Domino (The Domino Trilogy) (17 page)

“Stand up straight, dress impeccably, and always look the help straight in the eye,” Mom had said as she’d guided me through the Ritz’ posh lobby,
which was decked out in plush gold and earthtones. “Mind you, you have the right to demand good service, especially in a place like this. But don’t ever think for one minute that you’re better than they are, because you’re not.”

My mother, the upper-class labor activist with five-star tastes. She was a walking contradiction.

Her words rang in my ears as I stepped through the polished brass revolving door of the Ritz-Carlton’s lobby. The place was mostly as I remembered it---plush upholstery, soft chairs, simple-yet-elegant earthtone décor, a tinkling Steinway grand piano played by a tuxedoed man in the fair corner---but it was much busier, with lots of people hustling and bustling about on Friday-evening business. Mom and I had come for high tea on a weekday afternoon, when the well-heeled guests had probably been away at business meetings and spa appointments. Now it was as if anyone with a seven-figure bankroll within three states was here at once, chatting on chaise lounges, tapping away at laptops, scrolling through iPhone and tablet messages. A young mother in a red velvet evening gown fussed over her two young children, scolding them that this was no way to behave if they expected to be ready to meet their father at the opera in time for the overture.

I was out of my league here. Part of me wanted to turn on my h
eel and run for the hills. But who knew when I’d have another opportunity like this? I’d come this far, I might as well go all the way.

I teetered up to the concierge’s desk, unsteady on my high heels. Or rather, Hannah’s high heels. She’d insisted I wear
a pair of her platform Ferragamo slingbacks instead of the modest flats I would have selected from my meager shoe collection. I hadn’t worn heels since my last visit to the Ritz three years earlier, let alone the twin towers I now balanced myself on. It was like trying to walk across toothpicks.

The concierge was a well-groomed African-American man with designer glasses, a Movado watch, and an impeccably tailored suit. “May I help you, madam?”

“Yes, I’m here to see Peter Rostovich in his suite.”

He smiled and gave me a polite nod. “Of course. You must be Nancy Delaney. Our chauffeur George just radioed that you’d be coming in. Mr.
Rostovich’s suite is on our private executive floor, twenty-six. I’ve been asked to escort you there personally. May I offer you some refreshment before we make our journey upstairs?”

Journey?
He made it sound like I was crossing the Sahara, not taking an elevator ride. “Um, can you just show me where the restroom is?” I sort of remembered it was close to the high tea lounge, but I didn’t know how to find it without looking hopelessly out of place. Plus there was the small matter of those heels. One false move and I’d end up doing a faceplant on the polished marble floors.

“Of course
. Follow me and I’ll take you there. By the way, George has already sent your baggage up to the suite.”

That took me aback. I’d been so caught up in the stress and anticipation of the whole exper
ience that I’d forgotten my press bag in the limo. I’d just now realized the mistake, but it seemed in a place like this, people just magically appeared out of the polished woodwork and took care of things like that for you before you even knew what happened.

So this is how the other half lives,
I thought as I followed the concierge---his name was Julian---down a teak-paneled hallway to a restroom.  He handed me a brass key. “This is one of our private restrooms, reserved for our executive suite guests and their visitors. Enjoy. I’ll be waiting just outside should you need anything.”  He gave me a subtle bow, just as the limo driver had.  It was getting hard not to feel like royalty.

The bathroom had a uniformed attendant, just like the one I remembered from high tea. But I had her all to myself. “Good evening, Miss Delaney,
” she said with a gold-toothed smile. Wow, she even knew my name. Apparently the staff here had been expecting me. How on earth did they do that? I figured that there must be an entire department dedicated to updating staff on how to handle things when eccentric artists have their budding journalist girlfriends come to visit them in their suites.

Girlfriend.
Wow. I was even thinking of myself that way now. It was strange just how much I’d changed in twenty-four hours. What did that make me, some kind of kept woman? I hadn’t even done anything with Rostovich yet besides have some cryptic conversations, and yet I already felt like I belonged to him.

