Chapter 12 #2
Gabriella rode the elevator, shoved between so many Westin bathrobes, that she felt ready to suffocate in white terry cloth at any moment.
She’d never needed to talk to Alain the way she needed to right now.
He’d understand; he’d tell her what to do, which was probably something like, “Get out of that bloody hotel, love. I’ll be right there. ”
But she and Alain were finished. And even if she did call him, he’d probably be in bed with Judith. She was the real reason Gabriella had let the relationship with David get out of control. The bitch had pretended to be her friend, then bedded poor Alain the moment she got him drunk enough.
Poor Alain. That showed how bad off she was. To think of the cheating swine as poor anybody.
The elevator doors slid open at the seventh floor, and Gabriella stepped out.
She’d be okay. She wouldn’t have to call Alain. Just room service, maybe, get herself that nice ahi salad she’d seen on the menu—balsamic vinegar instead of dressing. Yes, that would be lovely.
She started to slide her key in the door. Before she could connect with whatever type of electronic source responded to the key, the door slid open. How could that be?
She stepped inside. Everything was okay in the short, carpeted hall that led to the room. But the bathroom light was on. She was sure she’d turned it off.
She sensed the horror before she entered the room.
The bathroom mirror had been shattered. Jagged pieces of glass gleamed from the sink and the pink marble vanity.
What was going on? Her foundation lay in a broken glass on the floor.
Had that been what had smashed the mirror?
Whatever was wrong in this hotel went beyond a faulty alarm, into something more personal.
She felt herself shrink beneath the sweater, unable to look at her defiled bathroom, her broken reflection another moment.
She’d demand another room, damn the cost, get out of here right now.
She stepped out of the bathroom into the short hallway that led to the bedroom. Just find her suitcase. Just get out. Just…
She stopped with a gasp, refusing to believe what she saw.
But there it was, taped to the wall above the sofa, almost as wide as the shuttered window.
Red background, shiny as lip gloss, black dress, slit to reveal legs so perfect they must have been airbrushed on.
And above Julie Larimore’s flawless form, the slogan of which Bobby Warren was so proud.
You Have to Want the Body.
Julie Larimore.
Gabriella ran, grabbing the cell phone again, the key, running into the hallway. She’d be safer out there than in here. She almost collided with the in-charge woman she’d seen downstairs.
“I insist that you move me to another room,” Gabriella said.
“Calm down, ma’am. It’s okay. I apologize for any inconvenience.”
“Inconvenience?” Dear God, don’t let her start shouting at this poor woman who was only trying to do her job. “I need out of my room because someone has vandalized it.”
“What do you mean? They just pulled one of the alarms by accident.”
“Who pulled the alarm, if I may ask?” There. Now she was back on track, speaking softly, even though her teeth were all but chattering. “Who are these theys?”
The woman shook her head, and Gabriella could see the real story in her face. Too young for the job, twenty-three, she’d bet, and way over her curly little head. “An alarm,” she managed. “Fire alarm.”
“Which floor?”
“We’re looking into that right now.”
“So, you don’t know?”
“We’re pretty sure.” She coughed, then looked her over as if trying to assess what motives lay behind her interest. “This floor.”
“God.”
“There’s no fire, ma’am. It was a false alarm.”
“My room’s not a false alarm. Someone has destroyed it.”
“Destroyed it, how?”
“Threw my cosmetics into the mirror, smashed them on the floor.”
“Did you have a fight with somebody?” she asked through her squint. “Your boyfriend?”
“What boyfriend?”
“Aren’t there two of you registered here?”
“Indeed, there are.” Damned if she’d get into Christopher’s private life. “He’s not my boyfriend. And he isn’t going to want to stay in the room, either. Surely you can get us into another.”
“Only one problem with that,” she said. “If the alarm really was set off on this floor, we need to talk to everyone on it.”
“Are you saying you can’t do that if I’m in a room without a shattered mirror and my personal possessions scattered all over the place?”
The woman’s suntanned face took on a tinge, and for the first time, she spotted something more than her job in it, maybe even something decent. “I’m no cop,” she said. “I don’t know what to do here.”
“For starters, please just get me out of that room.”
She did it, too, and in less than an hour. New room, new life, new message for Christopher at the front desk. Now here she sat on the same bed with its white, down-filled comforter, its wonderful little pillows, its room-service menu, or as they now called it, “In-Room Dining.”
Wine by the bottle or half bottle. She could use a drink. Maybe even some real food. She glanced at the menu. Farfalle, risotto, salmon. None was really that difficult to resist; she’d learned that when she lost her weight. It was all about choice; hunger seldom had anything to do with it.
She flipped the page of the menu. Temptation flashed past her.
In two words, Dessert Menu. A cheesecake with chocolate chip cookies blended into it.
A lemon tart. Bread pudding with apples and rum.
Tiramisu made with coffee and marsala. Ice cream served in a brandy cup.
Milk shakes, a classic hot fudge sundae, made with H?agen-Dazs, with additional hot fudge on the side.
It was the additional hot fudge that got her.
God help her, she picked up the phone and ordered one of each.
Just a bite, not what she used to do. She would have a bite of each one, and only that.
After what she’d been through tonight, she deserved something sweet in her life.
And desserts were cheaper than alcohol. This venture was more cost-efficient than a bottle of wine that would just puff up her face and make her look like hell tomorrow, anyway.
She picked up the phone and placed her order.
“You wanted the flan?” she called to an imaginary roommate. Then continued, “Yes. One flan, one crème br?lée, one lemon tart, one bread pudding, one California strawberry shortcake…” She continued down the list, all the way to the bottom.
“How many forks?” the voice on the other end asked.
“Why, one for each of us, of course.”
Fifteen minutes later, her order arrived. The server was a woman, her eyes still dazed from the earlier alarm. She stood outside the door with her large tray.
“Where do you want these?”
“My friend, Christopher, will bring them in,” she said.
“We’re having a bit of a get-together. Our friends went back to their rooms to change.
” The server didn’t alter her bored expression, and Gabriella realized she was talking too much.
The young woman didn’t give a fig who ate this stuff; she just wanted to get paid.
Gabrielle extended her room key. “Is your tip included?”
“Yes, and I don’t need your card, just for you to sign the bill here. You sure you don’t want me to carry this inside?”
“No. My friend can take care of it. We’ll leave the tray for you tomorrow.”
The girl’s expression softened. “Okay, then.” The princess accent. It worked every time.
Gabriella stood outside the door, head held high, as the girl walked down the hall and into the elevator.
Once she dragged the tray inside, she twisted the dead bolt and slid the double lock securely into place.
Where did she start? The smells, the textures, the fruit garnishes, the tiny knots of whipped cream, the gravelly sprinkling of nuts so minuscule she’d have to taste them to identify their origin? No; there was only one place to start.
She looked at her finger, pale and white, a creamy contrast to her lilac-toned nails.
Then, slowly, she dipped that perfect fingertip into the silver cup that contained the additional hot fudge for the sundae.
As the heat of the chocolate consumed her flesh, she felt finally free of the night’s terror, and she reveled in the thought of what she would experience next.
Gabriella sat on the tile floor of the bathroom, head over the toilet, smelling the cool breath of the water in her face.
Nothing more to expel, and probably nothing more to consume, if that act of human aberration were possible.
She hadn’t done this, had she? Not after being in control for so long?
No one answered. The toilet bowl just sat there. Oh, God, had it come to this?