If I Had You

Book 1: Grand Russe Hotel

by Heather Hiestand

Genres: Coming of Age; Historical Fiction; 20th Century Romance

Synopsis

Inside the glittering walls of a famous hotel, an ingénue experiences first passion . . . As she stands before the gilded doors of The Grand Russe Hotel, Alecia Loudon is poised on the threshold of a profound awakening. It is the Roaring Twenties, and London is buzzing with opportunities for adventure . . . and indiscretion. The young personal secretary knows nothing of the ways of men, but a chance meeting with the hotel’s handsome night watchman sets her imagination afire. Ivan Salter has noticed the quiet Englishwoman and wonders what delicate beauty might be lurking behind Alecia’s plain clothes. As the handsome Russian draws Alecia further into the hotel’s luxurious world, he introduces her to fine food, cool jazz, and forbidden assignations. Their dalliance is tested, however, by a surprising link between Ivan’s family history and Alecia’s bosses. Tangled up in international intrigue, the lovers must decide if their sparkling new romance is worth the cost . . . Praise for Heather Hiestand’s novels “ One Taste of Scandal is a delicious, multi-layered Victorian treat." —Gina Robinson, author of The Last Honest Seamstress and the Agent Ex series “A fast read with a different view point than many novels in the genre.” — Library Journal on His Wicked Smile “This is definitely one for the keeper shelf.” —Historical Romance Lover on His Wicked Smile “A delightful, sexy glimpse into Victorian life and loving with two wonderfully non-traditional lovers.” —Jessa Slade, author of Dark Prince's Desire, on His Wicked Smile

Release date: September 27, 2016

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 274

Sample

London, midnight, December 28, 1924

Jazz.

The saxophone wailed and screeched over the piano. A trombone blared in, deepening the rollicking sound. Alecia Loudon’s foot tapped as a female singer sang the words to the newest tune from America. Underneath the music beat the sounds of the nightclub: cups rattling on plates, champagne glasses clinking, and matches being struck for innumerable cigarettes.

Alecia longed to see the action, but it was hidden from her on the other side of the nightclub’s rear door. Cocooned in the luxury hotel that shared the club’s wall, she couldn’t see the dancing. Styles changed so fast, and she wished she knew the current fads. Of course, the song had about as much relevance to her sex-free life as the dancing. “ ‘My baby don’t love nobody but me . . .’ ”

No, the life behind that door bore no resemblance to hers. She was a questionably modern secretary of twenty-two who’d never been kissed. Oh, but she’d thought about kissing, fantasized about kissing, daydreamed about kissing one certain handsome man here at the Grand Russe Hotel . . .

She pushed the thought away and tried the handle of the door. One inch to the right, two inches . . . it caught. Frustrated, she turned the knob again but it only rattled, metal against metal. Securely locked. She considered leaving the safety of the hotel, darting onto busy Park Lane at Hyde Park Corner, going into the alley where the main nightclub door was. But she wasn’t dressed for the nightclub.

Giggles emanating from a dark corner on the far side of the door stole her away from her thoughts. She peeled away from the wall where she’d been leaning, in what was little more than a service corridor between the nightclub and the newly reopened hotel. Even back here, the opulence of the Grand Russe Hotel continued undiminished. The tops of the walls were stenciled in a forest green and red-brown geometric pattern that reminded her of teeth. Colorful paintings of ballet scenes done by itinerant Russian artists dotted the walls every six feet, uniform in size and frame.

The hotel’s decorations had been inspired by The Sleeping Princess ballet performed at the Alhambra in Leicester Square a few years ago, but for sure, the couple on the dark velvet sofa in the corner were no Sleeping Beauty and her Prince Charming. The man in the clinch did not meet any masculine ideal. She’d seen a man who did, though, late at night here at the hotel. Alecia ghosted her way through the somnolent hotel in the wee hours, escaping her ever-present nightmares, while he protected it. A night watchman. She’d never spoken to him.