I took care of my business and went to freshen up a bit at the mirror.
The bathroom attendant stepped off her stool and handed me a fresh warm towel. “Miss Delaney, my name is Laverne, please let me know if I can assist you in any way. I am here to serve you.”

“
Uhhh---“ I stammered. “I really don’t know what I need right now, to be quite honest.” A lie. I knew exactly what I needed right now. But Laverne wasn’t the person who could provide it.

She gave me a once-over
, including a gentle cleaning of my shoulders and sleeves with a lint brush she retrieved from a mirror-paneled drawer. “You’re going up to visit with Mr. Rostovich, yes? How about a little spritz of perfume? Your makeup already looks lovely, and your outfit is spic-and-span, so I think all you need is a little scent.”

I mulled that over for a moment. Hannah had offered me a
spritz of her expensive
Anais Anais
, but I’d turned her down. I’d never been much of a perfume person; it always just made me sneeze or ended up making me smell awful instead of nice. Still, I figured Laverne must know what she was doing. I had a feeling her job wasn’t an easy one to get. It required special talents. “Okay,” I said. “But I don’t know anything about perfume. It always ends up smelling funny on me.”

“It’s all about choosing something that goes well with your body chemistry,” she replied, dusting invisible lint off my sleeve cuffs. “Just because something smells good on someone else doesn’t mean it will work on you.” She opened another mirror-paneled drawer, a deeper one this time. It was filled with dozens of tiny perfume bottles. Her hand hovered over the selection, then honed in on a cut-glass bottle with a simple label and black lid. “Someone like you probably needs a single-note scent,” she said. “This is essence of lavender. Nothing fancy, just very simple and elegant.” She sprayed it on a small paper card and handed it to me to sample. I took a whiff and found it subtle, yet sweet, and not overpowering at all.

“That’s nice,” I said. “I’ll take it.”

She smiled her acknowledgement and spray
ed small amounts on my pulse points, my neck, even my ankles. “Let it settle a bit before you go back out,” she advised. “The scent works best when you give the alcohol a chance to evaporate first.” She stood back to inspect her work, gave me a self-satisfied smile. “You’re gonna knock that man’s socks off, you know that, right?”

I didn’t answer her. It was all too much to think about right now. I touched up my lipstick in the mirror, trying to ignore the growing warmth and wetness between my legs. Laverne returned to her perch on the stool beside the mirror. Was her entire shift devoted to just this one task---preparing me to make the right impression on Peter
Rostovich? Who was paying her? Did Rostovich have to add her as a line item on his hotel bill? Or did the Ritz just throw her in as a perk of buying such an expensive suite? Was I supposed to tip her or something? Unlike my mother, who had once been surrounded by servants, I had no personal experience with this sort of thing. I made a move to reach into my purse for some cash, but Laverne stopped me.

“I’m on salary, hon. Don’t worry about it. They take good care of me here.”

“You’re very good at your job.”

“Thank you, Miss Delaney. May I offer you a bit of unsolicited advice?”

“Sure.”

“Don’t move too fast when you get upstairs. Bide your time. Men love the chase. Especially men like Mr.
Rostovich.”

“You say that like you know him well.”

“I know his type. Been in this business a long time, and you see all kinds come through here. Just watch your step, that’s all I’m saying. You’re a lovely young woman, I’d hate to see you spoil yourself over someone who doesn’t deserve you. No disrespect intended to Mr. Rostovich, of course.  Just take your time, don’t rush into anything. That’s the advice I give my own daughter.”

“Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind.”

I gathered my things, gave Laverne a thank-you nod, and headed back out into the hallway. Julian was waiting for me discreetly inside an alcove. I handed him back the washroom key and he tucked it inside his lapel pocket. “Are you ready, Miss Delaney?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Then follow me please. We’ll take the penthouse elevator.”

We went down a series of short halls until we came upon a set of sliding doors marked “PRIVATE ACCESS ONLY.” Julian swiped a card through a reader strip mounted on the wall and the doors slid open. “After you, Miss Delaney.”

I stepped inside. The elevator was like the rest of the hotel----wood-paneled, mirrored, posh. There was even a velvet-upholstered seat mounted on the back wall.  I thought about taking it to help settle my churning stomach and knocking knees, but thought better of it.

