One
Adie Ashby-Tate was done—for this evening at least.
In a small but exquisitely decorated conference room in the iconic Grantham-Forrester hotel on 5th Avenue in the heart of Manhattan, Adie waved goodbye to her last guest and allowed her smile to fade.
She gripped the edge of her main display table, thankful for the empty room now that all the millionaires and billionaires who’d attended her “Christmas Indoor Market” had left. She loved interacting with clients and showing them her carefully chosen wares, but keeping the charm flowing for four or more hours was exhausting.
Because her feet were aching, Adie kicked off her heels and sank her feet into the expensive carpet. She looked around, pleased she’d managed to capture the essence of a snowy European Christmas market in the small ballroom. She’d strung fairy lights, the ten-foot Christmas tree in the corner was draped with fake snow and a diffuser released hints of hot chocolate, pinecones and cider. She’d dropped the temperature to just this side of chilly to echo the sharp bite of a snow-tinged winter’s night and she’d propped a snowboard and skis against a papier-mâché replica of a horse-drawn buggy.
The room suggested wealth, but more importantly, romance and the spirit of Christmas. The costs involved made her eyes water, but setting the scene, drawing in her clients and then transporting them to a simpler time was worth every penny and the hours of backbreaking work.
Still holding onto one of her display tables—covered in an expensive rich red velvet—Adie stared down at her burgundy-tipped toes and rotated her head from side to side. In a moment she’d move to the bar and pour herself a much-deserved drink, a reward for a job exceptionally well done.
An evening that ended with a book full of orders could be termed only successful, and her artisanal, superbly talented suppliers were going to be very, very pleased with her work tonight. More orders would come. Her gifts were one of a kind and the very rich liked nothing more than rarity and exclusivity.
After this event, Adie was spending the run-up to Christmas in New York City to see whether there was scope for her to open a branch of Treasures and Tasks in Manhattan and to ascertain whether she and Kate—a new friend she’d met through one of her clients—could work together. She needed more than a few orders before she decided to sink a lot of cash into expanding into one of the most expensive cities in the world. So she’d spend the next three weeks working out of New York, testing the market while juggling requests from her existing clients in London and all over the world.
As an exclusive, private concierge who dealt only with very high net worth individuals, Christmas was Adie’s busiest season. But she wanted, and needed, every moment of her days filled, especially at this time of year. This was the time of the year when the ghosts of the past—Christmas and his friends—decided to drop by and harangue her and she’d prefer to be too busy to pay them any attention.
She’d be exhausted in January, but being distracted was worth the price.
Adie looked at her tables. More than half a million pounds worth of inventory sat on the exquisitely decorated tables—from jewel-encrusted bottle stoppers to gold plated memory sticks—but because some of the richest people had the stickiest fingers, she needed to count the inventory and then pack everything away. It would take a few hours.
Tomorrow she had a series of meetings with potential clients, but the one guy Kate never stopped talking about—an old friend of Kate’s whom she called “the most reluctant influencer” on Earth—hadn’t pitched. Turned out, Adie hadn’t needed his support. Tonight had been a raging success.
Adie heard the rap of knuckles on the partially open ballroom door and swiftly turned. This was an upmarket hotel with good security, but being burgled was always a possibility.
The man in the doorway was doing a damn fine job of stealing her breath.
Adie placed her hand on her sternum and told herself she was an idiot for feeling lightheaded. He was just a man, flesh and blood...
But...whata man!
He was so tall he had to duck his head to walk through the door. Wide shoulders, long muscular legs and what had to be a washboard stomach under the mint green button-down shirt tucked into a pair of plain black pants. He held a battered leather jacket in his clutched fist. His body was off the charts hot, but it was his face that held Adie’s attention.
A young Cary Grant, maybe... But then she quickly decided he wasn’t classically handsome enough for the comparison to work. He had the broad forehead and the strong chin, but his nose was a little too hooked, his stubble too thick to carry off Grant’s urbane, man-about-town look. No, this man belonged in action, like her all-time favorite Hollywood hotties, Gerard Butler and Tom Hardy.
“Ma’am, he was on the guest list so I let him up. I hope that’s okay?”
Adie pulled her eyes off Mr. Delicious to look at the security guard. When she processed the amusement in Dan’s eyes at her slack-jawed reaction to her guest, she straightened her spine and told herself to act her age. Many billionaire princes and A-list movie stars were her clients. She was not normally this easily impressed.
Meeting those light eyes—fog blue or silver?—under those straight thick brows, a shade lighter than the burnt sugar color of his hair, she felt pinned to the floor, but finally managed to pull a polite smile onto her face. “Good evening. You’re a couple of hours late, but you’re welcome to take a quick look if you don’t mind me packing away behind you.”
“I should’ve been here earlier, but I was unavoidably detained.”
His voice was as rich as the dark chocolate tart she’d consumed in a tiny restaurant in the French Quarter of New Orleans last year. But within the richness, Adie heard exhaustion. Frankly, the man looked like he needed a drink. She gestured to the small bar tucked into the corner. “Can I offer you a drink?”
“God, yes. Please. Whiskey if it is available.”
Adie smiled at his enthusiasm and walked, still barefoot, to the bar. She glanced down at her feet and shrugged. He was four hours late, she was packing up and her three-inch slingbacks were beautiful but torturous so he’d have to live with her bare feet.
And judging by the glance he’d directed at her legs, bare under the edges of a red cocktail dress hitting her legs midthigh, he rather liked what he saw.
It had been a while since she’d come across a man who made her feel both hot and shivery. It was a delightful feeling but, she cautioned herself, also a dangerous one.
Be careful, Adie.
Adie held two bottles in the air. “Bourbon or Scotch?”