Dark waves of hair gave him a rakish edge. He possessed eyes of a brown that were closer to amber. Thick chocolate brows overshadowed his eye sockets, making for a fiercely probing gaze. Sculpted, full lips, the rosy bottom just slightly larger than the top. A nose almost too expansive for the face, but imposingly masculine. Angular cheekbones and triangular jaw with a mildly cleft chin. Golden sand-colored skin. A real sheik, though she was no sheba to find herself bent back over his arm and ravished. How she wished.

Oh God. The mere thought of that man, those broad shoulders and trim hips, six feet of masculine perfection, made her weak in the knees and damp in places her late grandmother had told her never to think about. She ought to set her sights on the kind of man who could take her to the nightclub, but her imagination hadn’t released the night watchman yet.

The man on the sofa though, leaning over the woman in the revealing champagne-colored French dancing frock, was the type to be able to afford London nightlife. Unfortunately, he was young, balding, stoop-shouldered, and tending to embonpoint around his midsection. The expensive clothes did not make up for this. The gleaming gold bands on the couples’ ring fingers told the tale. A Christmas season wedding, followed by a honeymoon in the most scandalous hotel in London.

The hotel owners no doubt hoped the complete refurbishment of the place, and the name change, would rescue their investment from the ignominy it suffered as the location of the infamous Starlet Murders of 1922, but even she, living then with her vicar grandfather and younger sister in Bagshot, Surrey, had heard the stories. With all the inns nearby, the London news could not help filtering in. Rumors of gin and cocaine and sex and sex and sex and, well, death.

Nothing like the quiet life her employers, Richard and Sybil Marvin, had introduced her to when they took up residence here at the hotel, though they, like the rouged and lipstick-wearing murder victims, were actors.

The bride giggled again as her new husband kissed her décol-letage. The man ran his tongue along his wife’s collarbone. Alecia’s eyes widened as his hand went up her knee-length skirt. Were they actually going to have sex, right there on the sofa?

She cleared her throat loudly, but they didn’t hear her, or didn’t care. The silver tray holding two empty champagne bottles and two overturned glasses explained why these two were in their own world. Drunk as lords. What should she do now?

When she glanced away, she saw him. The handsome night watchman wore his uniform of gold coat and deep ruby trousers. Black chevrons were appliquéd on his sleeves. All the buttons were gold, matching the trim on his ruby cap. Underneath the bill, his eyes narrowed as he saw her. He heard the moan behind her at the same time she did. They both turned to see the couple on the sofa. The woman’s marcel-waved hair was crushed against the armrest as her husband knelt between her splayed legs and fumbled with his trousers.

“Hvatit,” the night watchman ordered.

Alecia didn’t know what the word meant exactly, but knew his intent. Stop that, you sex-starved just-marrieds.

Her dream lover moved past her. She smelled birch oil. This was the closest she’d ever been to him. Though his coat went almost to his knees, she could see the contours of his well-muscled backside underneath the fine wool.

“You must return to your room,” he said in a Russian accent. His Rs rolled in a way that set Alecia’s heart to fluttering.

The woman screamed when she opened her eyes and saw the watchman standing not three feet away from her. Her husband scrambled to his feet, still fumbling under his jacket. Alecia could see the tops of the woman’s stockings, the lace edging on her camiknickers. She was too drunk to close her legs properly. Her husband finished fumbling and hauled her to her feet. Without speaking, the duo stumbled down the hall, past the night watchman, their gazes downcast.

Alecia still didn’t know if they’d ever noticed she was there. When she lifted her gaze, the night watchman was regarding her steadily.

“Voyeurism is not polite, even at the Grand Russe.” He said “is” like “ees,” so sexy. The word “polite” rolled off his tongue in a drawl. Heaven. Oh, he was the cat’s meow to be sure.