Julian swiped the card through the reader once again and the doors closed. There were no floor buttons in the elevator, I noticed----it only went to one place. The penthouse.

My heartbeat rose along with the elevator. This was really happening. I was really getting my killer story. I was really having dinner alone with a famous---if strange---artist.  And that artist wanted me. I wanted him, too.

The elevator came to a stop
and the doors slid open, revealing a foyer with a leather sofa, matching end chairs, and a polished enamel Chinese-style coffee table. “Miss Delaney, this is where you get off,” Julian said, motioning out into the foyer. “The penthouse suite takes up the entire floor. As you can see, the entrance is secured, no one will disturb you unless you specifically request it. Mr. Rostovich is waiting for you in the dining room. Down the hall, second door to the right.” He handed me his card. “Please feel free to ring me at any time should you require anything further.”

No sooner had I stepped out of the elevator did the doors slide shut behind me, sending Julian back down to his post. I was on my own.

I took a moment to get my bearings, silently cursing myself for leaving my press bag in the limo.  I would have preferred to start taking notes right away, to give me some kind of framework for the interview. But instead I was flying blind---which I’m sure is exactly what Rostovich wanted. He seemed to be someone who thrived on keeping people off-balance.

I cracked my knuckles twice, a nervous habit of mine. My mother had always told me it was unladylike, but I didn’t care. Between the dress, the heels, and the perfume, this was as ladylike as I was ever going to get.

As if on cue, Rostovich stepped out into the foyer. “I thought I heard the elevator,” he said. “Welcome, Miss Delaney. Or rather, Nancy. We seem to have gotten at least that well acquainted.”

His sudden appearance threw me for a loop. I’d wanted to control my entrance, maybe even unbalance him for a change. But it was not to be. He just wasn’t a man who was easy to sneak up on. All my hopes for the upper hand---which I needed as a journalist---were gone in an instant.

I took in the sight of him. He wore a loose-fitting white linen button-down shirt with short sleeves and a wide collar, along with tan khakis and dark brown Italian loafers with no socks.
Very safari
, I thought. I got lost in those deep-set, glacial eyes of his, and any last shred of professionalism I had left vanished. I didn’t even have a reporter’s notebook on me to record my thoughts, something I almost never left home without. I had a clutch purse containing nothing but lipstick, carfare, and condoms.

“George brought up
your press bag,” Rostovich said, as if reading my thoughts. “I took the liberty of setting everything up for you in the dining room. We can speak before we eat.”

“I thought we would speak while we eat.”

He chuckled. “Oh, we will. But the actual interview will be confined to our pre-dinner conversation.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “I don’t recall consenting to those conditions.”

He shrugged. “Well, there they are. Unless you would prefer the interview didn’t occur at all. I expect that you will keep anything we discuss after the interview period to be strictly off the record.”

“Why? Are you trying to hide something?”

“Nancy, when you get to be in my position, you’re
always
trying to hide something. And thankfully, I usually succeed.”

Not if I have anything to say about it,
I thought. I would find out who the real Peter Rostovich was underneath that glossy exterior, no matter how long it might take. “Shall we begin the interview, then?”

“Would you like some refreshment first? I had some very nice Pinot sent up.”

“No thanks, I never drink on the job. I’ll just take some sparkling water if you have it.” With that, I sashayed past him into the dining room, where I found my press bag on the polished teak dining table, its contents laid out in neat, Zen-like fashion. My notepad and pen were set up in an orderly row along with some hotel stationery, with my digital recorder to the left and several sharpened pencils marked with the Ritz-Carlton logo to the right. My laptop was booted up and plugged into a special outlet hidden in the table ledge. My press folder from the gallery opening was open, its contents spread out in a fan pattern. And in addition to the materials I’d brought myself were some full-color glossy photos of Rostovich’s work, a retrospective going back several years from the looks of it. And there was also an iPad propped up on an easel, displaying a slideshow. I recognized some of the images and video stills from the gallery opening, but there were other works, too.