Hotel Liasion Read online

  Sure that her father would try to track her through her credit cards, she’d cut them up. What was she thinking? And to top it all off, she blew fifteen hundred dollars on fake identification papers. New social security number, the works. She’d been astounded at how easy it was to get them and how authentic they looked. She had definitely watched too much television and read too many blogs. Ironically, that was the only thing they had prepared her for. She hadn’t been ready for being treated as though she were invisible, being groped by horrible-smelling supervisors who thought they had that right, or being fired from some shit job just for defending herself. She hadn’t expected to care about the legions of others who shared her situation.

  No matter, that was all behind her now and here she was, at the ripe old age of eighteen, getting ready to spend her third night on the streets as a homeless person. She indulged in another wistful thought about her soft bed at home in Atherton, her favorite foods that their cook would make, and a hot bath. She lingered on the hot bath fantasy for several minutes. The large spa tub would be filled with wonderfully hot water and bubbles that carried a subtle scent of wood resins; amber and sandalwood were her favorites. Heather would indulge Ember’s love of candles and light several, but in her mind they became hundreds, and for once, Heather would stay and talk to her while she felt the water sluice around her, the jets drumming on her body until she was completely relaxed. And she would be completely, completely, safe from harm.

  A flock of pigeons noisily took flight as a kid charged them, pulling Ember from her reverie. Checking a clock on one of the buildings surrounding the square, she saw there were still a few more hours until Glide Church put out the food for the homeless at five o’clock. One meal a day was all she really needed. She tried to keep to the bare minimum, knowing there were families that needed more for their children and some folks who really couldn’t fend for themselves. Her friends from Atherton would have approved of the weight she’d lost, the prominence of her ribs. They wouldn’t have approved of the way she got there.

  She’d spent a precious dollar on a paper, to look for a job and then use for warmth and camouflage later. She’d paid close attention to how street living was done and so far, so good. A young woman on the streets was a target, and not just for other homeless people. Ember had used her wits to avoid most of the pitfalls, but spending entire nights on her own was dangerous and exhausting. She felt ashamed when she thought about the genuinely poor people sharing the lonely streets with her. If they had her options, they wouldn’t be here. The trouble was, she just couldn’t face going home in disgrace. She kept thinking if she could just get another chance at a job, everything would change. She owed it to Heather to learn about the real world.

  She’d had a few jobs but lost them because she was clueless. She didn’t know how to be a maid, or wait a table, how to even bus a table. Of course her snotty attitude didn’t go over really big with the dirtbags who hired her for minimum wage and constantly tried to cop a feel. What little she’d earned, she spent, along with the rest of her money, mostly on food and a room. She was flush with cash when she first arrived, so she’d thought nothing of buying extras—a magazine, a movie, popcorn. The freedom was amazing. No curfew. No nanny. No one to keep an eye on her. That lasted about two weeks before it dawned on her that the money would soon run out and minimum wage wouldn’t replace it. She would have to go home and tell Daddy he was right, she was too spoiled and naïve to make it on her own. And she’d be damned if she’d do that.

  The rooms got consistently cheaper and shabbier, and the jobs paid even less until here she was, on the streets. She’d even tried a few shelters, but those could be worse than the streets and the better ones were full of mothers and children. She couldn’t convince herself to take a place they needed.

  A commotion off to her right served to tear Ember away from her morose thoughts. A kid she’d met, really her only friend in her new world, Joey G, had just snatched an old lady’s purse and was tearing across the square on a direct path past her bench. He was a nice enough guy, but a heroin addict and probably desperate for a fix. She didn’t need any enemies right now. But, damn, an old lady. She stuck her boot out as he ran by and sent him flying.

  Once he was down, she stuck her knee into his spine and grabbed the purse.

  “Hey, that’s mine. E? What are you doing?” He twisted around to glare at her. “Get your own.”

  “Joey, not an old lady.” Thinking quickly, Ember said, “Besides, she’s local, she could identify you. Find a tourist. Better protection for you.” She helped him up and, careful to keep the purse away from his grasp, dusted him off.