“I didn’t know they were there at first. I’ve been listening to the music.” She nodded at the nightclub door and tried to channel her flirtatious sister. “What is your name?”

“Ivan.” He paused. “Salter.”

“I’m Miss Loudon,” she said. “I work for the Marvins on the fifth floor.”

“I know who you are,” he said, each word clipped and disapproving. “If you want to hear the music, you can go into the nightclub.”

“I don’t have the right clothing,” she said, pointing to the long, shapeless gray frock she’d sewn herself.

“Mrs. Marvin must have trunks full of suitable garments.”

“Not for me. I’m just the secretary.”

“Myshka,” he said, his eyebrows coming together. “That is what you are.”

“I don’t know any Russian,” she said. “What does that mean? Are you really from Russia, or are you playing a role?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Do I seem false to you?”

“No, of course not, but you know how it is. Ladies’ maids and cooks and shopgirls pretending to be French, actresses pretending to be Russian. It’s all the rage.”

“The rage,” he growled. “Such a funny expression. When you’ve seen true rage, it does not seem so fashionable.” His gaze wandered to a painting of peasants in a yellow field, before returning to her.

She wondered if he’d been in the Russian army. “At any rate, Salter doesn’t sound very Russian.”

“It wasn’t always my name,” he said evenly.

“Ah.” She cast about for something to say, but words failed her. How could she stay with him, keep him talking, so she could watch the way his sensual mouth formed each word? “I fancied that staff was given a handbook of Russian phrases and an accent coach, that you’re really from Islington or someplace.”

He shook his head. His shoulders relaxed. “I was born in Moscow. But I am English for three years now.”

“There must be quite a story there,” she ventured.

A whistle blew in the distance. A summons? His gaze shifted back to the corridor. “I must go. Return to your room, please. It is late for a young lady to be wandering alone.”

She knew she wandered too much, late at night, but she had to wear herself out completely or she saw the submarine approach in her dreams, the Lusitania sinking, her parents’ drowned faces. He stood, unmoving, until she began to walk again, quick, nervous little steps. He escorted her as far as the bank of lifts, then continued his path toward the Grand Hall at the front of the hotel.

The lift operator let her out on the fifth floor. She could never remember which direction to turn. The pattern on the wall here, a thick red-brown line underscored by a sharply jagged stripe of forest green, had dots around it, like tiny green berries. A distracting pattern. Staring at it, she nearly stumbled into a fern. She blew a frond out of her face, then noticed the elderly woman standing behind it.

“What are you doing?” Alecia asked.

“Good afternoon,” the woman said. She wore a frightfully Edwardian costume, much too rich and decorated for 1924. And a straw boater. And galoshes.

“It is the middle of the night,” Alecia said carefully, not wanting to frighten the woman.

“Is it? I seem to have lost my way. On a garden path, are we?” She touched a frond.

“No, at a hotel. Is there someone I can fetch for you?”

The elder’s heavily-lidded eyes drooped even further. “Oh dear. A hotel?”

“The Grand Russe.”

She made a congested noise in the back of her throat. “Never heard of it.”

“It used to be the Grand Haldene.”

“Very dreadful place. One hears things.” She sniffed.

“Yes, well, it’s been rather quiet lately.”

“My daughter is a bit of an adventuress,” the woman said. “Too old for it, though.”

Alecia’s interest pricked. “Is she staying here?”

“With me. Daft girl. The younger set, all frivolity.”

“Can I see you to your room?” Alecia asked, since the woman seemed to be making more sense now.

“It’s just down the hall, ducks. Not to worry. Room 502.” The elder’s gaze lost focus. “Don’t know why I was standing outside. Probably didn’t want to listen to all that tee-heeing. And the cigarette smoke. So vulgar.”

Her daughter must be having a party. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Well”—she nodded—“good morning to you.”

