Suite Embrace (6 page)

T
he sculpted candle in the center of the table gave off the delicious scent of white gardenias and cast a golden glow over Virina Dagrun's model-sharp features. Her silver blonde hair, cut into a short-boyish style, softly cupped below her ears, shimmered in the candlelight as she reached for her balloon-shaped wine glass. She leaned closer to the flame, appreciative of the muted lighting in the intimate restaurant, hoping it helped disguise the newest wrinkle she had discovered beneath her left eye that morning. What a drag! If she'd had more time she would have made an appointment for a Botox injection before dinner, but she'd been too rushed, having flown in from Oslo only five hours earlier.

“Do you like my choice of restaurants, Richard?” she asked her dinner guest, lifting a hand layered with jewels as she glanced around the New York City establishment. Each table was nestled inside a private semicircle booth and was covered with a crisp white lace cloth, sparkling crystal and silver so shiny that it created tiny bursts of light throughout the room. Virina found so many of New York's better restaurants too boldly lit and open for her tastes, but the atmosphere at
Jannike
's was perfect. It was dim, decorated in old European style and expensive enough to keep the riffraff out.

“A very elegant place,” Richard replied, nodding his approval. “Quiet, and as private as you said it would be. The kind of place where people can actually talk to each other without screaming in their faces or worrying that the people next to them can overhear every word.”

“Precisely, and we have a lot to discuss, Richard. I'll be leaving New York in a week, so we don't have a lot of time to get everything settled,” Virina began, taking a quick sip from her glass. She placed her goblet on the table and a bright red fingernail to the side of her mouth, as if struggling with a thought, when in fact, she was sizing Richard Nobel up while formulating her strategy.

She knew how to play the negotiating game with the best and knew she was going to get what she wanted from this good-looking journalist who was sitting across from her, drinking the two-hundred-dollar-a-bottle wine she was paying for. He was thin, almost gaunt, but carried himself with an aristocratic air that she found very appealing. His earthy brown skin, black eyes and bright white teeth reminded her of Nat King Cole, the most gorgeous black man ever, in her opinion. A man as good looking as Richard was probably used to women coming on to him, so why not take a chance? If flirting with him didn't work, she had other ways to get what she wanted.

“Are you married?” Virina impulsively asked, with a flick of her tongue over her glossy red lips. She squinted at Richard, as if trying to read his mind as she waited for his answer.

“For ten wonderful years,” Richard replied, smiling and giving her an even better view of his flawless teeth. “Three kids, too.”

“A pity,” Virina murmured, sitting back in her chair. Infusing a new man into her life had been in the back of her mind for months, but finding the right candidate was not going to be easy. Bored with the men she socialized with in Europe, Virina was hoping that this trip to America might be just what she needed to cross paths with the perfect replacement for her last husband—a generous, but deathly boring count who had been fifteen years older than she. Though a film producer like Richard Nobel certainly wouldn't have the financial means to indulge her tastes, it might be a kick to get involved with a man for purely sexual reasons. But not a married man. That was where she drew the line. With a drop of her shoulders, she dismissed that fantasy and moved on to a new approach to the business at hand. “If you had the financing, could you complete the filming in two weeks?”

Richard Nobel, award-winning documentary filmmaker, paused and blew air through his lips, clearly confused by Virina's request. “Whoa! Let's slow things down. As I told you on the phone, Mrs. Dagrun…”

“It's
Miss
Dagrun, but please, call me Virina.”

“Fine. As I was saying, Virina, I've got the ear of a distributor connected to Black Entertainment Showcase who is interested in my next project. It's going to be…”

“A series of documentary profiles on unusual African-American sports heroes,” Virina smugly finished. “And as I've already told you, I think it's an absolutely fabulous idea.”

“Right. Skiing is fast becoming a very popular sport for African-Americans and ski resorts have finally awakened to the fact that their future is tied to luring a more diverse crowd onto their powdery slopes. Black ski clubs are popping up everywhere and the members are usually sophisticated folk with quite a lot of disposable income. I want to do a short film, an entertaining and educational piece that would inspire more minority athletes to take up the sport professionally, as well as to entice more families to head to the snow-covered mountains for vacations.”

“How do you plan to finance it? That's the bottom line, isn't it?” Virina pressed, knowing she had his ear.

“Exactly. I'm looking for private investors. All of the details of my proposal are outlined in the Acquisition Distribution Agreement I brought along for you to read.” He reached into the open briefcase on the seat beside him, pulled out a multipage document with a blue cover, and handed it to Virina.

