My eyes latch onto the concrete side of the building that has the name etched into the stone. The letters are covered in a gold paint. Or maybe it is actual gold. Bright lights are angled toward the name, showing it off in the dark of the night.
I gasp when my brain finally registers the words.
“Welcome to the Hoffman Hotel.”
11
“Here?” I ask in shock. “We are going to the Hoffman Hotel?”
Mark’s eyes twinkle. “Do you have a problem with the restaurants at this hotel?” He smirks, gesturing toward the building through the tinted limo window.
“I, um, I…” I stare blankly at Mark as I try to form a complete sentence. “I’ve never been inside before. Nor did I know it even existed.”
While living on the outskirts of Portland during college has given me ample opportunity to explore, I never had a reason—or a hefty paycheck—to seek out the luxury that is abundant in the growing city. By blatant judgment on just the exterior grandeur, I doubt that I will ever have enough money to afford even a room that can be reserved by the hour.
“It was only six months ago that it became the Hoffman Hotel. Before that it was a commercial office complex. More floors were added, the interior was gutted, and the exterior got a major face lift.”
I nod my head at the history lesson in a nutshell. “This is Graham Hoffman’s hotel?” I ask because of pure curiosity over the mysterious man. He intrigues me.
“It is a family property, yes. I doubt he has time to run it or be much of an influence. He has his hands in other dealings.”
I make an O with my lips. I still can’t figure out why Mark would take me to this hotel out of all the others in the city. He could have just taken me to a stand-alone restaurant. He better not want to book a room.
“Let’s get inside.” His smile reaches his eyes, making them dance with mischief. He is up to something. Obviously. He reaches for the door and hits a button on the panel. A moment later, the driver opens my door, reaching his hand in to pull me out in one swift motion. I quickly pull at the back of my dress, feeling the air hit the exposed part of my upper thighs. Mark slips out behind me, his face lighting up like a slot machine as he gives me a once-over. “Has anyone ever told you how great your”—he covers his mouth as he does a half cough—“how long your legs look?” His audible choke makes me frown. Can he be any more transparent?
I give an awkward shrug as a response to the not-so-creative flirting. Even though Mark barely looks thirty, his piercing looks and hidden messages give him the creepy-old-man vibe. I picture him with a glass of scotch, a cigar, and two stripper girls giving him a lap dance as he adjusts his suit pants in some underground club for the elite. I chuckle at the irony of my image. Entice is basically the same thing but aboveground.
I am the stripper.
I feel like a walking disaster—just one wrong bend and oops, nip slip. The outfit he encouraged is not meant for my height. The fact that he is so smitten with himself is what unnerves me the most, nearly pushing a panic button within my head. The comments and sly grins make me uncomfortable, and the night has just begun.
The hand at the small of my back makes me jump. I doubt I will get used to these touches. Mark smiles down at me and presses his fingers into my clothed flesh, rubbing it in little circles. I swallow hard, trying to push the rising knot down into my throat, silently thanking Claire for choosing a dress with back coverage. I can do this. We shuffle toward the main entrance. A doorman greets us politely, directing us inside the warmth. His smile is grandfatherly and contagious, without a hint of creepy. I can’t help but contrast the stranger and Mark.
The opulent décor of the main lobby strikes me as soon as my eyes are able to adjust to the lighting. The shiny marble floors are white speckled with big rectangular black sections spaced in between to form a pattern. Rectangular prism columns attach to the ceilings, highlighting the impressive modern version of a chandelier. The light structure consists of clear glass vertical pillars, falling from the ceiling like crystal icicles, making a swirl pattern to cover the ceiling space of the entire lobby. Amidst the color monopoly of black and white, there are punches of blood red that cover the trims behind the information and registration desks. The same color floats into the sitting area. It is on a pillow, on the border of a rug, and on a table’s centerpiece. Elegant signs portray arrows that point to the areas of the hotel. The spa, gym, mall, theater, and aquarium are the ones that catch my attention. All of the workers—regardless of gender—are behind the sleek black marble desks dressed in black pant suits, a crisp white shirt, and a red tie or scarf. Silver tags attach to the right side of each outfit, stating the name of the worker.
Sensing my infatuation with the layout, Mark mumbles something into my ear, making me pull back and look up at him. “Sorry. What did you say?” I really didn’t hear him. But from the glint in his eyes, I brace myself for something less than respectable.
“I was saying that if you keep looking at this place like you are, I might need to consider taking it over.”
I frown at the words, not knowing if he is joking or being serious.
“They have nice rooms here too,” he says with a slow wink.
Eww.
“So you know of Graham and his family?” I ask to change the subject and retrieve information.
He thinks about the question, studying my face. His laugh fills up the silent tension between us. “Yeah, we go way back.” The way Mark says the words makes my hairs stand on end.
“And you two can’t stand each other?”
Mark sniffs and stares off into the lobby. “Everything is a pissing contest with Graham. Always has been.”
“Why did you bring me here? Are you trying to goad him?”
Am I a pawn in your little testosterone game?
“Graham isn’t easy to rile up. But trying is all the fun,” he states matter-of-factly, making me shift on my heels to better my stance.