Alecia didn’t correct the woman. At least she had her key out now. Alecia waited until she shut the door, then went down the hall to her own room. She had been housed in the valet’s chamber attached to Mr. Marvin’s room, since he didn’t have a man with him. Mrs. Marvin, however, had a maid, a grumbling, poorly-used person named Ethel.

Her room held none of the decorations of the public spaces. Only three pieces of furniture were present: a bed, a dressing table, and a chest of drawers. The chair at the dressing table had splinters in the seat, and a door connected her room with Mr. Marvin’s, which was not proper. She kept her side bolted at night and hoped never to hear him knock in the wee hours. Aside from marital fidelity, something she was not sure applied to actors, he was fifty-one, almost thirty years older than her, and had a luxuriant mustache that all too frequently had food in it.

Nothing like Ivan Salter. She sat down on her bed and removed her shoes, replaying their conversation in her head, reveling in his voice, just as sexy as she’d imagined.

Greetings from Peter Eyre.

The next evening, Ivan stood in front of a notice pinned to the employee board in the hotel’s basement. The place was a dank, groaning hive of activity. He suspected the scarred furnishings of the employee dining hall had been in place since the hotel was first opened in the 1890s, but the daily notices from the fastidious general manager were always crisp and clean.

“Now we are to man all the doors and still make our rounds to the second?” complained Ivan’s fellow night watchman, Norman Johnson, tucking his pocket watch away.

“Not you,” Ivan said, pointing to the day’s roster. “You’ve been assigned the top floors. Extra security.”

Norman squinted at the roster. The habitual expression had left premature lines around his eyes. “Who is in residence?”

“Some American businessman. A film actress. Lady Cubult,” Ivan recalled.

“Who is the actress?”

“I don’t remember. I don’t go to the movies.”

“You should. What else is there to do?”

Ivan shrugged. “Family, friends.”

“You have some? I thought you were from Russia.” Norman straightened his cap and licked his teeth.

“I came here with my sister.”

“The rest of your family still there, then?”

“Dead,” Ivan said through clenched teeth. He didn’t like speaking of them.

“Awful thing, the wars. My little brother died in the trenches, you know. Don’t know why I survived.” Norman sniffed.

“I should not have survived either. But we go on. We remember our dead.” Catherine. My parents.

Norman nodded. “I’m off to prowl the halls. Maybe I’ll be invited in for a drink. Someone must know who that actress is.” Whistling jauntily, he strode off.

Ivan went to start his rounds on the main floor. It was still terribly busy at ten P.M. because Peter Eyre was holding court in the glittering, silver-and-blue Coffee Room. The real draw, despite the gorgeous geometric wallpaper and stunning parquet floor, could be said to be the glamorous Eyre himself, wandering through most evenings, greeting the anointed, glaring at the out of favor. His eyes would narrow at times as he decided who would be paying the champagne bill for everyone that night, as if mentally calculating the worth of each visitor.

Eyre was an obscure fellow, about the same age as Ivan, and much whispered about in the dens where the maids and valets waited for summonses. He might be an offshoot of some German royal family. Or the son of an Irish peasant. No one knew. He hadn’t been to Eton or Harrow, but that crowd adored him as much as they were adored by gossip columnists. He’d sprung whole from the hotel the day it had been reopened. Who knew? He might even be the owner.

But Eyre wasn’t the ever-present figure that most intrigued Ivan as he left the Coffee Room and made his way through the web of corridors on the main floor. Miss Loudon, the little mouse who had not run away when that dreadful twosome were coupling on the sofa behind the nightclub. A woman who would not avert her eyes from sex and insisted on listening to jazz.

It would not take much to turn her from a mouse to a cat. She had the very English peaches-and-cream skin, large bright-blue eyes, and yellow hair. Classic beauty, hiding in a dress that was too large. A boyish figure that was all the rage. She could be in style if she wore red lipstick and cut her hair. A little paint, some money for better clothes, and she might be on the arm of some man, entering the club instead of skulking behind it.

