Just that afternoon, he’d found himself daydreaming through a meeting on the hotel’s energy costs, his thoughts wandering to the last time he’d really enjoyed himself. Sure, he’d had vacations and women and distractions over the past eight years, but college had really been the last time he’d felt completely free of responsibility—enough that he was able to relax and just let go.
“Are we stuck?” she asked.
“It should be up and running in a minute,” he said, rubbing her back to soothe her nerves. “It probably just needs to reset itself.”
“And what if it doesn’t? Shouldn’t we try to get out while we can? “
She turned, her hip brushing up against his groin, and Derek clenched his jaw. Being near a beautiful woman still caused the same physiological response, the same need to possess. But somewhere along the line, he’d stopped surrendering to his impulses. Sure, he had no trouble finding women to share his bed, but lately, he’d been searching for something more.
Could men and women be friends first and lovers second? Though he’d had a number of long-term relationships, Derek hadn’t found that one woman who he felt completely comfortable with.
“We’re still not moving,” she said, her voice tense and her fingers digging into his arm.
“Don’t worry,” he said softly.
“You don’t think it will …” Her voice faded.
“Plummet to the basement?” Derek asked. “No, I don’t think so. There are all kinds of safety features on elevators these days. That only happens in horror movies and bad dreams.”
“I have that dream all the time,” she said. “And it never ends well.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his BlackBerry. The screen lit up, providing enough light to see the features of her face. “There should be an alarm button,” he said. Derek found the button behind a door on the control panel and pushed it. A buzzer sounded in the shaft above their heads.
Then he dialed the number for the front desk. “Hi, this is Derek Nolan. I’m stuck in the elevator with …” He leaned closer to her. “What’s your name?”
“Tess,” she said. “Tess Robertson.”
“With Tess Robertson. Could you call maintenance and have them get us out?”
“Certainly, Mr. Nolan. Right away. I’m so sorry about this. We’ve been having a lot of trouble with the elevators lately.”
“Just get us out,” he said calmly. “And call me at this number if there’s any problem.” He hung up, then turned the light from the screen toward her. “Is there anyone you’d like to call?”
Tess hesitated for a moment, then shook her head. “No. I’m fine.”
But she didn’t sound fine. She sounded uneasy. Being in a dark, confined space with a stranger would make anyone nervous. “You don’t have to worry,” he said. “You’re safe with me. In fact, you’re better off with me. I’m a pretty important guest here. They’ll get us out as quickly as they can.”
“I’m really not worried,” she said. “I mean, not about you. But the whole ‘plunging to the basement’ thing is still an issue.”
He chuckled. “Why don’t we sit down and make ourselves comfortable.” Derek held out his hand and she placed her fingers in his as he helped her settle onto the floor. Derek sat down next to her. Then he set the bottle of scotch between them. “What do you think? Should we open it? It’s really good stuff. And it may calm your nerves.”
Tess shrugged, crossing her legs in front of her and folding her hands in her lap. She forced a smile. “Why not? Maybe it will soften the fall, too?”
“We’re not going to fall,” Derek insisted. With a grin, he handed her the BlackBerry. “You hold the light.” He peeled the foil from around the cap, then twisted it open. “Unfortunately, I don’t have any glasses. Some might consider it a crime to drink twelve-year-old scotch right out of the bottle but desperate times call for desperate measures.”
“I don’t care what some people say,” Tess replied. “I’ve never really liked arbitrary rules.” She raised the bottle to him. “To … to the very strong and capable cable that’s holding this elevator up.” Like an experienced drinker, she tipped the bottle and took a sip, then coughed. “It’s good.”
Derek reached over and patted her on the back. “Easy there, you don’t want to drink too fast.”
With a soft laugh, she handed him back the bottle. “Don’t worry. I can handle my liquor.”
Derek took a swig of the scotch. “So, Tess Robertson. Since we’re stuck here for a while, tell me about yourself. Are you from Nashville?”
She shook her head, her dark hair falling into her face. “No. I live near Lexington, Kentucky. I manage a horse farm. We breed and raise thoroughbreds. For racing.”
“You work with horses?”
Tess nodded. “My dad is a trainer. He put me on a horse when I was three and I haven’t been off one since then.” She smoothed her hands over her skirt. “Yesterday, I was mucking out stables. Today, I’m sipping expensive scotch in a party dress, waiting for my eminent death.” Tess reached for the bottle and took another sip. “What about you?”
“My family owns a chain of hotels.”
“Hah!” she said with a laugh. “I bet you’re sorry you decided to stay at this one.”
“I probably shouldn’t admit this, but this hotel is one of ours. The one with the broken elevator.”
“You own this hotel? Sorry. It’s very nice.”
“I’m here looking after the family interests. Making sure the staff is doing its job. Tomorrow I head down to Puerto Rico to visit another hotel.”
“Your job sounds very glamorous,” she said.
“So does your job,” he said.
Tess shrugged. “Horses can’t bring you room service.”
It was an odd statement and caused him to chuckle. Was the scotch beginning to take effect? Or was this just the way she was—honest and plainspoken? “I suppose they can’t. But you can’t ride a hotel. Or race one.”
“Very true,” she said.
The light on his phone went out, but they continued to talk in the dark, passing the bottle between them.
“You said you were on your way to a party?”
“The owners of the farm are giving a New Year’s Eve party. It’s an annual event and I was invited.”
“And now, you’re stuck here with me,” he said in an apologetic tone.
“No, it’s fine. I’m really not much of a party girl. I can’t remember the last time I wore a dress. And it’s one of those high-society deals. Half the time, I don’t know what they’re talking about and the other half, I don’t really care.” She paused. “Sorry.”
“For what?”
“You’re probably one of those high-society types, aren’t you.”
“No. And you’re right to want to stay here,” he said in a teasing tone. “I hate socializing with snooty people, too. The atmosphere here is so much nicer. And the conversation more interesting.” He picked up his BlackBerry and pulled up a song, the melody barely audible, the light illuminating her profile again. “We even have music.”
“Maybe this is exactly what I needed,” she said with a sigh.
“Really?”