and forty-four guests today? Hmmm?”
“Call Antonelli’s Meat Market. It’s just a twenty minute drive from here as opposed to the two-hour trip from L.A. Have them deliver whatever they have that’s freshest, and to hell with the cost. We’ll take it out of our regular shipper’s hide later.”
“Bien, bien,” Pete said. “Merci.”
East grinned. “Hey, Pete, you need to practice that accent a little more. It still sounds like you’re saying mercy.”
“Go to hell,” Pete muttered, then added, “…boss. Go to hell, boss.”
“Been there, done that,” East said, and disconnected, turning his attention to the man on his couch. “Now, what’s up with you?”
Foster Martin stood abruptly, his hands fluttering about his chest like a wounded bird trying to find the strength to land.
“The computer is down. At least I think it’s down. Anyway, it won’t come up and we have guests waiting to check out and guests waiting to check in. I’ve already called our usual repair service and they’re on some emergency call on the other side of L.A. Said it would be this afternoon before they can get out here.”
“Then call someone else,” East said, and headed for the kitchenette. Before any other disaster presented itself, he needed fortification in the form of caffeine.
“But…”
East pivoted, staring sharply at the small, pale man and tried to remind himself why he’d ever hired him. Then he frowned, remembering. He was the Attorney General’s nephew and he hadn’t hired him. He’d just appeared one day with a letter of recommendation written on a letterhead he couldn’t ignore.
“Foster, is there a phone book in your desk?”
“Why…yes there is. Do you want to borrow it?” Foster asked, anxious to please.
East bit his lip to keep from shouting. “No, but I want you to use it. Find the yellow pages. Find someone who can work on our specific system, and get them out here, okay?”
“Yes…yes, okay,” Foster said, and bolted toward the door.
“Oh, and Foster…”
He stopped and spun, his hands still fluttering. “Yes?”
“About the guests wanting to check in or out, use a pen and paper and do it like we used to before computers were ever invented.”
“Yes. All right,” he said, and shut the door behind him.
The ensuing silence lasted long enough for East to get