“They are nervous.”
One corner of his mouth twitched.
That answer told him more than if she had complained.
Before he could say anything else, the hotel’s operations manager burst through the side door.
Paul Mercer was one of those men who treated posture like a management philosophy.
His hair was slick, his jaw tight, his tie too bright for serious taste.
He took one look at Madison in the room and went rigid with outrage.
“What are you doing?” he snapped.
He crossed the carpet fast, as if the sight of a housekeeper standing near executives offended him on a spiritual level.
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