Did Someone Order Room Service?:

Did Someone Order Room Service?

Charlotte Phillips

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Contents

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

Charlotte Phillips

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

HarperImpulse an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

77–85 Fulham Palace Road

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2013

Copyright © Charlotte Phillips

Cover Images © Shutterstock.com

Charlotte Phillips asserts the moral right

to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is

available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International

and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,

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written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © October 2013

ISBN: 9780007532049

Version 2014-09-30

Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

For Barry, who is always there for me. With love and thanks.

CHAPTER ONE

Layla Jones wondered, not for the first time, if there could be such a thing as an entire-adult-life crisis instead of just a mid-life one.

She reached the top of the stairs and turned to walk at speed down the hotel’s top floor corridor, heels sinking into the sumptuous ankle deep runner, phone clamped to her ear and eyes everywhere for the slightest sniff of another member of staff. Specifically anyone superior to her. Which actually amounted to quite a lot of people. Guest Services Agent was only a few steps above minion here at the Lavington Hotel. It had taken sixteen tries before her mother picked up the phone and she wasn’t about to hit disconnect after all that effort just because of a little thing like personal phone use during work time.

Unfortunately this wasn’t looking like a quick call since she apparently had to spell out the fact that what her so-called parent had done was unforgivable. She’d just have to dodge into a linen cupboard or something if push came to shove.

‘I lent you my savings because you wanted to set up a business,’ she said, and it sounded so laughable spoken out loud that she could scarcely believe she’d been so stupid. Her mother set up a business? In which universe would that be? ‘And instead you’ve blown the lot on travel plans and concert tickets.’

‘Don’t be so dramatic, darling.’ Behind her mother’s attempt at soothing she could hear an airport tannoy announcing some flight or other. ‘Chance of a lifetime this. Not just any concert tickets. This isn’t some flash-in-the-pan manufactured cutesy boy band, you know. We’re talking Sweet Victory here. Their comeback tour and I’ve got backstage passes. Did you hear me? Backstage Passes! I’m with the band, darling. I never missed one of their shows back in the Eighties and I’m not going to start now.’

Layla gripped the phone briefly away from her ear as she processed this information, and thought for a moment that she really must call up hotel maintenance to get the top floor air-con checked because it was suddenly boiling in here. Her mother had never missed one of their shows, oh no, she’d spent half Layla’s childhood trailing around the world after them, wearing too much leather and hair mousse, while Layla outstayed her welcome with a progression of relatives.

Doors sped past, their glossy red number plates a blur. She didn’t have time for this. She had an hour or so at best to check the Kerry Suite was prepared to perfection before the last-minute guests moved in. After that she’d have to keep a permanent can-I-help-you smile on her face as she saw to their every whim when what she wanted to do was snarl at everyone within shouting distance. She made an enormous effort to lower her voice.

‘I was saving that money for a deposit on a flat,’ she said. Finally it had felt within her grasp that she might actually be able to put down some roots of her own. Steady job and her own place instead of the tiny rented studio with its grotty shared bathroom and her mother kipping on the sofa for a few months at a time when she wasn’t doing the festival season. ‘You told me it was just a start-up thing. You promised you’d pay me back in a week or two when your bank loan came through.’

‘And I will darling. Once the tour’s over I’ll be ready to get my teeth into that T-shirt business and you’ll get your money back quick smart. Just a few months that’s all.’

Layla mentally wrote off the cash. And when her mother turned up after this latest jaunt, just as she always did, murder might be on the cards.

‘How the hell did I get stuck with you as a parent?’ she wailed. ‘Why can’t you be like any normal mother? You should be teaching me how to make shortcrust pastry, handing down family recipes and lending me money to buy my first flat, not disappearing halfway round the world in a leather bustier and hair extensions.’

Her mother made a horrified noise.

‘Sounds like a bloody boring nightmare to me. What are you, living in the dark ages?’

‘No!’ Layla spat. ‘I’m living in the REAL WORLD!’

Temper completely lost now, she reached the end of the passageway and the door of the Kerry Suite with its red name plate. She flicked her pass card into the slot, threw open the door and stormed inside. The sitting room beyond was cool and quiet, October rain pattering softly against the high windows. The calm felt at odds with her scorching temper so she slammed the door hard enough to make the bottles in the mini-bar clink.

‘You know what?’ her mother’s voice was smooth and clear on the end of the line, tinged now with more than a hint of offended temper. ‘I’m not sure how the hell I got stuck with you.’

Layla paused, hand outstretched to reach the pad of light switches, her breath catching as her throat suddenly constricted.

