Secret Games

She made her way toward it, passing a huge fireplace with a roaring fire that cast much appreciated warmth, and admired the unusual topiary, enjoying the sheer whimsy of the design. The hearts had been filled with huge white spider mums, then decorated with twinkling red lights, ribbons, hearts, and…

Maggie caught sight of a shiny ornament, a fragile glass likeness of a Rubenesque nude, one hand casually cupping a breast, the other positioned coyly between ample thighs. She inspected its neighbors with growing amazement.

Whoa.

Female nudes. Male nudes. Nude couples. While none was doing anything that might qualify for an entry in the Kama Sutra, all were clearly enjoying the effects of fondling themselves and each other. Maggie’s surprise faded as suddenly as it had appeared.

Whoever had invented the name Falling in Bed, and Breakfast hadn’t been kidding.

Time to move on. She glanced at the front desk again, but those clerks thought she was here to spend the weekend indulging in sex. Incredible sex, she remembered the Weatherbys’ distinction, and decided there was no real hurry to check in.

Continuing her tour, she noticed for the first time grinning Cupids hanging everywhere. So many Cupids, in fact, she suspected management was encouraging the mischievous son of Venus to aim at guests the minute they walked through the door.

She kept walking the promenade of specialty stores, peering into shop fronts, not seeing much more than a blur. Until a display of lovely gift baskets caught her eye.

Arranged on platforms of all different heights and angles, the bright-colored baskets with festive ribbons contained what appeared to be bath and body items. Maggie paused, intent upon discerning the names on the assortment of jars and bottles, not surprised to identify champagne bubble bath in a replica of a champagne bottle and Treasure of the Sea bathing gels in a clever collection of seashell-shaped jars.

But Joy Jelly, Motion Lotion and Peterbutter? She leaned closer to inspect the silver-embossed labels which read, An Edible Lubricant with No Artificial Colors. Available in chocolate, espresso, butter rum or peanut butter.

Sexual props would be the first entry into her idea journal, and remembering Lyn’s comments about practical application, Maggie swallowed back a bubble of laughter.

Observation was definitely the key here.

“I WANT YOU ALL to nap during the staff meeting,” Mary Johnson, general manager and stockholder of Falling Inn Properties, Inc., explained to her crew of dogs. “I’ll take you out for a walk as soon as I’m through with the meeting.”

The dogs, a motley collection that included an English bull, a boxer and two teacup poodles, all made their way into the corner with a compliance honed by years of living in hotels. While they were usually relegated to the confines of her suite, the storm had made them restless. Mary had brought them into the offices today for a change of scenery.

Without a backward glance at her obedient crew, she pulled her agenda for the weekly five o’clock staff meeting from her organizer and glanced at the heading.

Worldwide Travel Association

The words figured in bold letters at the top of the page, emphasizing the importance of an arrival that needed no emphasis. The Worldwide Travel Association, better known as WTA, was the largest travel organization in the world, and they would be sending a representative to judge her property on how well they met the criteria for a prestigious industry award. An award her property desperately needed to win.

“Hey, hey, Ms. J.” Dougray swaggered in, greeted her by the nickname she’d long ago acquired from her staff.

“Good afternoon, Dougray. I assume the heat pump in the west wing is cooperating now that you’ve worked your magic.”

“’Twas the storm that pushed her past the edge, but she’s purring like a kitty again.”

Mary inclined her head in confirmation of a job well-done and recited a silent plea for any other mechanical or electrical failures to restrain themselves until after the WTA judge’s departure. An unrealistic wish, given the size and age of the property, but she saw no harm in making the request.

After welcoming each of her department heads as they filed into the conference room, she watched from her seat at the head of the table as each settled into their respective places.

Silent for the most part, they acknowledged her before nodding casual greetings to each other. They all knew the drill because, with the exception of Laura, the special events coordinator freshly out of college, all of them had followed Mary to this property from the various hotels she’d managed during her thirty years in hospitality management.

They were her best staff ever. Not only were they competent in their positions, but they’d also willingly hocked their life savings and signed their futures away to leverage a buyout of this historical property when the previous management company had gone defunct.

Now Mary was in the unique position of overseeing a staff made up of corporate stockholders. Though a new company had partnered them in the endeavor, she and her staff held the majority shares. This circumstance had changed the gestalt of their situation considerably by placing a great deal of responsibility on her. She cared about every one of these people, and hoped to secure their futures.