She flipped through the sheets of paper, glancing quickly at the headings before she spoke. “And this means, if you can get the film in the can, BES will make sure it airs?” Virina clarified.

“And make sure it makes money,” Richard added. “I had been thinking of profiling either your son, Mark, or Sonja Bendry, a black female national ski champion from Lansing, Michigan. She overcame an amputation of her left leg to go on to win all of the national titles last year.”

“Sounds impressive, but of course, you must feature Mark,” Virina injected in a haughty voice.

“Haven't actually decided, yet. I haven't spoken to Mark and I need to fly out to Michigan to speak with Sonja. I'll decide on which one would be the best to profile after I visit with both candidates.”

Leaning over the table, Virina twirled her glass between her slender fingers and stared into the deep red wine, a solemn stillness on her face. “Richard, let's get real. Didn't you just say that you're looking for investors?” Virina reminded him.

“Yep, and that's the hardest part of any deal. I've gotta raise all the money, produce the product, and take all of the financial risk. But once the film is finished, I'm home free since BES will take care of distribution, publicity and promotion.”

“That's what I thought.” Virina paused. “This girl in Michigan…what kind of a family does she come from?”

“Modest, I would guess. I think her parents are both college professors. Why?”

Cradling her chin in one hand, Virina focused on Richard and shifted even closer. “I have a proposition. If you agree to make my son, Mark, the subject of your documentary, I will get you the money that you need,” she tossed out, as easily as if she were agreeing to pick up the check for a meal.

Once the deal was set, she could pitch it to her wealthy friends, who would jump at the chance to own a piece of the project. If done correctly, the film would serve as the catalyst for spin-off deals that could make everyone a lot of money.

“Sure you can raise the kind of money I'll need?” Richard asked, taking the project folder from Virina. He flipped to the page that outlined production costs and tapped the columns of numbers with his index finger. “Look this over.”

Now Virina slid a pair of slim reading glasses onto her nose and quickly reviewed the numbers.

“So you can see, it's not going to be cheap,” Richard commented. “Plus, I'll need to talk to Mark before I agree to anything with you. He has to be on board.”

“Don't worry about him. He'll agree. In fact, I'd prefer that you don't tell Mark about it before I have a chance to talk to him first. He's become so touchy lately about my interest in his affairs, though I will always look out for him.” With a toss of her head she pulled off her reading glasses and finished the last of her wine. “How much would you need right away? To get the project rolling?”

“Depends on a lot of things—the length of time needed to shoot it, how big my film crew is, travel and living expenses. Equipment rental, studio fees, talent fees. Musicians to score it. It can add up pretty fast.”

Virina frowned, hating the man's rambling, I-know-what-I'm-talking-about attitude—one that always set her perfect teeth on edge.

“Don't worry about the money, and forget about going to visit the woman in Michigan, Richard. You will make your film about my son. His life, his career, his wonderful achievements in a sport where he was always the only man of color on the slopes. And I will get the investors. When can you start?” Virina pressed on in an insistent tone. She hated dickering with people over useless details. Obviously, the man needed to be told what he was going to do and she had no problem telling him.

“The first stage is to create a rough cut of the project to show to the distributors…a short piece that will give them an overview of what I envision. If they like it, we'll sign contracts and I'll move ahead to complete the film. You know, now that I've had a chance to talk to you, I do think a documentary on Mark Jorgen would be best. It'll sell…and I know I could get him a book deal and a DVD that ought to sell like crazy on the Internet.”

“You're right,” Virina commented with self-important assurance. “My son remains one of the most highly rated skiers in the world. Of any race. His story is inspiring, his talent is tremendous. All because I managed his career and kept him in Europe where he was able to train with the best, compete at an intense level and move in the right social circles. That's extremely important, Richard.”

With a lift of his brows, Richard Nobel went on, “I understand he's working in the States now…running a ski school near Aspen.”

“Just a temporary thing,” Virina managed, sniffing back her displeasure. “For some reason he got it into his head that he wanted to slow down…and teach. Why he wants to bury himself in that nondescript place, I don't understand. However, that's all well and good for now, but things are going to change. He'll soon realize that he must remain in the spotlight if he wants to profit from his accomplishments.”

“If I profile Mark, I'd want to bring his story right up to today…to include what he's doing now. I'd like to cover him teaching at the ski school, working with his staff, interacting with young people. You know what I mean?”