‘What do you think is more important?’ her mother went on. ‘Getting to work on time? Counting the pennies? Or living life to the full, taking in every unpredictable turn, feeling alive? No one ever laid on their death bed, Layla, and wished they’d put in a few more hours at the day job. Life is passing you by, do you know that? You’ll get to old age, look back and realise you missed the whole bloody point.’ There was a pause followed by a mutter, which felt somehow even worse because it sounded like her mother was thinking out loud now instead of talking to her. ‘How can anyone so mind-numbingly dull share my gene pool? Sometimes I wonder why I ever bother coming back.’

Anger and hurt seemed to boil upwards from Layla’s toes to suffuse her whole body. Her pulse raced with it, her stomach churned with it and her lips pulled back from her teeth in a grimace of fury.

‘Alright then,’ she yelled, ‘if that’s the way you feel.’ Her voice rose steadily in pitch until it was so loud that it cracked in her throat and she snarled into the phone like some hideous fishwife. ‘Follow your saddo little groupie dream and DON’T BOTHER COMING BACK!’

She threw her arm back so far that her shoulder creaked and hurled the phone full-force across the semi-darkness of the room. There was a loud BONK! as it made contact with something on the other side of the couch and then it clattered to the floor beneath the flat screen TV.

‘Oi!’

Layla clapped both hands to her mouth in shock as a man got to his feet, hand rubbing his forehead and mussing his dark hair into haphazard spikes. Tall, broad-shoulders, chiselled jaw and lop sided grin, which actually was currently more of a grimace but which still gave the chocolate brown eyes a hint of wicked melt. Instantly recognisable, even without the usual pro tennis kit.

‘Let me guess,’ he said, his American drawl audible now that he wasn’t yelling. ‘Room service?’

She’d just clobbered the biggest crowd-pull in world tennis. And she’d be lucky to end this day without the sack.

****

The light flush that touched her peaches and cream complexion and the knit of a frown above the china blue eyes elevated her from pretty to seriously cute, and Matt Stanton walked around the sofa to get a better look at her. She was staring at him with ill-disguised disbelief, but really, he was used to star-struck. It was a good look in his opinion, it meant anything was possible.

She took a calming breath and smoothed a stray tendril of blonde hair back into place where it curled softly into her neck.

‘Guest Services,’ she corrected, her voice pleasant and professional. She held up a clipboard. Her coarse snarling of five minutes earlier still hung in the air between them. ‘My job is to make sure your stay runs as smoothly as possible.’

He stifled a laugh.

‘Not got off to the greatest of starts then,’ he said, rubbing his forehead.

She blushed again. He was beginning to enjoy the diversion. With the week of all-work-and-no-play that lay ahead of him it was an unexpected surprise. The phone had barely glanced off his head, but it would be such a shame to stop the show and point that out.

‘Or perhaps knocking out the guest is always part of the package?’ he said.

Worry flashed across her face as she made a panicky rush towards him.

‘I’m SO sorry about that,’ she said, stopping just shy of his personal space to stand on tiptoe and narrowing her eyes as she scrutinised his brow. He picked up a soft wave of her perfume, light and sweet, and his pulse jolted in response. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking. I just had a row, you know, so frustrating when you’re not actually in the room with someone.’ She shook her head, shrugged and smiled as if he must know exactly what she was talking about. His eyes zeroed in on her full upper lip, devoid of lipgloss but still absolutely delectable. ‘Lost it for a second, just a split second.’ She gazed at his forehead. ‘It didn’t break the skin, I can get you an ice pack if you like?’

She looked at him quizzically and he held up a hand to stop the mad stream of consciousness apology. She clenched her hands together and looked up at him beseechingly.

‘Please don’t report it. I know you have every right, but I’ll get in so much trouble and I really…’ she shook her head and lowered her voice to a level that smacked of desperation. ‘…I really need this job.’

In terms of boredom, the day had just taken a very interesting upswing. In the storm of press attention, before he’d been smuggled out of the country by his team, getting any female company had been impossible. A month now, by his standards practically a drought. Soon he would be reduced to gnawing the table. And then providence, fate, whatever it was, had lobbed her into his path. He instantly decided he would have her, not a question of whether he could, more a question of how long it would take him. A few hours maybe, if he played his cards right – that would be some kind of a record.

‘Well, I just don’t know,’ he said, leaning in to get a better look at her name badge. ‘My first stay in this particular hotel, hardly gives a good impression does it, Layla?’

Her face took on such a look of anguish that he couldn’t stand it.

‘Hey,’ he said, as she clutched her hands in her blonde hair. ‘I’m teasing. Chill out, of course I’m not going to report it. Anger, frustration, I can relate to that.’