He made his way past the Salon, the Reception Room, the Ballroom, the Restaurant, the Reading Room. The only trouble he found was a damp wad of chewing gum decorating the armrest of a chair, and two occasional tables that were missing their ashtrays. He made a note in his book and moved on.

By eleven P.M., he had done a full round of the two main floors of the hotel and had circled the outside of the building. Part of the duties of the night watchman downstairs was to keep an eye on the nightclub. Drunken dramatics tended to spill into the hotel.

After the previous night, he decided he’d better check the service corridor where the honeymooners had been canoodling the night before. He also felt duty-bound to make sure the carpet had been cleaned where champagne had been spilled.

“Excuse me,” said a man Ivan recognized as being in sales, stopping him by the lifts. The man had taken one of the rooms with a parlor set up with a display area for his wares. Garden products. “Can you recommend a place where I can get a plate of kippers this time of night?”

“The Restaurant is closed, sir, but if you go into the alley around the block, Maystone’s, our nightclub, is still serving.”

“But will it be edible? I know these places have to serve food to keep the champagne flowing, but I want a meal.”

“You can ask the hall porter to have sandwiches delivered to your room,” Ivan suggested.

“No. I don’t like to eat alone.”

“Flash your money around inside Maystone’s and you’ll have companionship soon enough,” Ivan said.

The man winked and moved off. Ivan wove deeper into the maze of service corridors. Rarely did he find guests, but when he did, they were usually up to no good.

And there she was, the myshka. Leaning up against the back door of the nightclub again, still in that same foul dress. Did she not know the Grand Russe Hotel was an elegant place?

“It isn’t midnight yet,” Alecia said when she spotted Ivan Salter coming toward her. She told her traitorous heart rate to slow. While he might be handsome, he wasn’t kind. She’d asked the Russian chambermaid who cleaned her room what myshka meant. Little mouse, indeed. An insult. She had thought him a creature out of a fairy tale.

As he approached, not speaking, she lifted herself from her slouched pose along the wall and straightened her shoulders. Pins holding her too heavy hair in its prim bun dug into her scalp. She needed to take it down and go to bed, but the music had drawn her. Better than a lumpy mattress, the Lusitania sinking.

When he was two feet from her, he stopped. His gaze wandered the space, taking in the empty sofa, and, oddly enough, the carpet.

“What?” she demanded, very un-mouselike. She had resolved to be as belligerent as a maiden aunt. “There isn’t a sign saying hotel guests are not allowed back here.”

He cocked his head. She wilted when he sucked in his cheeks, highlighting the magnificent structure of his cheekbones. No. He may have every blessing God might offer a man, but he was only a night watchman. She was just a secretary. Unless she was breaking a rule, he had no right to intimidate her. She would not be cowed.

“Say something,” she said very crisply, as if she was dressing down a young nephew.

His lips curved. She felt a sinking sensation in her midsection. How dare he look so knowing?

“Young ladies wandering about unchaperoned are looking to be kissed.”

“By you?” How stupid she was, to say this.

His teeth were exposed by his widening smile. The top row was perfect, but his two lower front teeth were just a little crooked. She fell in love even more. In lust?

“You knew you would see me tonight. I am the watchman.”

“Very well then.” She lifted her chin. “It is unlikely that I am looking to be kissed. I like to wander and have never been kissed.”

“Never, myshka? Such a pity. You are somewhat pretty.”

“How dare you!” Outrage bubbled in her lungs. She could not find any other words.

But the truth was, she could find another thought, even if she couldn’t say it aloud. She wanted to be kissed. By him.

Somewhat pretty? What a thing for a man to say, especially when he was the most attractive fellow she’d ever come across. Alecia had been in London for two weeks. No one had been remotely as handsome, despite the high-flying celebrities who came to the hotel. And he thought she was a mouse.

“Do you want me to dare?” he asked, his cap sliding slightly to the right as he tilted his head.