“Of course,” Virina agreed. “He's an excellent instructor and any student who is fortunate enough to train with him is very lucky.”

Richard nodded his agreement. “You know, I plan to cover the Black Winter Sports Reunion in Aspen for
Sports Challenge
magazine, anyway, so I'll be hitching a ride with a group of journalists who are going out there at the end of the month. I can talk with Mark then.”

“No, no. I'll talk to him first, and if you want, you can fly out with me on my plane,” Virina told him, calculating that her last husband, Count Wilhelm Willard, owed her six more trips on his private plane—part of her divorce settlement.

She pulled a slender, silver Tiffany pen and miniscule notepad with a green leather cover from her Mary Francis bag and began to write. “Give me your contact information so my pilot can call you after he arranges the flight to Aspen.”

“Thanks. That'd be fantastic,” Richard gushed, going on to give Virina three different phone numbers that she could use to reach him.

“Umm. Is your wife…your family going, too?” she ventured.

“No. Just me,” Richard replied.

“Fine. So it will be just you and me. I plan to leave New York around January 29. And don't talk to Mark before we get there. I will arrange everything. Agreed?”

Lifting his hands, Richard shrugged. “Don't you think I ought to give Mark a call and run the preliminary details of the project past him before I show up? What if he doesn't want to be profiled?”

“He will,” Virina snapped. “Let me handle him. Richard, my son can be very impulsive and shortsighted. He doesn't realize that a documentary like the one you are proposing could make him a hot property once more. Commercial endorsements will follow. Sales of the video, the DVD. Book deals. Media appearances. He, and my investors, could make a great deal of money.”

“Yes, they could,” Richard agreed. “If this is what Mark wants to do.”

“He doesn't know what he wants,” Virina shot back, screwing up her red-hot lips. “That's why he still needs me to manage his business affairs, and his life for that matter, though he refuses to admit that I know what's best for him. Trust me, Richard. I've never been wrong.”

T
he Internet had become Skylar's best friend since assuming her role as concierge at Scenic Ridge one week ago, and she had become quite adept at using the most popular search engines to quickly fulfill the more unusual requests that came her way. She could get just about anything delivered overnight and into her guests' hands in record time, and prided herself on being extremely organized and timely in her work.

Thank God for Google, she thought, glancing at her to-do list on the yellow legal pad that she kept beside her keyboard. A Snow Bunny cuddle suit for the McLeary's baby daughter, Mountain Mist Triple Protector sunscreen for Mrs. Romero and another request from Mark Jorgen.

Skylar frowned at the yellow paper. Mark Jorgen. Did the guy really need all the stuff he'd been asking her to get for him? The Swiss chocolates with pink cream centers? The wool argyle socks from Australia? Or the German made, handheld de-icing machine that he had asked her to track down this morning? She knew he was deliberately testing her to see if she'd come through, while trying to get her back inside his cabin. So far, she hadn't taken the bait. Whenever his latest order showed up, she promptly delivered it to Mark, but waited outside on the porch while he went to get her a tip, which she always accepted with a great show of appreciation.

After that incident with the case of schnapps on the day of her arrival, she'd decided to treat Mark like any other staff member whenever their paths crossed, keeping everything professional, nodding in friendly greeting and going on her way.

Now, settling down at her computer, Skylar launched her search and easily located the Snow Bunny cuddle suit and the pricey sunscreen, both of which she ordered and set up for overnight shipping.

“Now, for Mark Jorgen's fancy-thinga-ma-gig,” she said aloud, both annoyed and challenged by his most recent request. As she waited for the page she was searching for to pop in, her thoughts wandered against her will, back to her encounter with Mark. Though she had told Deena that he was the last thing on her mind, she had lied: she couldn't get him out of her head. As hard as she tried to force him away, his touch, his smell, his tiger eyes; the way he had looked at her—every second of her time in his presence remained branded into her memory.

She groaned aloud, wishing this obsession with him would ease. Skylar knew if she were not careful, Mark Jorgen could become a real distraction and she refused to set herself up for another dose of man-trouble so soon after getting untangled from her disappointing relationship with Lewis.

Impulsively, Skylar opened the middle drawer of her desk and took out the twenty dollar bill that Mark had given her. Holding it in her hand, she recalled how his fingers brushed over hers when he'd handed the money to her, how he'd kept his mesmerizing gaze riveted on her face and how inflamed her body had felt as she made her way back to the lodge.

