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Chapter Seven
Willow
The Palladium is the swankiest hotel in Manhattan.
So swanky it doesn’t even have a sign on the building or a public lobby. Those rich and fabulous enough to secure a reservation are met at the curb by a personal concierge who ushers them through the plush, spa-like lobby to an elevator that delivers them to their suite.
Rooms start at four figures a night.
I never fathomed that I might be a guest here, but if I had, I’m sure I would have imagined arriving in a swanky SUV or maybe a limo.
Instead, Maxim and I roll up in our ancient station wagon.
The valet’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head, but to his credit, he rushes to accept the keys from Maxim and asks what luggage we’d like sent up to our room.
“No baggage, just this,” Maxim says, nodding toward the duffel on his shoulder, now filled with treasure collected from his connection in luggage storage at Grand Central. In addition to several thick wads of cash, we now have credit cards and a handgun made entirely of plastic so it wouldn’t set off the sensors in the luggage handling area.
Maxim also has a fake I.D. he used to make the reservation.
Still, when our concierge—a gorgeous redhead in a clingy green dress—greets us on the carpet outside the hotel with a soft, “Welcome to the Palladium, Mr. Campbell,” it takes me a second to remember who she’s talking to.
Maxim, however, is on point. He inclines his head her way, managing to pull off “king of all he surveys” even in ill-fitting jeans and a grungy sweatshirt. “Thank you, Greta. I assume you’ve taken care of the things we discussed on the phone?”
What things? I knew I shouldn’t have left him alone, even long enough to hit the bathroom at Grand Central.
My brow furrows, but I force a smile as Greta’s attention shifts my way.
“Of course,” she says in her silky voice as she skims me up and down with an assessing glance. “The correct sizes were ordered and should be delivered to your suite within the hour.” She turns back to Maxim with a smile. “And Bartleby’s is happy to make an exception to their ‘no takeout’ rule for a special guest. There are menus in your room. As soon as you make your selections, you can dial my private number, and I’ll take care of everything.”
She turns, motioning for us to follow. “Come. You must be exhausted after filming all night. Let’s get you settled.”
As she pushes through the heavy silver door, I shoot Maxim a sideways glance and mouth, “Filming all night?”
“Mr. Campbell is a filmmaker shooting a documentary on modern nomads who live in their vehicles,” he says softly. “I explained we’d be arriving in the car we’ve been using to go undercover.”
I hum beneath my breath. “Impressive. But I think someone already shot that documentary.”
“But Mr. Campbell doesn’t know that,” he murmurs as we follow Greta across a lobby decorated in muted browns and blues that smells of fresh laundry and clean sea air. “I’m a wealthy, privileged man who assumes all my ideas are original and amazing.”
I snort. “Ugh. Wealthy, privileged men are the worst.”
“We really are,” he agrees. “But we do know where to shop. And to eat.” His eyes dance as he adds, “By the time your parents arrive this afternoon, you’ll be so rested, well fed, and impressively dressed, they won’t recognize the ragamuffin they left behind.”
I shake my head, fighting a grin. “Hope you ordered clothes for yourself, too, big bad. Hate to break it to you, but right now you’re winning the ragamuffin award.”
He smiles but doesn’t answer. It’s time to join Greta in the elevator and be whisked away to a place above all the grit and grime of the city.
As we shoot into the air, excitement shivers across my skin.
A part of me feels awful for looking forward to something—even something as necessary as clean clothes and a proper meal—when so many of the people we love are in danger and the fate of the world hangs in the balance.
But the other part of me insists life is sufficiently hard at the moment. There’s no need to make it harder by refusing creature comforts. If it comes down to it, I know both Maxim and I are willing to die to protect our people but playing the martyr won’t do anyone any good.
In fact, until we’re back in the line of fire, I mean to savor every not-horrible thing that crosses my path.
Up in our room,I turn in slow circles, taking in the details of the sumptuous pale blue and muted orange furnishings, upscale kitchenette, and incredible view of Manhattan. I accept Greta’s offer to make me a drink before she leaves and take my strawberry lemonade with fresh mint into the gloriously appointed bathroom to sip as I soak in the tub.
The tub—a monstrosity big enough to fit three of me—is carved from a solid slab of marble and one of the most impressive things I’ve ever seen. Impressive and strangely…comforting.
