toward the elevator tucked into a corner at the end of the reception area. Dale Bowen fell in beside her as they drew up in front of the outer doors of the elevator. Constructed of glass inlaid with bronze, the doors showed the polished wood interior of the waiting elevator car. Bowen pushed a button and the glass doors slid open. The trio walked into the elevator and turned to face the front. Dale took a key from his pocket and inserted it into a lock in the control panel. When he turned it, the doors slid closed.
“You can take them off now,” he said as the elevator slowly lifted away from the ground floor.
“What?” Garth snapped.
Bowen ignored him, dropping his leaf-green gaze on Petra instead. “You can take off your shoes now,” he said gently. “The floors in the penthouse are clean.”
“Oh.” Surprised, she looked down at her feet. “How did you…” She broke off, wincing with embarrassment. And she’d thought no one had noticed. Garth certainly hadn’t!
“My mom and sister like pretty shoes, too,” Bowen told her with a knowing smile. “They call them ‘cruel shoes’ because they can’t resist buying them even though they hurt when they wear them.”
Garth finally realized what Dale Bowen had obviously surmised with a glance. Not to be outdone, he slipped an arm about Petra’s shoulders. “By all means,” he cooed solicitously, “take off your shoes if they’re uncomfortable.”
The intimacy of his tone and gesture heightened Petra’s embarrassment. Quickly stepping out of the shoes, she stooped to pick them up by the heels. Thankfully, the elevator came to a stop just then, and the door slid open.
“Well, well,” Garth said, sounding pleasantly surprised.
“This way,” Bowen directed, lifting a hand and sliding past Petra to push open the tall, carved doors that stood across a narrow length of gleaming wood floor.
Petra gasped as she stepped into the private apartment. Twelve-foot-high ceilings radiated with hidden lights, augmenting the sunshine that spilled through the broad windows set deeply into the paneled walls. French doors in one end of the living area overlooked an enclosed patio. Black granite and steel appliances accented the small, well-appointed kitchen, separated by a bar from the greater room. The two bedrooms, each with a private bath, opened off a short hallway.
As was his practice with every hotel added to the Anderton chain, Garth had contracted the apartment separately and given his personal decorator, Dexter, control of this portion of the overall project. Dexter had done well.
“Excellent,” Garth said, brushing back the sides of his suit coat with both hands. “At least the historical society didn’t hold up things on this end.”
“This falls under the heading of new construction,” Bowen pointed out.
“Excellent,” Garth said again, looking around. “Quality work.”
“And on budget,” Bowen added. The sound of a revving engine had him reaching for his pocket, from which he pulled a cell phone. “Excuse me.” Crossing the room, he tapped the tiny screen and lifted the phone to his ear. “This is Dale.”
Petra turned away, affording him as much privacy as possible, and found Garth watching her. He stepped close enough to lightly brush a hand down her arm.
“Pretty nice, huh?”
“Lovely,” she agreed, shifting away.
“And roomy,” he went on, adding softly. “You know, staying here would be much more convenient for you than that old family mausoleum across town.”
Petra kept a smile firmly in place as she whispered, “Chatam House is blocks, not miles, away and my aunts would be offended if I didn’t stay with them.” Triplets in their seventies, the sisters held some old-fashioned but laudable ideas about hospitality and family.
“Just tell them you need to be on-site,” Garth pressed.
“If I stay anywhere else,” Petra insisted quietly, “their feelings will be hurt. Besides, Chatam House isn’t a mausoleum. It’s quite grand, actually.”
Garth narrowed his eyes. “I’d like to see that for myself.”
“I’ll have my aunts issue an invitation when it’s convenient,” she returned lightly. “You understand, of course, that it’s a busy time for them just now.”
Her Aunt Odelia was getting married after more than seventy years of maidenhood—to the same man she’d jilted fifty years earlier! Petra’s brother, Asher, had also married last month, and two family weddings in so short a space of time had had the house in an uproar for weeks. The former gardener, Garrett Willows, had recently married, too, so of course the aunties had insisted on hosting a small reception for him and his bride. No, this was not an optimal time to introduce a new face into the mix, and Petra could only be glad of that. She was having enough difficulty keeping this relationship on a business footing as it was.
Bowen returned. “Sorry. I’ve been trying to track down—” He broke off. “Never mind. Another job. Now then, if you’ve finished here, we need to stop on the third floor to take a look at a problem with the railings there.”
“What problem?” Garth asked, frowning.
“They’re gone,” Bowen reported. “Whole sections of them. And none of my suppliers can find anything like them. We’re probably looking at having them replicated.”
Garth threw up his hands and charged for the door. “I don’t suppose we could just replace them with something similar?”
“We’re not going to find anything similar,” Bowen called out to him, following. He stopped and held the door open for Petra, who hurried through on her bare feet. He winked, as if to say that the boss was having a bad day.
Petra had the sinking feeling that it was only going to get worse, and she proved entirely correct.
The two men disagreed on everything from the depth of the carpet pile to the placement of light switches. Petra thought Garth would pop a blood vessel when it came to the issue of closets, of all things. The Vail didn’t have any, and Dale doubted that the historical society would approve of having them built.
Garth finally turned on his heel and stormed off. Petra shot Dale Bowen an apologetic glance before hurrying after Garth in her killer shoes. This project was becoming more complicated by the moment, and she couldn’t help worrying.
Please, Lord, she prayed, please help me work it all out. For once, Lord, help me get it right!
* * *
Bam! The pickup truck rocked as Dale slammed the door. He took a firm grip on the steering wheel with both hands and closed his eyes, calming himself.
Okay, Lord, he thought, it’s obvious this job isn’t going to be easy.
“Man,” he added aloud, “that guy rubs me the wrong way!”
Sucking air in through his nose, Dale blew it out again through his mouth. An image of Special Assistant Petra popped up in his mind. Average height with a truly lovely face, she had captured his interest instantly. Unfortunately, she was obviously very “special” to Garth Anderton, even though he had to be forty if he was a day, and she couldn’t be older than her mid-twenties.
Not that it’s any of my business, Dale admitted silently, frowning.
Business. He’d somehow forgotten the importance of this job as soon as he’d laid eyes on the woman, which wasn’t like him at all, especially considering that business had been slow these past couple of years and the doctor had told his dad to take it easy. Sitting back in his seat, Dale closed his eyes again and began to pray.
Lord, You know that we need this job. This one job could let Dad step back, maybe even retire, so please give me what it takes to see it through. Amen.
Feeling better, Dale started