  He gave her a wary look. “You taking it?”

  “No. I’m giving it back. I promise.” Strange to be bargaining with an addict about stolen property, but he looked pretty strung out. “Why don’t you go to the free clinic, Joey? They can help. Maybe get you cleaned up.”

  “I only need fifty, E, lemme just take fifty. Please?”

  He grabbed again for the purse and she held him off. She doubted there was even ten in the damned thing. He was going to take a swing at her any minute and then they’d both have a problem. Digging in a pocket of her pants, she pulled out her last twenty and shoved it at him.

  He stared at it a moment, then gave her a grin that surprised her with the straight, even teeth. “Thanks, I’ll pay you back.” Spying something behind her, he bolted like a rabbit.

  Ember didn’t even have time to spot the old lady before a pair of huge hands clamped down on her shoulders and spun her around. “You’re under arrest,” said one of the police officers she’d spent the past few days avoiding.

  One minute later she was handcuffed and marched over to where the elderly woman was standing, using a walker for support. She looked angry, and Ember had a sinking feeling her good deed was going to be punished severely.

  “We got her, lady. Here’s your purse.” The cop was big and beefy, and his grip was like a vise.

  The woman stared hard at him for a moment. “It was a man who took my purse, officer. This young woman got it back for me. You must release her and apologize.”

  Pondering for a moment, the cop took a long look at Ember and then the old woman. “You sure? These street kids look alike and sometimes they work in pairs or in gangs.”

  “She did me a kindness, sir, and you would be doing a kindness to remove the shackles from her hands.” Her voice was rich and cultured, strong with authority and some kind of accent.

  The cop fumbled the key into the cuffs and popped the locks, setting Ember free. He gave the woman her purse, then seemed to lose interest in them.

  Rubbing her wrists, Ember muttered her thanks and started to leave, wondering what in hell she was going to do now. Well, she needed to retrieve her paper, that was for sure. She glanced across the square. So far no one had taken it.

  The woman’s voice drew her attention. “I must thank you properly. I will reward you.”

  She seemed to wobble a bit and Ember placed a hand under her elbow to steady her. “No need. That kid’s just a junkie, he didn’t mean to hurt you. Let me help you to the bench.”

  The woman accepted the assistance, then indicated Ember should sit, too. “My name is Irina Castic.” She offered her hand. “What is yours? I’ve seen you around here before, recently.” Her eyes were bright blue with no trace of age or infirmity, just sharp intelligence.

  Ember politely took her hand, surprised anyone would have noticed her in her current condition. A lifetime ago, when she was a spoiled rich kid, lots of people noticed her. It was strange to realize they never really saw her at all. She was only visible while she had money. Before she could edit herself, she blurted out her real name. “Ember Lanier. Pleased to meet you Mrs. Castic.”

  The woman smiled warmly. “Ember. An unusual name. Didn’t you run the sausage stand in front of Macy’s a few weeks ago? I think you tried to give me a hot dog one day.”

  Laughing, Ember admitted, �
��That was me. I’m afraid I gave more away than I sold and I ended up being fired. But there were a lot of folks that, you know, didn’t have the money.”

  Too late, Ember realized she’d just shown she thought the old lady was penniless. Mrs. Castic didn’t miss her blunder.

  “And you thought I might need a sausage, too, didn’t you?” She placed her hand gently on Ember’s arm.

  Startled, Ember consciously worked to not pull away, it had been so long since she had been touched in a friendly way. She could feel the heat in her face as she tried to think of an excuse.

  “Well, it looked good and I appreciated your offer. I just wasn’t hungry then.”

  They sat for a moment, enjoying the sparkling clear day of which San Francisco had so many. The ever-present coastal fog kept the air and buildings washed clean in this lovely city. That same fog made it cold at night and hid a lot of dangers around corners and down alleys. Ember involuntarily shivered.

  Mrs. Castic asked, “Where do you live, Ember?”

