style="font-size:15px;"> “The VIP treatment for the house architect, of course,” Dale teased.
Annabelle nodded. “What else?”
Scanning the system, she kept them waiting for so long Dale began to wonder if there was a problem. Monique gave an impatient sigh, clearly disliking the delay. Dale patted her hand, silently imploring her patience, and she finally stepped away, flipped open her purse and withdrew a compact.
While reapplying her lipstick, she ran her dark gaze over a new arrival, checking the man out as thoroughly as he did her. Dale frowned, but apparently long hair and multiple piercings weren’t to Monique’s taste because she turned back to him and asked, “You did say five-star hotel, didn’t you?”
One look at this grand lobby with sparkling crystal-cut chandeliers, mint-condition antiques and elaborate floral displays should have answered that question, but Dale nodded.
“Here we go,” Annabelle finally said, and he pulled Monique closer to discourage her from checking out any more guests.
“I’ve got availability in the Bondage Boudoir with the chains on the walls and the Fetish Flat with the whips and spanking paddles. Or if you’d like, I could put you in the Waxworks Room. But you’d have to move next week. It’s already booked for Risqué Receptions.”
She delivered all this with such a straight face that Dale could only stare. She’d obviously lost her mind in the time he’d been gone, which surprised him since Annabelle was the most normal member of the Falling Inn Bed staff with the sole exception of the new sanity-loving assistant general manager.
“What are you talking about, gorgeous?” He forced a laugh. “Did you build some new suites while I was away? Or did you change some names?”
Falling Inn Bed was nothing if not upscale. There were romance-themed suites galore, but nothing so gauche as a Fetish Flat. If Annabelle wanted to prove she could lighten up for the grand opening, she’d hadn’t gotten her mark. And he wasn’t the only one who missed the punch line. Monique was scowling again.
“Just put us in a guest room on the third floor,” he said.
“A guest room, Dale?” She shook her head. “You know better than that. You’re practically one of the staff. You get nothing but VIP treatment around here.”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Monique said, emphasis on the ma’am and the age difference that must indicate dementia. “This hotel has bondage and fetish suites and a…a waxing room?”
“The Bondage Boudoir and the Fetish Flat,” Annabelle corrected. “And the Waxworks Room isn’t a waxing room in the conventional sense, although we do offer that service in our new spa if you’re interested.”
Lifting a questioning gaze to Monique’s exquisite—and momentarily stunned—face, Annabelle peered myopically as if checking to see if any waxing services were needed. “The Waxworks Room is a suite with protected furniture so couples can safely play with hot wax. Some people enjoy dripping it all over themselves. In fact, Dale, we just received a shipment of Busty Babe’s Bodacious Beeswax. Your favorite. Did you want to go for the Waxworks Room and take a chance the reservation cancels?”
Busty Babe’s Bodacious Beeswax? “Annabelle, what the hell are you—”
“Hot wax? Chains and spanking paddles?” Monique demanded on a rising crescendo that not only drowned him out, but drew the attention of the desk clerks, the long-haired guest and the assistant G.M. “Dale told me this bed-and-breakfast was called Falling Inn, not the pervert’s palace.”
“Annabelle’s only joking, Monique. There’s nothing perverted around here,” he explained in his best attempt at damage control. He couldn’t argue the existence of chains, spanking paddles and a multitude of other sex toys around here.
“You haven’t quite got it right,” Annabelle said. “Our name is Falling Inn Bed, and Breakfast.” To prove her point, she handed Monique a promotional brochure from a display on the desk.
Monique darted her disbelieving gaze between the brochure and Dale. “You brought me to a bordello?”
“This isn’t a bordello.” He shot an equally disbelieving gaze at Annabelle. “Falling Inn Bed is a romance resort—”
“And we have Dale to thank for our newest addition.” Annabelle swept her arms toward him in a motion reminiscent of a game show model pointing to the prize behind curtain number one. “He’s the architect who designed the Bedding Wing, with five floors of sexy suites like the Coitus Chamber, the Mènage Motel and the Anal Atrium.”
The Anal Atrium did it. Monique’s eyes bulged, and she swung around to glare at him as if he’d sprouted a second head. “I thought you said the Wedding Wing, not the Bedding Wing!”
“I did—”
“Dale’s one of our featured guests for the Naughty Nuptials. We’ve got weeks of erotic events planned and there’ll be media to cover—”
“Monique, this isn’t what it sounds like.” He glared at Annabelle.
“Liar!” The word shot out as an enraged screech.
Annabelle’s eyebrows disappeared into her hairline and every guest within earshot turned toward them. Adam Grant headed their way, clearly determined to bring sanity to the chaos.
“You men are all the same,” Monique delivered in an explosion of sound. “‘I need you to come for business,’ you said. ‘I’ll take you across the country and pamper you until you forget Gerald ever existed.’ You just wanted to get me into this bordello to have sex.”
Dale caught her hand the split second before it connected with his cheek. “I came here to work.”
“So I heard. You built this bordello.”
“It’s not a bordello,” he ground out between clenched teeth. He was too busy dealing with Monique to handle Annabelle. But she was next in line. Guaranteed. “Let’s get out of this lobby so we can talk. I’ll explain. There’s nothing disreputable about a romance resort.”
“Get out is right.” She tried to break his grip—to have another go at slapping him, no doubt—but Dale hung on.
“You’re overreacting—”
“Me, overreacting? You’re a pervert.” She pulled away so forcefully, he had to let go or risk breaking her wrist.
She obviously intended to storm away, but found her way blocked by Adam, who said, “Excuse me. Is there a problem I can help with?”
Before Dale could open his mouth, Monique demanded a limo to take her to the airport.
Adam didn’t miss a beat. “Of course, if you’ll join me at the concierge desk, I’ll make all the arrangements.”
“Not necessary,” Dale said. “I’ll take you home, Monique. No problem. Let’s go.”
He’d think of something to tell his boss.
“Pervert,” Monique snapped. “I’d walk back to California before I sat