“Has Cupid’s Couple checked in?” she asked, beginning the meeting without preamble.

“Cupid’s Couple,” as Sam Masters and Maggie James had been nicknamed during one of the umpteen meetings in preparation for WTA’s judging, was the only unmarried couple booked over the holiday. Their names had come to Mary’s attention via the reservationist, who knew she was looking for some way of edging out the other nominees for the Most Romantic Getaway award.

Cupid’s Couple had provided the perfect way.

Annabelle Simmons, the no-nonsense director of sales, gave a decided shake of her steel-gray curls. “He checked in shortly after three. The last I inquired, she hadn’t arrived yet.”

“The lassie’s here,” Dougray said. “About a quarter hour past. I took her bags to the Tower, but she went sightseeing on the promenade. Saw her peeping in windows just before I came to staff. I don’t think the laddie will stay in his room long, now that he knows she’s here. He seemed twitchy to see her.” Dougray patted the black-encased radio fastened at his waist. “Front desk will call when he comes down or she heads up.”

“Excellent. So we’re prepared to get underway.” Mary cut a glance around the table. “Are we ready?”

A few stoic nods of assent, a muttered “yes,” and one very enthusiastic “as ready as we’ll ever be,” from an excited Laura.

“Have we heard from WTA’s judge yet?” Mary asked.

“He, unfortunately, confirmed an early check-in tomorrow morning.” Annabelle’s possessive scowl compressed her stern features like a balled-up fist.

“Unfortunately?”

“I’d hoped for a woman.” She impatiently rattled papers before her. “They’re much easier to sell on romance.”

Mary had hoped for a woman, too, but didn’t disclose that tidbit. Annabelle was a crack salesperson. Her hardcore pragmatism ensured that guests’ expectations were always enthusiastic and reasonable, but it could also have a sobering effect when the staff needed something to hope for. “Then we’ll just have to work harder to sell him.”

While an air of expectancy lingered over the table, Mary’s staff appeared determined, and she felt certain her casual acceptance of their new judge had had the desired effect. No last-minute panicking. They’d come this far, and she wouldn’t allow them to trip at the finish line.

“Think of this as the opportunity it is,” Mary said. “We’ve been nominated as the most romantic getaway. This is the toughest industry award and the one carrying the biggest prize. We’ve earned this nomination. I want you all to keep that in mind, when the pressure is on.”

Bruno, the former head chef and current restaurant supervisor, spread his hands in entreaty. “Five other properties have been nominated, too.”

“But we’re the only fully fledged romance superclub,” Laura pointed out, with an enthusiasm Mary suspected was taught as a requirement in college hospitality management courses. “The other nominees are out of their league. They don’t stand a chance, because we’re owned and operated by our staff. We’ve got the edge. We’re motivated. We’re—”

“Desperate,” Dougray said, cutting in.

Bruno issued a heavy sigh. “Yes, desperate.”

“Not desperate.” Mary halted the discussion. Not exactly.

While Falling Inn Bed, and Breakfast wasn’t down-and-out, it wasn’t far from it. Winning the prestigious Most Romantic Getaway award during this all-important first year as both a privately owned property and a romance superclub was essential for their continued existence.

The new management company hadn’t thrown in with the employees to buy the 120-year-old property out of the goodness of their hearts. They’d done so to place themselves in a category that increased their credit limit to allow for both the buyout and a multimillion-dollar renovation of the historic property into a superclub.

There was an opportunity for substantial profit with the venture. There was also an opportunity for loss. While the management company could simply reorganize through bankruptcy in that eventuality, the staff would wind up losing everything down to and including the shirts on their backs.

Mary would do everything in her power to keep that from happening, starting with winning the million-dollar multimedia advertising campaign that was part of WTA’s grand prize. The revenue generated by those promotions would effectively carry them all the way through next year’s off-season.

“We have a unique opportunity here,” she said. “We’re off-season, yet we’re close to running at full capacity. This isn’t Florida, so we can’t attribute those reservations to the weather. Our guests must have come to enjoy our amenities, and we’re staffed to handle them. We’re prepared, organized and completely capable of winning this award on our own merit.” She steepled her hands before her and moved her gaze around the table. “And…we’ve got our ace in the hole.”

Cupid’s Couple.