  Not able to suppress a sigh, Ember replied, “Here and there.” She looked across the square once more. Her paper had vanished. It was crazy to be upset about losing a stupid newspaper, but she could feel tears prickling and she didn’t want to cry in front of Mrs. Castic. Pretending to know what time it was, she said, “Well, I have to go. Glide Kitchen will open soon.”

  Clear blue eyes met hers. “Do you take all of your meals there, child?”

  Suddenly defensive, Ember snapped, “I don’t take any meals there.” Immediately contrite, she added, “I mean, I earn them. I serve and bus tables and feed kids if the moms have babies. I help wash dishes. I even tutor some of the homeless who are in school. So I’m not a beggar. I help.”

  Embarrassed over raising her voice to this nice woman, she felt her face heat again. She lowered her head and studied her no-longer-manicured nails. The woman was silent for a moment, then opened her purse and took out a piece of paper and a pencil. She scribbled something and handed the note to Ember.

  “What’s this?” Suspicion must have been evident in her voice because Mrs. Castic smiled reassuringly.

  “Not a message from God, I assure you. It’s my address. I live only a few blocks from here and I have a perfectly good couch you could sleep on tonight and a small but adequate shower you could use. It’s all I can offer, but please let me repay you for your kindness.”

  “You don’t have to…” But Ember knew she sounded half-hearted. She almost hugged the woman.

  Holding up a hand, Mrs. Castic said, “You just be there. Only for tonight, and then we talk. Now, would you be so kind as to help me up and walk me home so you know where you are going?”

  “Sure, I guess I’ve got the time before I report to the kitchen.” Ember suspected they both knew her “job” was as a volunteer, in exchange for a meal, but it made her feel good to assure the woman that she earned her keep.

  *

  Laurel Hoffman graded another test paper and neatly placed it on the stack. She stretched, glad to be in her sweats relaxing in her home office. She reached for the last paper, thankful that she would finish before eight o’clock. Her partner, Rochelle, always grumbled that she should pay less attention to the papers and more attention to her, especially after working hours. Spoken like a woman whose teaching days were mostly behind her.

  Rochelle Jacobs was chair of the department of women’s studies and was tenured. They’d met when Laurel was a graduate student. Rochelle had swept her off her feet, insisting they move in together after only a month. Flattered to be pursued by the older, tall and handsome professor with the commanding style, Laurel had soaked up the attention like a sponge.

  She was the middle child in her family and had never quite broken out of the quiet, unassuming role that had served her when growing up. Her older brother did whatever he pleased, and her younger sister placed all kinds of emotional demands on their parents. Laurel had learned to go her own way unobtrusively. Her parents had always seemed glad to have one child who left them alone and didn’t cause a problem.

  Laurel suspected she was a secret disappointment to them, not because she was gay, although they’d refused to believe that until she introduced them to Rochelle, but because she was content to teach in a university. She had a feeling they wanted her to make a name for herself by writing a bestseller or being a movie star, like her younger sister Kate.

  Three years after moving into Rochelle’s bungalow, Laurel was an assistant professor working toward tenure and teaching non-stop. She always got rave reviews from the students, so the other associates were more than happy to dump the least favorite courses on her. Those were the undergraduate courses with large numbers of students and the most work. Laurel didn’t mind except at the end of the quarter, when papers and exams were due. But Rochelle clearly resented the time she spent with her students.

  A booming voice close to her ear startled her from her thoughts. “Aren’t you through yet? Some of the faculty are meeting at Le Jeune and I said we’d be there. You can finish later. I want one of their martinis. It’s been a long day.”

  Laurel didn’t reply instantly. She’d learned to count to ten before saying what was on her mind. She knew Rochelle had already started relieving the pressure of her “long day” because she’d offered Laurel a martini she didn’t want about a half hour before. That was Rochelle’s rather tiring drinking strategy—complaining about her long and difficult days chairing meetings and flirting with graduate students. If Laurel put her off any longer she would make another drink and then dinner would be forgotten. An argument was sure to follow and Laurel had learned long ago not to argue with Rochelle, drunk or sober. Her partner used cheap shots and a raised voice to make herself right, and the hurt went straight to Laurel’s heart.

