"Esther M. Friesner - At These Prices" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friesner Esther M)

prices you charge, you’d be trying to help me get it locked instead of standing there,
making vile accusations!”
“Er, I’ll do my best, ma’am.” Bixby motioned for her to descend from the
valise so that he might take a stab at shutting it. She clambered off slowly, her hands
exerting constant pressure on the lid. He tried to work around her, but it proved
impossible. At last he said, “Ma’am, why don’t you step back and let me do this?”
Bella’s face hardened. “It’s my suitcase.”
“Ma’am, I’m not arguing the point. I only mean that it would be easier to
close if you’d let me—”
“I didn’t ask for your help,” Bella said stiffly.
“Ma’am, you did.”
It was the truth, but that didn’t stop her from snorting it to scorn. “I didn’t
send for you. I’m checking out this morning. I was trying to pack while waiting for
my coffee to brew.” She didn’t dare remove her hands from the suitcase, so a nod
of the head was all she could manage to direct his attention toward the little in-room
coffee maker, merrily burbling away on the dresser.
“Coffee?” Bixby’s gaze sought out the coffee maker and clamped onto the
miniature glass carafe. A disquieting look of yearning crept into his eyes. He licked
his lips and inhaled the scent of brewing beans as though he meant to draw the rich
aroma into the depths of his soul. “Ahhhh.... “His voice quivered. “Yes. Yes, of
course. Very efficient of you, I’m sure.”
“It was, until you showed up and started making trouble.” Bella was too busy
keeping her righteous indignation at full throttle to give Bixby’s odd behavior more
than passing notice. “If I weren’t here for the Speranza Storm Cosmetics
convention, I’d never stay in this exorbitant excuse for a hotel. A midtown
Manhattan location is not a license for price gouging! Even your so-called group
rates are ridiculous. The rooms are tiny, the amenities are pathetic, and the only time
anyone takes an interest in a guest’s needs is when the guest has absolutely no need
of—”
That was when the suitcase exploded. Despite Bella’s unfailing pressure on
the lid, the unhappy bit of baggage abruptly succumbed to the even greater pressure
from within. It shot out from under her hands, skidded across the bed, and hit the
nearest wall, bursting open like a giant milkweed pod and spraying its contents all
over the room. The recoil catapulted Bella to the floor.
Bixby regarded the aftermath of the eruption with a look that was equal parts
astonishment and begrudging admiration. His unsettling fascination with the coffee
maker was gone, blasted to oblivion by the spectacle of what Bella’s burst suitcase
had unleashed. The first thing he picked up was the hair dryer.
“That’s mine!” Bella croaked. Though she was still a little groggy from her
recent tumble, her eyes were two slits of steely purpose, focused on the appliance
dangling in Bixby’s grasp.
“Ma’am, you must be mistaken.” He spoke calmly but firmly. “As you can
see, this one has the hotel name clearly marked on the handle. Now, as for the soap
dish—” He poked the toe of his perfectly shined Oxford at the aforementioned
bathroom accessory where it lay half-hidden under a flutter of hotel stationery.
“Don’t you dare go through my personal belongings!” Bella clawed her way
up the side of the bed. As she gained the summit, her fingers closed upon a little
bottle of shampoo, one of about three dozen scattered over the sheets of the
unmade bed. (It would stay unmade, in its present condition: The blanket and duvet
were across the room, spilling out of the suitcase.) “I suppose now you’re going to