Lost in Hotels (14 page)

“Yes, although you Americans fancy the weirdest of flavors, like sweet potato, or even worse, cheddar.”

Lightness ensues within the conversation. I notice Catherine’s manner relax and her arms loosen from her torso.

“You don’t seem the type who would eat a lot of chips and junk food,” she says.

“I’ve had a fair amount of crisps in my day, but it’s usually when I’m too hungover to venture out of the house.”

“So you eat them often?” she jabs.

“Exactly, just had some this morning.”

The waitress returns with a silver platter of tea and a white plate stacked with an assortment of American-looking biscuits. The waitress steadies in on my eyes. I feel Catherine follow the direction of my stare that looks away as the waitress leans forward to rest the tray on the table, her white blouse revealing a well-filled, lacy cream-colored bra.

“Just a light afternoon snack, I see,” Catherine mutters as her hand drifts to my knee for only a moment, long enough to assert her position over the waitress.

“Actually, I only ordered tea,” I say.

“Yes,” the waitress says, “but I figured you both might like a little snack, or biscuits as you call them.” She smiles pleasantly and removes a pad from the pocket of her white smock.

“And may I get you something, Miss?”

“Um, actually I’m not going to be here long, so I’ll just nibble off his.”

“Are you sure? Not even a sandwich or salad or something?”

“No, really I’m fine,” Catherine insists.

“Great, well let me know if you need anything else.”

As she turns away, I can feel Catherine’s hand move away from my knee, and the conversation begins again with the waitress now a safe distance away.

“So, what’s on the agenda for the weekend?” she asks.

“Well, tonight we have a dinner party my friend is having here at the hotel that should be right good fun.”

“Meeting the friends already am I?” she asks.

“No, no, not like that. It’s just a fun crew, and I think you’ll enjoy meeting them. They’re terrific lads and very aware I haven’t sunken my teeth into you yet. As far as they know, we are just friends.”

“Just friends? Is that what we are?” she asks as if offended.

“Well, friends are usually easier to get a hold of than you are, my dear, but let’s just leave it at that.”

“No, I’d love to go, and I’m sure it will be a fun time.”

“And best of all, the party is here in the hotel, so you can drink like a fish and not have to worry about hiring a car or fetching a taxi.”

“And what’s the attire? I’m afraid I didn’t bring too many options.”

“They said royal-chic, but I’m sure anything black will do and will match my outfit splendidly.”

The more she relaxes, the more she resembles the woman I fell for in Rio and Paris. Perhaps she seems a little out of her element in this new Hollywood backdrop, or uncertain how to pick up where our incredible chemistry in Paris left off, or if it was just a one-time thing.

“So, I’m going to have to run out for my interview, and you’re going to have to keep yourself busy for the next few hours.”

“You mean you’re doing it today?” I ask.

“Absolutely, the faster it’s done the sooner I can enjoy myself.”

“And who are you interviewing this time?”

“Jessica Biel. Or is it Jessica Alba? It’s the more relevant one of the two who’s married to the former boy-band guy.”

“I have no idea, but it sounds painful,” I say.

“She climbed Kilimanjaro.”

“My grandfather did too, and enjoyed nightly buffets and morning massages along the three-day journey.”

“Wait, so it’s not like Everest where people die and stuff?” she asks.

“It’s like going to a top floor of a mall, but taking the stairs instead of the elevator.”

“Ouch. I’ll be sure to mention it to her. But listen, I really have to run, so let’s meet up around seven o’clock for a drink and then head to your party.”

“No, don’t let me keep you. I’ll see you here in a bit, love.”

“Perfect, and don’t get into too much trouble,” she says.

We both rise and face each other in an awkward good-bye that feels to warrant more than a hug but less than a romantic kiss. I, however, grab both of her cheeks with my hand and kiss her on the mouth. My lips wrap almost perfectly around hers as she is caught in the moment, trailing again with her own-mouthed reply that passes in an awkward instant.

“Don’t be too long.”

She pulls away from the table and leaves in much the rushed pace at which she arrived.

Maybe my residual regret of the previous night or the great expectations that linger from Paris and Rio, but I sense there’s something off. I expected her to seize every precious moment we manage to find together, but instead she runs off almost as soon as she arrives. Something feels not quite right between us. Perhaps she met someone else in the meantime, or maybe I’m not as charismatic after the prize has been had.

By evening, the allure of the Chateau is in full swing. Virtually the same glamorous people with different faces make their way up the stairs, through the lobby, and into the garden like a cloned procession of perfectly tight denim jeans, edgy eyewear, and scruffy faces. I opt for a dressier look of a white dress shirt and a Balmain tux-jacket with black jeans given the host’s request for imperial attire, which in LA can simply mean a long pair of pants. My skin still smells of chlorine and feels the chill of the poorly heated Chateau pool that I couldn’t help but take a dip in despite the gloomy weather and water that hadn’t been cleaned since the previous evening’s windstorm.

True to form, Catherine makes her entrance at 7:28 p.m., emerging from the dimness of the staircase to the almost-perfect white light of the lobby that reflects off her long legs. Those legs vanish under a voluminous black skirt with a creamy underlayer that collides at her svelte hips and wraps her breasts and arms in a tailored silk armor. Her hair is slicked back as I’ve never seen before, and without any jewelry, this incredible beauty emerges and everyone around her seems to disappear. Like the only electrified house on a city block of darkness, she arrives to the table without any pretense or awareness of the scene she’s just created for me.

“Look at you, all handsome in your suit,” she says with a girlish excitement completely unaware of herself.

I rise to look into her eyes for some sense of smugness, impressed that she shows no reaction to my astonishment, and proving that she’s either the most modest person I’ve ever met or the best actress I’ve ever seen.

