Rebecca stood behind the front desk and smiled at the couple stepping up to her wicket. Both wore fitted grey suits. While the man looked incredibly ... debonair ... the woman reminded her of a movie she'd seen as a kid featuring an evil Headmistress at some boarding school. She had a sour look on her face as if she'd just bitten into an orange rind while her steely gaze was daring anyone to come at her. Meanwhile the gent accompanying her had the open, pleasant expression of a natural charmer. He had just the right amount of lines around his eyes as well, the lines that separate the men from the boys.
How men as cute as the one with her ended up those types, she never understood, except that maybe their mothers were the same. Then he winked at her and she wasn't so sure they were a couple after all. Not that she cared, she was happy with Frank, but flirting was part of business. Nothing put a damper on that faster than the kind of woman who'd just slapped down a Black Amex on the polished wooden counter and glared at her like a bull about to charge the red flag.
"David and Miranda Benson," she said with a curt sigh. "We each have a reservation for one fortnight in the Egyptian Suites."
"Ah, the one with adjoining rooms," Rebecca said blankly while she looked up their names on her terminal. Definitely a fake marriage, but why.
"Correct."
Who responds with just correct anymore, Rebecca thought. Miranda Benson pulled the black briefcase away from her chest like it had been stuck there with an electromagnet. She produced two burgundy EU passports from an inside pocket.
Rebecca studied the reservation on her screen. This was a woman who liked to dot all her i's and cross all her t's twice, at least. After taking down the license plate number for their rented car, she handed back the credit card and activated their room keys. "Rooms 1203 and 1204. Enjoy your stay at the Golden Dunes!" She then took two buffet coupons from the box she kept handy next to her phone. "On the second floor, you'll find the Paradise Restaur–"
Miranda snatched her key card, whirled around and marched across the gleaming marble floor toward the elevators, heels clacking like gunfire. David Benson stared as she wiggled away in her tight skirt, then smiled at Rebecca. "She doesn't handle jet-lag terribly well."
"Apparently not. Though I suppose you now have two buffet coupons if you happen to find yourself with more pleasant company." She winked and said, "You strike me as someone who enjoys women with a little more charm, perhaps."
He took her hand and kissed the back of it. "You are correct."
That word again. Maybe it was an English thing. The names were fake, but not the accents. Catching sight of his leering glance at her cleavage, she slipped one of her business cards under his key-card. "I have some friends you could call if you're wanting to make someone jealous."
He raised an eyebrow at her and said, "You look like the jealous type to me."
"I am a natural redhead. No one would dare try to rile that in me." She smiled devilishly, thinking. He might come in handy at some point. As sure as the sun was streaming into the glass atrium of the hotel lobby, his name was definitely not David Benson. He wasn't a cop, but he had the air of someone on that side of the law. Of someone who could easily step around the law when necessary. She slid her keyboard tray out and lifted up the plastic bar she used as a wrist rest. Beneath, she'd taped the roster of poker players for Yuri Yushenko's big game. Sure enough, his picture was on there.
David Benson, or whoever he was, rapped the cards on her counter, winked and said, "I suppose I'll go see what caliber of room service this place has to offer."
"Enjoy your stay!" The corners of her lips curled up and she waved to him, then nodded to the next pair of customers in line.