He’d had his fair share of racquet throwing tantrums in the past, as his coach never tired of reminding him. Nothing wrong with a bit of fighting spirit and passion in his opinion. And as an added bonus, when it came to women there was a lot to be said for grabbing the upper hand when it presented itself.

He held up his hands.

‘It never happened.’

‘Omigod thank you SO much!’

She breathed out a massive audible sigh of relief and flung her arms around him. He breathed in the scent of her hair and took full advantage of the opportunity to slide a hand around her slender waist. The faint smell of her shampoo clung to her hair, something light with an edge of coconut that made him think of holidays.

‘You’re very welcome,’ he whispered.

Layla jumped and disengaged herself from him with a quick pace backwards. What the hell was she doing, hugging the guests? Professional distance, that was the mantra peddled in all the training sessions. Then again, there were extenuating circumstances. It wasn’t every day your mother spent your life savings on a stupid dream and you assaulted a celebrity with your mobile phone. Really, could she be expected to maintain professionalism under that kind of pressure? She felt his eyes on her as she straightened the dark skirt and jacket of her uniform and began to move around the room, plumping up velvet cushions and checking the mini-bar, each little task restoring an air of efficiency that would hopefully hide her fluster.

When she turned back to him he was leaning easily against the back of the sofa.

‘Everything seems to be in order,’ she said. ‘Now my job is to make sure your stay runs as smoothly as possible. Any arrangements you might need, transport, food requests, laundry services, any problems at all, you can let me know.’ She counted them off on her fingers. ‘Nothing is too much trouble.’

‘Really?’ he said, eyebrow cocked, holding her gaze a beat too long. There was a predatory smile on his lips and her stomach gave a slow and very deliberate cartwheel. He somehow managed to communicate an entire proposition in that one word.

He moved back to the sitting room area and sat down on one of the berry coloured velvet sofas, slinging arms along the back of it that were twined with muscle and the most powerful shoulders she’d ever seen.

‘Absolutely,’ she said, heat rising in her cheeks. ‘For the right guest at the right price, anything is doable. Room full of lilies? I’m your girl.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ he said. ‘When you barged in here unannounced I assumed you were a fan. I didn’t realise you were staff. I thought it was incredibly ironic, since I’ve been checked in here to stay away from them, that I’d ended up in the room with one.’

‘I’m not a fan,’ she said, then shrugged, ‘well I mean, I am, the whole world is a fan of yours really isn’t it? What I mean is, I’ve got my work hat on at the moment. Not my fan hat.’

Oh yes that sounded just bloody marvellous. Her cheeks burned as she caught the bemused expression on his face because he obviously thought she was saying that for effect, and in actual fact she’d blown her food shopping budget for a month on tickets to watch him play at Wimbledon the previous year. She was as smitten by him as the rest of the universe.

He was even hotter up close. Not that she’d thought that possible at the time. In all-white lawn tennis gear, with sweat tousling his dark hair and his lean muscular frame he’d been absolutely mesmerising.

And of course that had no bearing on the present. Dreaming about hot celebrities was one thing. Pure fantasy. The real world was a totally different ballgame. And unlike her mother Layla had no trouble keeping the two things separate.

‘I really must apologise that I wasn’t on hand for your arrival,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t expecting you quite yet.’

There had been a rushed meeting this morning to discuss and fine-tune the details of his last minute booking with them. It was standard practice when dealing with a guest as high profile as America’s tennis hero Matt Stanton. But when her shift had started this evening she’d been so busy getting out of earshot of the management and preoccupied with tracking down her mother that she’d come straight up to check the room the moment she arrived. As a result she’d missed any last minute schedule changes.

‘My people called ahead and circumvented check-in,’ he said. ‘I just came straight up here.’

‘And have you been shown around?’

It was somehow easier to deal with him when she kept herself in work mode. All those tried-and-tested and often-repeated stock hospitality phrases felt comfortingly familiar. She could hold her own when she was in work mode. Prided herself on it, actually, which was why the phone-throwing debacle was particularly toe-curling.

‘I can work out how to work the flat-screen TV and the hot tub controls, if that’s what you mean,’ he said. ‘I’m a veteran of hotel stays, I could probably even show you a thing or two.’ Matt glanced across the room at the mod-cons. ‘If it’s any consolation I only found out I was going to be staying here myself a few hours ago.’