“I’ve long been a student of beautiful women, but I have never in my life been witness to quite such an entrance as you just made looking the way you do tonight.”

“What are you talking about?” she gushes and conceals her smile behind the hand she holds in front of her mouth. “Have you been drinking, Mr. Summers?”

“No, stop right there,” I say in a hushed tone, placing my long index finger against her mouth. “Please, hear me out. You look absolutely stunning tonight. You make every single thing in this place look better, including me.”

Her gaze becomes more serious as she goes from listening to hearing.

“You literally took my breath away.”

Catherine leans in with closed eyes to kiss me, a soft gentle kiss from her soft lips the color of coral and flesh that lingers and goes all the way to my heart.

“So should we have a drink here first, or do we need to be on time?” she asks.

Catherine seems uncomfortable with the compliments, shying away with a blush that she conceals by moving away from me as well as the emotion.

“I don’t want to be rude, so let’s get going. I’m sure we’ll have a drink in hand fast enough if I know those guys.”

We make our way away from the bar as I begin to tell Catherine the background of Harris and Dudi. They’ve become my best friends in LA, and probably some of the best people I’ve ever met. We met while I was working for an investment company that was negotiating the sale of a restaurant group they owned. Harris is a savvy business guy who can smell a distress sale from a mile away. They do incredibly well and continue to buy and sell businesses with incredible rigor even though they are too cheap to use my company.

Dudi is the social one of the two, a dapper and boyish Brazilian who brings his passion for life to everything and manages to attract a legion of friends and fans wherever and whenever he chooses, me now included. They have these legendary Hollywood pool parties in the summer that are like nothing you’ve ever seen, and then they have theme dinners throughout the colder months of the year. Usually, they take place at their house, but it’s currently under construction, so they decided to have it at the Chateau this year.

“And when it comes to Harris and Dudi, only the penthouse will do. After you,” I say, guiding Catherine toward the elevator.

The Chateau elevator is faster this evening. I slide my hand down the backside of her dress that unfortunately covers every inch of her upper body and separates my hand from her skin.

“I have to tell you, I’m not sure if I want to stand back and stare at you or just have you here and now,” I say as my attention turns from facing forward to hovering right next to her.

“I don’t think this is the type of elevator you can stop and not expect it to go crashing into the basement,” she says with steady contemplation in her eyes.

“I’ve inspected your dress without you knowing it, and I have to say I’m not seeing the easiest entrances for sneaking touches throughout the night.”

She looks down at her impossibly fashionable dress that seems to cover her body almost entirely, and then she takes my hand. “You’ll have to get creative.”

She glides my hand up her leg as my mind travels with it to the top of her garter and onto a warm swathe of her perfect skin that makes me want to take her here and now.

“You just gave me hope,” I whisper in her ear.

Normally at this moment, I’m worrying about what my date will be like in a social setting of people whom I know and respect. I’ll worry that she’ll talk too much or too little, or use big words in the wrong way that will result in a flurry of texts asking, “Does she get lost on the catwalk as well?” or “And by fruitation, does she actually mean that her dreams result in an apple or an orange?”

A long corridor leads to a door where a burly guard stands holding a clipboard. He says not a word to Catherine as the door opens behind him and his bulky body shifts to the side. At the end of this checkerboard-floored corridor, stands a fireplace that roars in the middle of a grand parlor accented in powder-blue furnishings and a wide doorway that seems came long before the bejeweled skyline that lurks beyond in a trace of fog just starting to blow in from the ocean.

At the piano sits a shirtless man wearing only a broad fur hat à la Peter the Great and strumming Tchaikovsky on the piano. A glamorous chatter fills the air and waiters dressed as Russian soldiers pace the room with troughs of silver caviar in hand. Then I see Dudi.

“My boyfriend is here! David Summers!” Dudi screams from across the room and makes his way to the parlor dressed as Nicholas II, complete with gold medallions and a white uniform that contrasts his black hair and even darker eyes for a gentlemanly first appearance. “And he’s brought a hot woman to make me jealous. How dare he?”

His words linger closer together like the chorus of an Antonio Carlos Jobim song.

“You know how those Summers’ like to work,” Catherine chimes in and makes her way to my side.

“You must be Catherine, the lion tamer.” Dudi touches both of Catherine’s hands with his fingertips and kisses her on each cheek.

“More of a dog trainer according to some people,” I reply.

“David, you look delicious, you lucky bitch.” Dudi grabs me around the hips and lifts me in the air taking a good grope of my nether. “I absolutely love this man, Catherine.”

“He is a charmer, isn’t he?”

“And not that bad on the eyes, either,” Dudi quickly adds.

“We met in Rio, you know, so technically our connection is Brazilian, like you.”

“You two are so hot, it makes me sick. But come in and join the rest of imperial St. Petersburg.”

As we enter, a towering soldier with a boyish face that struggles to be contained behind his Rasputin beard stands in an imperial cloak.

“That two-headed eagle in the middle of your chest is actually derived from the Romans and adapted by Russians,” I say to break the ice, and show Catherine a smarter side, but such trivialities have little interest to an LA crowd and don’t even warrant a reply from the waiter or my date.

Dudi is meticulous about his parties to the point of passing out faux jewels to all the women as another cloaked attendant carefully places a canary yellow bracelet on Catherine’s wrist. On Catherine, the garishness of the piece actually looks fashionable, even real as her poise and grace elevates the crowd almost immediately.

“This is outrageous … are they always so decadent?” Catherine says, eyeing her bracelet as we approach the bar.

“Indeed. This is actually a little tame, but the night is young.”