Chapter Thirteen
The Hotel Dupree, Denver, Colorado 1896
Shadows sculpted the darkened ballroom as Fanny Mitchell awaited her employer’s arrival. A happy sigh leaked out of her, echoing off the ornate walls. She loved this cavernous, oft overlooked room, loved it above all others in the hotel.
An expectant, almost dreamy silence hung in the air, as if Fanny was on the brink of something new and wonderful. Arms outstretched, she executed an uninhibited spin across the dance floor. Then stopped abruptly, frowning at her whimsy.
A quick tug on her sleeves, a readjustment of her skirt, and she was back to being the oh-so-proper guest-services manager of the finest hotel in Denver, Colorado.
Decorum restored, she continued her inspection at a more sedate pace. In four days, Mrs. Beatrix Singletary would hold her annual charity ball in this very room. Three hundred of Denver’s most important residents were invited to attend, including most of Fanny’s family. It would be the first time the widow held the event outside her home. Fanny suspected this change in venue was because Mrs. Singletary now owned one quarter of the Hotel Dupree.
As owner of the other three quarters, Fanny’s employer wished to impress his new business partner with the efficiency of their hotel staff. Fanny would not let him down.
She would not let herself down. This was her chance to prove she was more than the gossips claimed, more than the labels others had attached to her since childhood.
By organizing this particular function, the largest and most anticipated of the year, Fanny would finally show the good people of Denver that she was worthy of their respect. That she hadn’t jilted one of the most highly respected men in town on impulse, or because of some hidden flaw in her character.
Her decision had been well thought out and for all the right reasons.
Fanny moved to a nearby wall and pressed a switch on the raised panel. The recently installed Maria Theresa chandelier came alive with light.
The absurd fee to ship the exquisite fixture from Europe had been well worth the cost. Airy and delicate, the handblown glass and crystal rosettes twisted around the metal frame in such a way as to give the illusion of a floating waterfall.
Continuing her inspection, she made mental notes where to put tables, chairs and the myriad of flower arrangements she’d personally designed.
This was what she was born to do, taking an annual event people talked about for months and turning it into an even more spectacular occasion.
Why, then, did she experience a sudden burst of melancholy? Why this strange bout of dissatisfaction?
Fanny knew, of course.
She would soon celebrate her twenty-fifth birthday. Unlike her four married siblings, Fanny had no one special in her life.
There was still time for her own happily-ever-after. For now, she would focus on the many blessings the Lord had bestowed on her. She had siblings who adored her, parents who supported her unconditionally and a job she loved, working beside a man she greatly admired.
“Fanny,” a deep, masculine voice called from behind her, the tone a mix of amusement and lazy drawl. “You’ve arrived ahead of me as usual.”
She ignored a rush of anticipation and slowly pivoted around to face her employer. For one dreadful, wonderful moment, her heart lifted.
There he stood, framed in the doorway. Jonathon Hawkins. The intensely private, overly serious, wildly successful hotelier, whose rags to riches story inspired everyone he met, Fanny most of all.
He was so competent, so handsome. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a head of glossy, dark brown hair, he attracted more than his fair share of female attention.
He seemed oblivious to his effect on women. His mantra was business first, business always. Though she felt a sad heart tug over his resolve to remain unattached and childless, Fanny appreciated his single-minded focus.
That was, at any rate, her official stand on the matter.
His mouth curved in an easy half smile and a sudden dizziness struck her.
“Mr. Hawkins.” She ordered her heartbeat to slow to a normal rate. “You’ll be pleased to know I’ve secured—”
He lifted a hand to stop her. “You agreed to call me Jonathon.”
Her breath snagged on a skittering rush of air. Of course. They’d been on a first-name basis for over a year. She’d nearly forgotten in his absence, though he’d been gone but a week.
“I...yes, I...” Get control of yourself, Fanny. “Are you ready for our final walk-through, Jonathon?”
“I am, indeed.” He pushed away from the door frame.
Here we go, she thought, silently bracing for the impact of his nearness.
As his long, purposeful strides ate up the distance between them, she noted how he moved with predatory grace. Jonathon Hawkins was a study in contradictions, a man who could be sophisticated and mannerly, or cunning and shrewd, depending on the situation.
He
