CHAPTER THREE

I step out of the Mercedes, and the crisp nighttime air feels charged with anticipation. Dante's overcoat, which I’ve wrapped around myself for heat, swishes with a satisfying weight. The Beverly Wilshire Hotel looms in front of me, its façade glittering with heaps of tiny white lighting. The flags flutter gently beneath the spotlights, adding a touch of drama to the scene.

The valet opens my door with a courteous nod, and Dante arms over the keys. His actions are clean, almost rehearsed, as he guides me closer to the doorway. I try to play it cool; however, my eyes are extensive, taking in the luxury that appears to seep from every corner of this region.

As we step into the lobby, I’m hit with the sheer grandeur of all of it. The area is huge, adorned with thick carved timber paneling, and filled with the tender hum of voices and clinking glasses. It’s an unusual blend of opulence and intimacy, as if the walls themselves are whispering secrets. Men in sharp commercial enterprise suits and ladies draped in furs and glowing jewels pass via, every lost in their very own global elegance.

Dante, though, moves through it with the self-belief of a person who belongs here. His hand is a corporation on my elbow, guiding me via the lobby as effortlessly as he navigates the crowded streets of Los Angeles in his Mercedes. We attain the elevators, and he presses the button, his demeanor relaxed, like that is simply some other evening for him.

The elevator arrives with a tender chime, and we step inside. The Night Elevator Operator, dressed in a chunky uniform, greets us with a practiced nod. There’s an air of discretion about him, like he’s used to dealing with those who are effective and specific.

“Floor, sir?” He asks, his voice clipped and expert.

“Penthouse,” Dante replies smoothly.

“Yes, sir.” The operator’s response is on the spot, indicating that Dante’s repute here is well-established. There’s the best penthouse, and I can’t help but feel a thrill at the exclusivity of it.

The elevator glides upwards, and I glance at Dante, looking to gauge his temper. He’s searching immediately ahead, but there’s a diffused anxiety on his shoulders, like he’s preparing for something crucial. I’m privy to the burden of the moment—that is more than only a casual night out.

When the elevator doors open, we step into a hallway leading to an unmarried set of heavy wood doors. Dante pulls out his key with an effortless flick of his wrist and unlocks the door. It swings open smoothly, and he gestures for me to enter first.

I step into the penthouse, and it’s like falling into another world. The residing room is sunken, framed by means of large windows that display a panoramic view of the town lighting. It’s so outstanding that it momentarily takes my breath away. The sheer scale of the space is overwhelming, and I feel like I’m teetering on the edge of something grand.

Dante, alternatively, appears completely domestic. He descends the steps with a clean grace and surveys the room, adoring it’s his non-public stage. The fixtures are a lavish mix of Art Deco portions in tender shades of rose, gray, and lavender, and there’s a wall embellished with the comfort of stylized Egyptian figures. It’s a room that speaks of wealth and taste; however, there’s something oddly impersonal about it, too.

He picks up the telephone, his voice calm and confident. “Room Service… I’d like a bottle of house champagne and a bowl of chilled strawberries delivered to my room. Thank you.”

I remain near the door, my thoughts racing as I try to take in the opulence around me. Dante turns his gaze again to me, a 1/2-smile playing at his lips.

“Nice view?” he asks, his tone light but with a touch of expectation.

I nod, unable to discover my voice. The view is stunning; however, I’m too caught up in the whirlwind of emotions to absolutely respect it. I make my way down the steps to the living room, my legs feeling barely unsteady.

“I’ve impressed you.” Dante’s voice carries an awareness of amusement as he watches me.

I eventually manage to have a look at him, my awe giving way to a smirk. “No. I come right here all of the time. As a count of fact, they do hire this room via the hour.”

Dante’s chuckle is easy and actual, and he settles into a snug chair with a relaxed air. He appears entirely unbothered by my reaction, as if he’s used to such comments.

“Very suitable,” he says, his smile widening.

I begin to tempo across the room, nonetheless captivated by the view but trying to regain my composure. “I don’t get it. What’s a guy like you selecting up a girl like me?”

Dante leans lower back in his chair, loosening his tie. “As I keep in mind, you were the only one who picked me up.”

“You didn’t position up a lot of combat,” I counter, elevating an eyebrow.

