'So I've heard,' I replied, hoping for a swift cut to the chase.
'But you aren't. Are you?'
'I'm . . . a fairly frequent patron . . . of the bar.'
'You've been inside a few of the bedrooms too, I gather.'
So what? It's not a crime. But I bit my tongue.
'Anyway, that's by the by,' he said, waving a hand. 'I've been studying the books. Bar takings have taken quite a turn for the better in the past six weeks. We have many rebookings for rooms, especially in the traditionally unpopular midweek slots. A little business-minded bird told me you might have something to do with that.'
He really had the gimlet-stare off pat. It was quite disconcerting, but I faced down the blue-grey gleam and shrugged. 'Not for me to say.'
Finally his lips twisted from rigid to relaxed and a half-chuckle leaked out. 'You needn't be defensive. I'm not about to ban you from the premises. The hooker in the bar is a fact of luxury hotel life; I'm inclined to turn a blind eye.'
'I'm not a hooker,' I blurted.
He frowned. 'It's all right; I've told you where I stand. There's no need to deny it . . .'
'Really. I'm not a hooker. I just . . . it's . . . kind of like . . . a hobby . . .' I broke off, realising that there was nowhere to go with this statement. He would probably prefer a prostitute; somebody with a sharp business mind. A slut, on the other hand . . .
'Now that's very interesting,' he remarked, leaning forward. 'That would explain why these men are spending so much in the bar and on room service, as well as going for the more expensive suites. They aren't paying for . . . anything extra.'
I scowled at him, then looked away.
'Look at me,' he said, and his tone woke me up; a visceral lurch in my stomach. I had never heard anything so commanding. 'I have a proposition for you.'
'Oh?'
He picked up a pen and wrote something with a flourish on some documents ranged on his blotter. He was signing his name, I thought.
'I'm offering you a job, if you're interested. I need a receptionist – somebody like you: smart, sexy, dressed to kill, with a bit of a come-hither behind the professional veneer. Take a look at the details and tell me what you think.'
I skim-read the contract; the terms and conditions seemed fair, the work easy and the money good. I needed good money.
'I . . . think it looks like something I might consider,' I said cautiously.
'And for how long might you consider it?' he asked sternly, his brows creasing at me. He was, I realised in that moment, exceptionally attractive.
Caution scattered into the four winds. 'For a few seconds,' I said, breathing hard and flushing. 'OK. I'll take it. Thanks.'
It was only then that he stood to shake my hand. He had a firm grip, his skin warm and smooth, his hand comfortingly large.
'Good,' he said. 'I'm Christopher Chase; Mr Chase to you. Or Sir.'
'Yes, Sir,' I breathed, feeling funny in a squirmy sort of way at the use of the honorific. 'Oh, yeah, I'm Sophie Martin.'
'I'm very glad to have you on board, Sophie,' he said, and for a millisecond an image of him lying on top of me on the deck of a ship, thrusting manfully, distracted me from the matter at hand.
'You will be friendly but professional behind the desk,' he reminded me. 'What you get up to when you're off-duty, however, is entirely your own . . . affair.'
He perched on the edge of his desk, curling a flirtatious lip at me. Basically, he was encouraging me to carry on my bar-based shaggery for as long as I liked.
I could not say no.
Conference Facilities
Flipcharts. Water jugs. Overhead projectors. Name tags.