“Heading back to the wedding?” he asked.
The man nodded, and Adam inquired about their accommodations, dissuading Tori from continuing their discussion until they were alone again.
When the doors opened, the Wedding Wing lobby appeared before them. He held the door while the guests exited before joining Tori, who picked up right where they’d left off.
“You’re not from Niagara Falls. Trust me when I say your unexpected guests last night are news around here. People gobble up any mention of my family. Take a look at our society page someday. Every other paragraph has the name Prescott in it. It’s a side effect of being related to politicians. When my family and your bedding consultant’s family are together in the same room, it’s news. I was simply writing to my audience.”
She motioned to the life-size painting showcased in the lobby. “Your bedding consultant knows how to use the press to her advantage, too. That’s why she arranged the loan of the Falling Woman from Westfalls. To create spin. She told me so herself.”
Adam followed her gaze, unable to argue the point because his co-worker Laura Granger—the inn’s bedding consultant and the woman who’d conceptualized the Wedding Wing—had acquired the painting to stir up interest in the Naughty Nuptials.
This had been a noteworthy acquisition because the artist, a French woman named Mireille Marceaux, was apparently a local mystery. Adam glanced at the painting, a woman surrounded by a summer-green forest and mist from the falls.
“I still can’t believe she managed to get this painting on loan. Talk about using personal connections,” Tori said, referring to Laura’s status as friend to the headmistress of the exclusive preparatory school that owned the painting.
Adam nodded, but as he gazed at the painting he noticed something he hadn’t before. The redheaded semi-nude reminded him of the brash young reporter standing by his side. Something about the way the red hair, refined facial features and delicate curves came together struck him as similar.
Of course, this shouldn’t come as a surprise. The sight of Tori Ford in that skimpy robe still burned in his brain. Like the Falling Woman, she was the stuff fantasies were made of and he wasn’t likely to forget the sight any time soon.
“Laura’s acquisition of this painting was a promotional stunt, but I don’t believe it falls under the same heading as gossiping about our guests in print.”
“Gossiping? Don’t you think that’s a little harsh?”
He shook his head. “You’re capitalizing on a decades-old feud between your family and Laura’s, as well as your connection to the senator. That strikes me as sensationalism.”
“It’s Laura’s job to create public interest in her Wedding Wing. It’s my job to create public interest so my readers buy newspapers. People around here enjoy reading about our families, so where’s the difference?”
If Tori didn’t understand, Adam wasn’t about to debate the point. He would have thought Senator Prescott’s youngest granddaughter would have been more concerned about where she directed her media attention. Apparently not.
But while he was entitled to his opinion, Adam wouldn’t purposely antagonize the woman responsible for the reviews on the Naughty Nuptials. Upon learning the Niagara Falls Journal would be sending her estranged cousin to cover the events, Laura, his normally professional, if somewhat quirky co-worker, had told management about her troubled history with the senator’s family. These families were so estranged, in fact, that Laura had feared coverage would be biased as a result.
Falling Inn Bed, and Breakfast needed rave reviews, so Adam was doing his best to earn them. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been assigned to this job because he was the best fit, but because he was the only male on the executive management staff who could escort Tori Ford to couple events.
He intended to enforce what damage control he could and, at the very least, not make matters worse. But he hadn’t counted on Tori turning him into her pet project, either.
“We’d prefer the inn to attract interest on its own merit,” he said to segue through the stiff moment. “Surely you can understand that.”
While Tori might have understood, he could tell by the way she notched her chin that she didn’t agree. And he didn’t give her a chance to embroil him in another debate. Touching her elbow, he guided her toward the grand ballroom, where the Wallace/Marsh reception currently was taking place. She moved along by his side without further comment, and he greeted the ushers posted at the main entrance before escorting her inside.
Laura had indeed outdone herself with this event. The ballroom boasted a sweeping wall of doors that opened onto a forest. With the June sun streaming through, the wedding party and guests looked like a scene on a postcard in the inn’s novelty shop.
Adam had been on the property for over ten months now, yet sometimes the place still caught him by surprise with its unique combination of nineteenth-century grandeur and atmosphere.
And sex.
It was subtle, but everywhere. Glancing up at the ornate friezes separating lofty ceilings from gleaming white walls, he recognized the whimsical sculptures depicting couples with limbs entwined. Mouths and hips thrusting. Rubenesque women in varying degrees of nudity looking dreamy and sated as they pleasured their equally nude men.
Then again, perhaps the sex around here wasn’t always so subtle. Adam thought about the restaurant’s grand opening specialty menu with its bold header scrawled across the front—Inter Courses. And the inn’s promotional materials weren’t much better. The lineup of romance-themed suites in the main hotel boasted names like the Demimondaine’s Boudoir and the Wild West Brothel. The new Wedding Wing had followed tradition with honeymoon suites called the Egyptian Pleasure Pyramid and the Cast-away Honeymoon Isle.
His current charge had been installed in the Wedding Knight Suite, which reminded Adam of a sex dungeon with its Dark Ages furnishings and handy supply of bondage gadgets. Even the bed had a choose-your-pleasure theme, with specialty sheets like the Kama Sutra Sports Set and the Fetish Collection.
“Looks like the receiving line has finished and the bridal couple are gearing up for their first dance,” Adam said. “So where to first, Ms. Ford?”
Tori scanned the crowd, her gaze darting from her photographer, who snapped shots of the bridal couple, to the sidelines, where Laura stood applauding with the Wedding Wing architect. “To the bar. I can’t mingle without champagne.”
Together they skirted the edges of the crowd, and Adam greeted the elderly bartender. “Hello, Clyde. Ms. Ford would like a drink.”
Clyde had a head full of cottony hair and a quick smile that flashed against his wrinkled black skin. “What’s your pleasure today?” he asked Tori.
“I’m a champagne cocktail classicist. What can you do for me?”
“I can fix you up right. Just tell me whether you want to visit the Alps, the Mediterranean or head south to Cuba.”
Tori laughed, a bright sound that managed to spiral through him as if it were alive. A reminder of their chemistry that he didn’t need.
“I knew I liked you from the moment we met, Clyde,” she said. “I’m in the Mediterranean mood today. Just can’t resist those beaches. And please double my order, so I can share.”
Adam wasn’t sure what a champagne cocktail classicist was, but the look Tori shot his way told him he would soon find out.
Accepting a flute, she passed Adam a second, then accompanied him from the bar.
“Mediterranean?” he asked.
“Bubbly with a dash of pomegranate and orange liqueur.”
They wound their way to a spot