If only he knew that I can match him dollar for dollar
, Skylar thought as she thrust the money inside and slammed the drawer shut. She had no intention of ever spending any of his, or any guest's, tips for that matter. Her plan was to let the money accumulate until she had enough to make a donation to the local children's fund. She certainly didn't need Mark Jorgen's cash, or his intrusion into the peaceful life she had found at Scenic Ridge.

 

Late the next afternoon, the familiar brown UPS truck pulled up to the lodge at its regular time and delivered the items that Skylar had ordered the day before. She handed the baby's bunny suit and the expensive sunscreen to Victor, the easygoing, Brazilian desk clerk, and asked him to deliver the packages to the appropriate guests' rooms. Then she took Mark's package into her office, placed it on the corner of her desk and went over to the window.

Looking out, she saw that Mark was returning from the slopes after his last class for the day, walking with a group of young students who were crowded around him, all talking at the same time. When he threw back his head and laughed at something one of them must have said, the late afternoon sunlight touched his face lighting his smooth tan skin. Skylar drew in a soft breath, not surprised to see that one of the girls was gazing at Mark with adoration in her eyes as she trudged along beside him, holding tightly on to her skis.

Skylar could tell that Mark was enjoying the attention, and his self-satisfied expression suddenly infuriated her.

Mark Jorgen is a demanding, picky and impossible man who thrives on the attention of his female students. It's a wonder he can keep his balance on the slopes, with an ego as large as his,
she mused, faking a gag as she turned away from the window and went back to her desk.

After sorting through the rest of the day's mail and taking care of a near-crisis with a guest who had lost her ski lift tickets, Skylar shut down her computer, prepared to leave her office.

She glanced nervously at the box on her desk—Mark Jorgen, Snow King Suite, Scenic Ridge. She stared at it as if it were a bomb about to explode. Why hadn't she simply asked Victor to drop it off while he was making his other deliveries? Why was Mark's fancy de-icing gadget still in her office when she knew he'd said that he needed it right away? Why not ask Kathy, her backup, to take it to Mark?

But no, she couldn't do that.
I'll take care of this request personally. After all, I'm just doing my job.

 

The phone was ringing and Mark was outside taking off his heavy boots. “Leave a message,” he commented to himself as he struggled with the snaps on one of his boots. He'd had a rough day and hoped he'd never have another class of twelve year-old girls from Harlem again. He'd take the enamored matrons any day over pubescent adoration.

Finally free of his boots, he entered his cabin and went to his phone, engaged the voice mail, and listened.

“Hello, Mark. Skylar Webster here. Your ice-melting machine arrived today. I'll bring it up when I get off work.”

A jolt of satisfaction, tinged with anticipation, shot through Mark. She was coming to his cabin again, even though they both knew there was no need for her to drive all the way to the Snow King suite, which she had done with each of his deliveries. He grinned, a mischievous smile that lit his eyes and warmed him inside. He might not be able to get Skylar Webster out of his mind, but he was going to get her into his suite tonight.

“And if I ask her why she decided to personally deliver my de-icing machine, I'll bet she'll tell me that she's just doing her job,” he laughed, turning off the answering machine, more than ready to see her again.

He had been watching Skylar for the past week as she moved around the resort, but had been uneasy about engaging her in a conversation. She seemed so aloof and content to be alone that he knew he had to respect her desire for space until, hopefully, he could make a move.

He had seen her walking alone near the ice skating rink, and then wandering the foothills at the western edge of the property. She always appeared to be in deep thought, as if trying to settle some problem. He had even asked Kathy if Skylar was happy with her job, or upset about something, and Kathy had told him that, as far as she knew, Skylar was very content to be at Scenic Ridge and grateful to her sister for giving her the job.

Mark was fascinated with Skylar, yet he didn't want to seem pushy or overly friendly by making his interest known too quickly. During their first encounter in the store, he had recognized an inner strength that told him she was a woman in control. She held her ground, spoke her mind, and was serious about her work. He admired her for her strong work ethic as well as the fact that she treated him in a professional manner, but with luck, that would change very soon.

Mark knew he had pushed her buttons yesterday, demanding that she find the German de-icer immediately. And she hadn't balked, he realized, impressed with her ability to locate the exclusive gadget. She wasn't a quitter or a whiner—traits that Mark detested. She was natural. Not spoiled. Appreciative and honest. He would love nothing more than to wait on Skylar Webster hand and foot and show her what life with Mark Jorgen could be like. If only she would trust him.