She stopped breathing. Was he teasing her? What if he said yes to kissing her? This had been a most scandalous hotel. Maybe the employees were meant to be suggestive. No no, of course not. They wanted respectability now, here at the Grand Russe. She studied him.

One eyebrow was slightly uplifted. His lips were so plush, so kissable. Sadie, her racy younger sister, would say he was born to come to a petting party.

“Mr. Salter.” She didn’t know where to put her hands. They fluttered at her sides like a pair of dying peahens.

“It’s closing in on midnight. Don’t you want to be Cinderella?” he asked, straightening his cap.

“Why would you ask me such a thing?” She’d lost all hope of belligerence now. Her voice had gone soft, betraying her.

“For all that I’m proud to be British now, we Russians have a passionate nature. We don’t always think before we act.”

Before she could say another word, he stepped so close to her that she could smell the cucumber on his breath. One hand went around the nape of her neck, just below her carefully coiled bun. She tilted her chin, her eyes closing instinctively. His thumb rubbed across her lip.

“Wind-chapped, myshka,” he chided. “You must take better care of yourself.”

Her eyes opened just as his lips touched hers. Electricity sizzled. She shuddered, pressing against him as the shock went through her body, feeling the heat of his mouth. His lips parted slightly and he stole her breath, inhaling her, as she thought, Yes, mine.

His eyes were still closed. He angled his mouth, deepening the kiss. Her hands went into that glorious hair, as soft as she’d imagined, but she accidentally dislodged his cap in her desire to have more of him against her skin. It canted sideways and he stepped back, righting it. His hands dropped away and released her. She panted as if they’d had a necking session, instead of little more than a peck.

His upper lip pressed against his teeth. “I am sorry I shocked you. It must be my boots on the carpet.”

“It was memorable,” she said, then chuckled in a way that sounded crazy even to her own ears. She blinked. “I’m sorry. You meant to be sweet.”

He didn’t answer her. Was he still tingling from the shock? “I will call you Cinderella now, instead of myshka. You had better leave the ball before your clothing turns to rags.”

She glanced down at her serviceable dress. “It won’t take much. I hope to buy better clothes soon.”

“You should be dressed to dance in that nightclub, not clean it.” He inclined his head to her and strode away from her, down the corridor, whistling.

She still didn’t know what to do with her hands. They twisted at the wrists. She put them to her lips. Finally, a story to write Sadie about, something her sister would actually appreciate. Alecia Loudon, twenty-two, had finally been kissed. Even if it had not been a fairy-tale moment of bliss. Still, he’d been gallant enough. If only she hadn’t pushed his cap out of place.

Greetings from Peter Eyre, Ivan read the next day on the notice board.

Ivan’s eyes scanned the notice, but his brain had disconnected. Georgy Ovolensky was his distant cousin. Nearly seven years before, Georgy had been the betrayer of his sister, his parents. He might as well have been at the head of the firing squad that executed them after Fanny Kaplan’s failed attempt to assassinate Lenin. Ivan could see his cousin had used his betrayal to further his position with the present government. He had turned himself into Stalin’s lapdog. It had only taken him six years to shed any vestiges of his aristocratic background and become the model Bolshevik.

Did Georgy care that Ivan and his last surviving sister, Vera, had escaped Russia? It had taken them three years to make it to London and a new, more secure lifestyle. He’d just found work again after being sacked a few months ago from a failing, less prestigious hotel than the Grand Russe. Vera was engaged to another Russian émigré, and was catering in the Russian community.

“What’s brought that sour face on?” Norman asked, coming up behind him. He peered over Ivan’s shoulder. “No haranguing today, eh?”

Ivan nodded stiffly. “The Grand Russe is honored to have such an important visitor so soon after reopening.”

Norman flexed his upper lip. “If you say so. I’d rather have the film stars. You should have seen the number of bottles being delivered to Miss Dare’s suite last night. I had a little chat with her maid. Might have an in there.”

“Go. . .