The curt discussion with his coach flashed back through his mind, accompanied by a twinge of resentment, and his mood darkened a little. Last week’s big kiss ‘n’ tell revelation in the gossip columns, so close on the heels of the last one but this time backed up by blurry but perfectly recognisable mobile phone pictures, had combined with his recent slip in playing form to make his sponsors antsy and his management livid. They’d taken advantage of a break between tournaments to assert some authority while they reassessed his coaching. A time-out in London was the apparent solution. And not the kind of time-out he usually enjoyed.

The tennis circuit allowed for precious little downtime and the humiliation of being packed off to a lesser-known London boutique hotel instead of a swanky five-star celebrity choice, along with the list of instructions to stay out of sight, keep to his hotel suite when not training, no partying, no girls, no socialising, no damned life, had brought on a hot surge of angry rebellion. He might have succumbed on the hotel choice, but that didn’t mean he had to give in on the rest of it – right? And a hot against-the-ludicrous-rules fling would be just the thing to prove he still had a stake in his own life, since just now it felt like every damned aspect of it was being controlled by someone else.

‘Have a drink with me,’ he said standing up and crossing the room to the mini-bar. ‘It’s past seven, I’m stuck in for the evening, might as well make the most of it.’

He gestured back at the two velvet sofas, facing each other over a low table. She didn’t move, simply hovered by the door with her damn clipboard held up in front of her.

‘I’m supposed to be working,’ she said.

‘Didn’t you just get through telling me that I’m pretty much your job?’ he said. ‘If I want something, you’re meant to arrange it – is that how it works?’

‘Socialising with the guests isn’t really allowed.’

‘Even if the guest in question has requested your company? Even after you stumbled into their room without knocking and threw a telephone at their head?’

He saw a faint smile touch her lips and sensed her weakening even before she spoke. Of course she was weakening, they always did.

‘Just an orange juice then,’ she said.

Play it right and he could have her by the end of the day.

CHAPTER TWO

Layla walked over to the sofa and perched on the edge of it, keeping her clipboard on her lap. He crossed the room and handed her the juice. She watched as he poured himself a mineral water.

She stared at the glass in his hand.

‘Mineral water,’ she said.

‘What of it?’

She shrugged.

‘I just thought your drink of choice would be something a bit stronger. Mineral water doesn’t exactly say hellraiser, does it?’

He grinned as he sat down opposite her and raised his glass.

‘Neither does orange juice. We’re perfect for each other.’

The blush was back. She looked down at her glass and he checked her left hand with the briefest glance. Always best to size up the conquest before he started out, and in his experience single girls caused the least trouble. And trouble right now was the last thing he needed.

No ring. Heat began to course through his veins as he looked at her, the full upper lip, the graceful curve of her neck highlighted by the curl of her blonde hair just below the jawline.

‘That’s different,’ she said. ‘I’m working.’

‘So am I. I might not be playing a tournament right now but the tennis season is so long, practically all year round.’ He took a sip of the water. ‘Even when I’m not competing the training is still full-on.

‘I see.’

‘There are other vices that don’t affect my game.’

At least in his opinion they didn’t affect it. His coach and sponsors might not agree.

She looked him in the eye, a flash of something there that he couldn’t fathom. As if she was sizing him up.

‘You mean groupies?’ she said loudly, blue eyes narrowing.

She was bold, he had to hand it to her. Then again, she’d probably read the gutter press this week, along with the rest of the world.

‘Groupie is such an ugly word,’ he said. ‘Insulting somehow. Makes it sound like I take advantage of people and I can understand that because of the way the papers portray it, but that’s just not the way it is. I don’t have time for proper full-on relationships and I meet plenty of girls who feel exactly the same way as me. I’m single. I’m not doing anything wrong.’ He held her gaze steadily, waiting to gauge her reaction. ‘There’s a lot to be said for uncomplicated one-off flings,’ he said. ‘As long as both people know what they’re doing, know where they stand, I just don’t see what’s wrong with it.’

She gave a dismissive whatever-you-say shrug.

Uncomplicated. When did she do anything in her life that was that?

‘What about you?’ he said. ‘Who was it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘On the phone. Who was it? Husband? Boyfriend?’

‘My mother,’ she said shortly. God that made her sound like some saddo spinster who still lived at home with her parents. Whereas it was in fact the other way round. Her mother was the one sponging off her.

He didn’t look particularly judgemental. Maybe he had an insane parent tucked away somewhere too. Then again, who was she kidding? He was bound to have rich parents who’d poured money into his tennis career. She pictured him as a toddler wielding a racquet that was bigger than he was and a small twist of envy jabbed at her ribs. He would have had all the opportunities that a supportive family could give you. There was the difference between them. He had the world at his feet and she was one step away from the gutter.