“It started out to seem like a good idea,” he admits with a casual shrug.

I stop pacing and flip to stand him. “Well then, what were you doing cruising Hollywood Blvd?”

“Cruising?” Dante echoes, a thoughtful appearance crossing his face. “I don’t get to power tons in New York, so I thought it'd be interesting to device around and recognize a number of the local structures. I began sightseeing at the Chinese Theater after I was lost and ran into you.

Before I can respond, there’s a chime from the front door, signaling that our order has arrived. Dante begins to arise, but I wave him back to his seat.

“Eh, sit! I’ll get it.”

He settles, goes in reverse, and I make my way up the stairs to the front door. A waiter is standing there with a silver cart, a bottle of champagne nestled in ice, and a blanketed bowl. The sight of it all makes me experience it even greater out of my depth.

“Where could you want it?” the waiter asks, his eyes flicking in short to me earlier than returning to his expert demeanor.

“Down there, I wager,” I respond, trying to sound casual.

The waiter wheels the cart down the stairs and units it inside the middle of the living room. Dante stands and crosses to the cart, lifting the lid at the bowl to expose a dozen large strawberries. He chooses one up and takes a chunk, searching totally satisfied.

“That’ll be quality,” Dante says to the waiter, who then heads lower back up the stairs. He pauses nearby, and I catch his eye.

“What are you looking at?” I ask, a piece aggravated.

The waiter quickly glances away and exits, leaving me alone with Dante another time. I near the door behind him and head backpedal the stairs.

“I think he wanted you to tip him,” Dante remarks, his tone nonchalant.

“For one bottle?” I shoot again, feeling a chunk protecting me.

“I’m afraid so,” Dante replies, his voice laced with a touch of amusement.

He alternates up the champagne bottle and twirls it inside the ice bucket before lifting it out with practiced ease. I watch as he deftly pops the cork, the champagne fizzing up but not spilling a drop.

“So you’re here all on my own?” I ask, trying to make a communique. “Don’t you have a female friend, a spouse, or both?”

Dante pours the champagne into a single lengthy-stemmed glass and palms it to me. “Both. This is the house logo. I didn’t think you’d thought.”

I take the glass and have a look at it skeptically. “It all tastes the same to me. So where’s your girlfriend and wife? Sleeping collectively?”

Dante’s face darkens slightly, and he shakes his head. “My wife divorced me years in the past and is in Europe, I believe, spending my money. My girlfriend is in New York… spending my cash. Cheers.”

He drops the champagne bottle lower back in the bucket and watches as I take a tentative sip. The champagne is crisp, but I don’t have a taste for it. I look at Dante, whose gaze is fixed on me.

“Aren’t you going to have any?” I ask, noticing that he hasn’t touched his very own glass.

“I wish I could,” he says with a rueful smile. “But I’ve got liver trouble. I can’t have any alcohol.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You don’t ought to get me inebriated, honey.”

I take another sip, looking to cover my distaste. Dante’s eyes twinkle with a touch of mischief.

“No. It is similar to the scent. Fond reminiscences,” he says.

“Try a strawberry,” he adds, gesturing to the bowl. “It’ll deliver out the sweetness of the champagne.”

I pick out a strawberry and bite into it. The sweetness enhances the champagne higher than I predicted, and I feel a chunk extra comfortable.

“Better?” Dante asks, his eyes fixed on me with a mix of curiosity and leisure.

“It’s okay,” I admit, feeling a chunk more at ease. “Why didn’t your female friend come with you?”

Dante’s expression sours, and he shrugs dismissively. “I don’t recognize. Just being difficult.”

I take every other sip and permit a wicked smile to spread across my face. “She needs a brand new mink, doesn’t she?”

Dante’s reaction is tough to read, but I can tell I’ve touched a nerve. There’s a quick flicker of pain in his eyes before he masks it with a practiced smile.

“So now I get it,” I say, my tone becoming more playful. “You had a fight with Miss Mink and ended up caught here all alone. Suddenly, seasoned food appears like an amazing idea.”

Dante chuckles, his demeanor comfortable another time. “You put it very well. I’m a professional man, and I’d like to find a professional lady. Any greater questions?”

