Chapter 43
LORENZO
As soon as I swing the Ferrari to the circular driveway in front of the hotel, a bellman and valet dart out to greet us.
The hotel is more than a century old, all pale stone and ivy, with tall windows that glow amber in the twilight.
“I hope it’s up to snuff,” I tell Em as we walk toward the front desk. “It’s a five-star hotel and the best the Berkshires has to offer. But I’m a man who likes modern luxury.”
Em laughs. “I see. So the word ‘quaint’ is not part of your vocabulary. And you don’t hold your pinkie in the air when sipping tea at the customary 4pm service.”
“You got that right.”
“So why did you book this hotel?” Em says, an edge of teasing in her voice.
“Because I knew that you would enjoy those tiny cucumber sandwiches with the crust cut off.”
“Indeed. But there has to be more to the story.”
“There is,” I bring my mouth to her ear. “This hotel is famous for something very, very specific. And that, my beautiful bride, is going to be your birthday surprise.”
When Em grins at me, I can almost feel the desire simmering inside her.
Most men have trained themselves to keep a poker face when they have a raging hard-on. But not my deceptively ‘nasty’ girl.”
Once inside the hotel, I give my name to the clerk and, as expected, use an old-fashioned quill I must dip in ink to sign my name.
“Mr. and Mrs. Ricci,” the clerk says, “allow me to show you to your room. Your luggage is being unpacked as we speak.”
Em and I hang back as the clerk gives us a tour en route to the room. “Here’s the library,” she says, pointing out an attractive wood-paneled room filled with old-looking hardcover books.
“We have scotch service, so you can simply pour yourself what you like. And down that hall is the restaurant. Per your earlier request, the chef prepared a special tasting menu for you tonight.
The clerk opens the suite I requested with a flourish.
I quickly spot the room’s highlights before she says a word.
They include a stone fireplace, its hearth already stacked for the night. When the clerk shows us the suite, Em’s eyes go wide at the four-poster bed.
“Like it?” I ask Em as soon as the clerk leaves.
“Yes,” she says with a faux straight face. “But in our New York apartment we each had a bathroom. Here, we must share.”
We laugh, realizing how spoiled we have been.
“So what’s next?” she asks, patting the bed beside her.
“It’s your birthday. You decide. Dinner before ‘dessert’ like a good girl. Or are you going to be a ‘bad girl’ and demand your sweets right now?”
“How about both?”
“Normally, I’d say yes, yes, and yes. But I posed a trick question. For my surprise to work, we must have dinner now. And play later …”
“Got it, boss. I’ll get ready.”
After dressing, we descend the formal staircase for dinner.
I’m surprised the dining room holds only four tables, each draped in white linen so stiff it might have been cut from paper.
“Nice,” says Emily, moving close to me as she observes the beautifully set tables illuminated with candlelight. She turns to greet a silver-haired couple, the only other people in the room.
“I feel like we’re actors on a Masterpiece Theatre stage set,” Em says. Just then, the tuxedo-clad ma?tre d’ makes a show of snapping an ironed white linen napkin onto her lap.
“The first course of your tasting menu will arrive shortly,” he says, as the sommelier pours Champagne into two tall flutes.
“Thank you,” says Emily, clinking her glass against mine. “For everything.”
I try to keep our conversation light and pleasant during the progression of delicious dishes that come our way.
“Emily,” I say, when the meal is over. “There’s something I need to explain.”
“That sounds ominous,” she says, sipping her water.
“You know your uncle sits on the gaming commission.”
She nods.
“And you’ve just had first-hand experience of the Russian taunts. Her eyes blaze with anger. “All too well.”
“The truth is, your uncle got himself into trouble with the Russians long ago.”
“What kind of trouble?”
Speaking in a low voice, I tell her things no woman should ever hear, especially about her own uncle.
“You say you and Dante had a plan to help my uncle get out from under his Russian blackmail. And that the reason for our temporary marriage stems from that plan. But if the plan was working, why did the Russians send me entrails and kidnap Biscotti?”
“Because someone leaked them information that revealed the plan. So now, we’re starting at square one.”
Emily’s fragile shoulders sag.
Just then, what looks to be the entire kitchen staff, including the toque-wearing chef, come toward us singing the Happy Birthday song.
When Emily receives the cake, she blushes and blows out the candles.
“And your husband asked me to find a bottle of Champagne from the year of your birth,” the sommelier says, presenting the bottle to both of us before pouring it into flutes. “Happy birthday!”
We toast. The excitement and fuss about her birthday bring the warmth back to Emily’s countenance.
“Let’s go upstairs,” I tell her, pulling her to her feet. “I have an idea.”