Which he wouldn’t. But what he would do, at least for the moment, was trust Janet’s decision.
And keep an eye on Miss Kiera Daniels himself.
“I know how busy you must be,” Kiera said politely when he walked with her in the hallway. “I hate to trouble you.”
“No trouble.” He pressed the elevator button, slipped his hands casually into his pants’ pockets. “My ten o’clock meeting was cancelled.”
Her lips pressed into a tight smile before she turned away to adjust the strap of her purse. With her attention elsewhere, he allowed himself the pleasure of drawing her scent into his lungs, held it there for a long moment.
And for reasons that had nothing to do with hotel policy, wished like hell Janet hadn’t hired her.
“In fact—” he followed her onto the elevator when the doors slid open, made a decision he was certain he’d regret “—since I’m free for the next hour, why don’t I give you a tour?”
Two
Kiera was certain she hadn’t heard him right. She cleared her throat and calmly met his eyes. Dark, intense eyes, that seemed to bore straight through her. “A tour?”
“Every person on the staff needs to know their way around the hotel.” He pushed the elevator button. “But if you haven’t the time …”
“Not at all.” Why would he do this? She’d worked in hotels before, knew perfectly well that the general manager didn’t take new employees on a tour. She also knew perfectly well she couldn’t refuse. “Now is fine.”
“Good.”
The smile he gave her made her pulse jump. Something told her that very few people—especially women—ever said no to Sam Prescott. He had a … presence, she thought. Not just his height, or the broad stretch of shoulders. Not even those lethal eyes, strong jaw and thick, espresso-brown hair.
No, it was much more than the way he looked. The first time she’d stepped into the elevator with him, she’d felt it.
Power.
The air inside the elevator had sizzled with it. She’d intentionally kept her gaze turned from him, even when she’d felt the gripping pull to look. Perhaps for self-preservation, perhaps to prove to herself that she could resist. She hadn’t even been able to breathe until she’d stepped out of the elevator.
And here she was again. Same elevator. Same man. Same sizzle.
Trey had told her on more than one occasion that she was naive. When they’d argued before she’d left the ranch, he’d told her again. So maybe she was. But she wasn’t so naive to think that Sam Prescott standing outside Mrs. Lamott’s office door was an accident. And she wasn’t so naive to think that this tour he wanted to take her on was hotel policy.
She certainly hadn’t done anything to attract this man’s unwanted attention. As far as he knew, she was simply a new employee—a waitress. There was nothing about her that should warrant interest from a general manager.
Unless he suspected she wasn’t being completely honest …
Oh, good grief, Kiera, she silently chided herself. You’re being paranoid. Of course he doesn’t suspect anything. How could he?
This has to be the slowest elevator I’ve ever been on.
“You’re not from around here,” he said flatly.
She hesitated, decided that the best way to avoid questions was to offer information. It might be useless information, but she hoped it would alleviate any apprehensions he might have about her. “I was born and raised in East Texas. Have you heard of a town called Rainville?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“It’s not exactly a tourist spot.” It wasn’t exactly where she was from, either, though it was close. “Unless you’re interested in honey.”
“Honey?”
“Rainville’s claim to fame.” When the elevator finally slid to a stop, she stepped forward. “They raise bees.”
“Really.”
When he pressed the button to keep the doors closed, then leveled those piercing eyes at her, Kiera’s stomach twisted.
“What happened to your eye?” he asked.
Her eye? Confused, she stared at him. Oh, her eye. She’d forgotten about that. She released the breath she’d been holding, waited a moment for her pulse to slow down. “I fell off a horse.”
His frown darkened. “I’m not asking to be nosy. If you have a problem that might become this hotel’s problem, I need to know.”
So that’s what he was suspicious about, she realized. Not because he knew who she was or that she lied but because of her black eye. Relief poured through her. “Everyone has problems, Mr. Prescott,” she said evenly. “But I assure you, whatever mine are, they will in no way affect my job or this hotel.”
He stared at her for a long, nerve-racking moment, then removed his finger from the button. “Sam,” he said and straightened.
The elevator doors opened and he stepped out.
On unsteady legs, she followed.
The decor at Adagio’s Ristorante was elegant and contemporary. Crisp white linens, airy palms and high ceilings invited diners to relax, while the menu invited them to indulge. Homemade fusilli, a carpaccio sauce that made even the most hardened critic shed tears and “the best crème brûlée on the northern continent,” according to one reviewer, had made the restaurant legendary in the few short years it had been open.
The fragrant scent of warm spices and fresh bread mixed with the clink of tableware. The lunch crowd was always louder than dinner, and the animated voices of hotel guests and local business owners filled the softly lit room.
Sitting in a corner booth, Sam speared a bite of the steak he’d ordered, chewed attentively while Rachel Forster, publicist for the Central Texas Cattlemen’s Association, discussed her schedule.
“I’ll be sending out a press release to all the local newspapers within a hundred-mile radius, and I have a photographer coming out next Tuesday,” Rachel said. “I’ll have him call to set up an appointment.”
It was more information than Sam really needed, but the blonde sitting across from him, young, extremely efficient and heavily armed with pages of notes, seemed determined to go over every minute detail of the upcoming conference.
“I’d also like to write an article for The Dallas Register on the Four Winds chef. I understand he’s won the Hotelier’s Choice Award three years in a row. I thought maybe I could tie that in with some kind of a Texas beef angle.”
“Chef Bartollini is on hiatus for the next six months.” Actually, he’d flown home to Italy for a family emergency, and, unfortunately, no one knew when, or if, the man would return. “Chef Phillipe Girard is with us until then.”
“Would it be possible for me to meet him?” she asked.
Not a good idea, Sam thought, but simply smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’d appreciate that, and oh, I was wondering—” she pushed her black-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose and scribbled on her notepad “—I’d like to meet the new owner and get some background so I can write a story about her, as well.”
“She’s out of the office today.” Sam doubted that Clair would consent to an interview. Even though most of the people in Wolf River knew her family history, Clair wouldn’t want it printed in newspapers across the state. “Why don’t I have