I finish my glass of champagne, feeling the moderate buzz of the alcohol. I set the glass down and met his gaze with a provocative glint in my eye. “So, wherein are we going to screw?”

Dante’s eyebrows carry slightly, and a slow, amused smile spreads across his face. “How about the bedroom?”

There’s a moment of silence, charged with unstated possibilities. Dante’s gaze holds mine, his expression a mix of assignment and intrigue. I’m struck by the abruptness of his answer, and a small snicker escapes me, a mix of nerves and enjoyment.

I glance around the opulent room, my thoughts racing. “The bedroom, huh?” I echo, letting the phrases linger in the air. The area we’re in is undeniably pricey; however, there’s something nearly clinical about it—love, it’s intended to impress in preference to be lived in.

Dante stands and takes my hand, guiding me toward a door I hadn’t observed before, tucked away behind a sleek, cutting-edge console. His contact is company but gentle, and I can’t deny the fun that runs through me at his assertiveness.

He opens the door, and we step into a dimly lit hallway. The walls are adorned with elegant artwork, and the gentle glow of the lighting fixtures creates an intimate atmosphere. We stroll in silence, the anticipation between us constructing with each step.

Dante stops in front of a set of double doors, turning to stand me. He seems at me with a mixture of interest and expectancy, as if waiting to see how I’ll react.

I take a deep breath, feeling the load of the instant. “And what’s at the back of these doors?” I ask, my voice a mix of curiosity and teasing.

He offers me an understanding smile. “Why don’t you find out?”

With that, he opens the doors, revealing a beautifully appointed bedroom. The room is bathed in tender, warm mild, and the décor is simply as top-notch as the relaxation of the penthouse. A large, plush bed dominates the space, draped in luxurious linens that invite rest. There’s a sense of quiet beauty, a cocoon of consolation amidst the town’s hustle and bustle.

I step inside, taking in the view. The room is impeccably smooth, with tasteful art on the walls and a comfy sitting region with the aid of the window. The scent of sparkling linens and a hint of lavender fills the air, growing a serene, almost intoxicating ecosystem.

Dante follows me in, finalizing the doorways at the back of us with a gentle click. He moves to the bed and sits on the brink, looking up at me with an expression that’s self-assured and barely vulnerable.

“So,” he says, his voice low and alluring, “what do you believe you examined?”

I turn to stand him, feeling a mix of exhilaration and apprehension. The anxiety among us is palpable, and I can’t help but wonder how this night will spread. There’s a sluggish burn of attraction and curiosity, and I know that whatever occurs next might be a moment I won’t easily forget.

“Well,” I say, my voice constant but tinged with a playful side, “I suppose I’m about to find out.”

Dante’s smile widens, and he reaches out to take my hand. His touch is warm and reassuring, and I sense a flutter of anticipation. As he gently pulls me closer, I understand that this nighttime is greater than just an informal come-on—it's a risk to discover the depths of connection and preference.

We stand there for a moment, the arena out of doors fading away as we are aware of each difference. The room is filled with an experience of possibility, and I can’t help but be surprised at what lies in advance.

Just as I’m about to make a pass, there’s a gentle knock at the door. Dante’s expression changes to one of slight wonder, and he appears at me with a question in his eyes.

“Expecting a person?” I ask, elevating an eyebrow.

He shakes his head, searching confusedly. “No. I wasn’t expecting something.”

The knock comes again, more insistent this time. Dante walks over to the door, and I follow, my interest piqued. He opens it barely, peeking out into the hallway.

There’s a brief trade with a person I can’t see, after which Dante closes the door, a slightly baffled expression on his face.

“Seems like there has been a combination-up,” he says, turning lower back to me with a touch of frustration. “I wasn’t expecting any site visitors.”

I can’t help but sense a twinge of unhappiness. The mood has shifted, and the anticipation of the moment appears to have been interrupted.

“Well,” I say, looking to hold things mild, “I wager we’ll simply have to make the most of what’s left of the nighttime.”

Dante nods, a determined look crossing his face. “Absolutely. Let’s not allow a touch of inconvenience to wreck our nighttime.”

He walks back to the bed, and I comply with him, feeling the load of the earlier anxiety still lingering in the air. We sit down collectively, the relationship between us still strong in spite of the interruption.