  The sad truth was, she had stopped loving Rochelle but felt she was in a state of limbo, marking time in their relationship, somehow unable to do any more than get through each day. She tried to absent herself as much as possible, which only made Rochelle more resentful. They rarely made love, and actually, Laurel had started wondering if they’d ever made love. They had sex, and she couldn’t even remember how long it had been since their last perfunctory bedroom encounter. Six months? Did she even miss it?

  A part of her did, the part that yearned for intimacy beyond the physical. For true love, whatever that meant. With a sigh, she got to her feet. She didn’t want to think about that forlorn inner self.

  Rochelle was leaning against the door, looking her up and down with a frown. “Tell me you aren’t wearing that.”

  Laurel glanced automatically at her deep navy blue sweatshirt and jeans. The combination flattered her slender curves and her fair hair and pale skin. “I didn’t realize Le Jeune was formal,” she said without expression. “I can change if you think it’s necessary.” In Berkeley, wearing something other than cutoffs and flip-flops was considered formal.

  “You could at least think about how your appearance reflects on me.”

  Laurel was surprised Rochelle had even noticed her appearance. She could walk around naked and she doubted she would get a reaction. But of course, she was supposed to look good when they were with colleagues. She could still recall a faculty party soon after they got together, an evening full of cocktails and one-upmanship. Rochelle had bragged about nailing the prettiest girl in the class, meaning Laurel. At least the other faculty members had the good grace to look embarrassed that she’d overheard the boast. Later, Rochelle couldn’t figure out why Laurel was sleeping in the other bedroom, but she was too drunk to care.

  The next day she told Laurel that she should feel complimented. Rochelle pointed out that she could have her pick of anyone but she’d chosen Laurel. She also warned that she didn’t like Laurel’s attitude and she could still have her choice if Laurel didn’t appreciate all the favors and opportunities Rochelle provided her.

  Her words wounded, and Laurel had chosen to shut up. That day, and many similar occasions over th
e past several years, had closed a door in her heart, one she would make sure did not open again for a very long time, if ever. She might not know what to do next, but she knew she needed to figure something out. Whatever she planned, love was not in the equation.

  Sighing, Laurel resolved to get up early tomorrow to finish her work. Rochelle usually slept late anyway, and now was not the time to protest.

  Chapter Three

  Jock Reynolds paced in the outer office of SDS Enterprises, pissed that she had to take time from the job only to be kept waiting for fifteen minutes. She’d been up until two a.m. yesterday preparing the damned bid and dropped it off before she went to work. Denny said they needed a rush job, so why keep her waiting? She was about to get on her cell phone and complain when the door opened and a beautiful dark-skinned woman smiled at her, making her anger dissolve.

  “You must be Jocelyn. I apologize for keeping you. My daughters are waiting for you.”

  Two things: Jock would normally throttle anyone who used her given name. And she would definitely snigger at the comment that “two daughters were waiting” for her. She didn’t do either. She meekly followed the woman, mesmerized by her presence and convinced they’d met before.

  As soon as the door closed and she could tear her eyes away, she knew why the woman seemed familiar. Denny Phelps was standing three feet from her, a taller, lighter version of her mother. She was grinning.

  “You never stop looking, do you, Jock. That’s my mama. You keep your eyes to yourself, girl.”

  Jock knew she was probably blushing and was grateful the others were laughing. With one exception. A humorless woman with long chestnut hair and gorgeous brown eyes was staring daggers at her, which could only mean they’d met before. Maybe a former date?

  “I apologize. I just thought you were so attractive and looked familiar. Now I know why.” She turned to Denny. “How are you? Haven’t seen you in years.” She shook Denny’s hand and they hugged briefly, then she offered her hand to Denny’s mother. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Phelps.”