“No offense, Mr. Godfrey,” I said, “but I have no idea who you are.”
Eyes twinkling, he chuckled. “We can change that. I’m heading to Rodolfo’s right after I pick up my mail from the front desk. Care to join me?”
Not sure what to make of the invitation, I stalled. Rodolfo’s was the highest end restaurant at the Saint Angel, situated on the roof of the hotel. In no way could I afford to eat there, but the need to know more about Wolf Godfrey made me itch.
“What about the cafe?” I proposed instead. “It’s closer.”
He tipped his head to the side to study me. “Ah. Where are my manners? Lunch is on me, so you need not worry about the price.”
“Oh, I couldn’t—”
“Nonsense!” he sang, strolling off toward the Hamlet statue. “Wait right there, my love. I’ll be right back.”
“My love,” I muttered under my breath. When Wolf was gone, I whirled around and studied his secret elevator. Like the hidden closet in the ballroom, the doors blended in with the wall. There was no call button either. I pressed randomly along the seam of the elevator, but nothing triggered the doors. As Wolf’s halting footsteps returned, I had to give up.
“Shall we?” he asked.
“We shall.” I glanced at his empty hands. “Where’s your mail?”
“I had them send it up to my suite.” He flashed a gaudy golden ring on his left hand in front of the elevator. It opened upon his command, and he gestured me inside. “Ladies first.”
The lift was larger than I expected, and it bore no decoration.
“You could fit a horse in here,” I commented as Wolf sent us upward.
“Yes, I believe this was originally a service lift.” He set his cane directly between his feet and looked up, as if he could see through the ceiling to the sky. “It has another door that opens to the back of the hotel.”
“This hotel has a lot of history.”
“That’s why I love it so much,” Wolf said. “It has character. It has ghosts.”
“Ghosts, eh?”
He caught my eye and winked. “Or perhaps we’re all ghosts here at the Saint Angel.”
Before I could process that, we arrived at the very top floor. When the doors opened, I shielded my eyes against the sharp glare of the sun. We had emerged into a hallway made of solid glass. At the end, a hostess stood at the entrance to Rodolfo’s.
“Good morning, Mr. Godfrey,” the hostess said brightly. “I see you have a guest today. Would you like your usual table or something more private?”
“The usual’s fine,” Wolf replied. “Thank you, Hayley.”
Hayley beamed, picked up two menus, and led us onto the rooftop. I braced myself, expecting the classic Chicago wind to catch me around the neck, but it never came. The rooftop was bordered by high glass walls, practically invisible, that kept most of the chill at bay. Tall heaters stood at regular intervals to further warm Rodolfo’s patrons. Though I had no coat or jacket, I felt perfectly comfortable.
Every table in the restaurant was occupied, and every guest exhibited signs of exorbitant wealth: Rolex watches, Armani suits, Louboutin shoes, and Hermés Birkin bags. Rodolfo’s, evidently, was the place for Chicago’s one percent to eat, even if business at the Saint Angel was in decline.
“Here you are.”
Hayley presented our table to us, a booth in the corner of the restaurant, bordered by glass. The rest of the city lay waiting for us to lord over it. I could see all the way to the river and all the way down to the street. The sharp plummet made my stomach drop as I slid into the booth, keeping my back away from the glass.
“Don’t worry.” Wolf raised his cane and rapped it against the invisible wall behind me. I tried not to flinch. “It’s not as fragile as it looks. You won’t fall through.”
“You won’t get cold either,” Hayley added, setting a menu out for each of us. “The glass is heated.”
Tentatively, I let my back rest against the glass. Sure enough, a gentle warmth settled against my spine and shoulder blades. Hayley offered her arm to Wolf, who leaned gently against her as he maneuvered into the booth. She set his cane nearby.
“Your server will be right with you,” she said, beaming.
I opened my menu as Wolf settled in. There were surprisingly little options and no prices listed. Though I enjoyed cooking at home often, I didn’t recognize many items on the menu.
“What’s cavolo nero?” I asked Wolf.
“Tuscan kale,” he answered. “But don’t order that dish. It’s not worth it. Here” —he leaned forward and pointed— “You want that and that. Trust me.”
My mouth watered at the escarole salad and pecan-crusted trout he’d suggested. “Perhaps I’ll just stick with the salad.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “Remember, this is my treat. Order whatever you like, including drinks. Speaking of which—” He flagged the server, who came over to our table at once. “Morning, Henry!”
“It’s afternoon, sir,” Henry said. “What can I get for you?”
“The usual,” Wolf replied. “Make it two and add the calamari. Do you have the lobster bisque today?”
“No, but I’m sure the kitchen can whip it up for you.”
“Whip it up then,” Wolf ordered. “And make my friend a Blackberry Bourbon Smash. Trust me,” he added to me again. “It’s the best drink they offer.”
Henry whisked away to put in our order, and Wolf leaned back to study me. His keen grey eyes scanned me up and down, but not in a lewd or devilish manner. If I had to guess, he was as curious about me as I was about him.
We stared at each other unabashedly, and I began to notice more about him. The skin around his neck hung loosely. His eyes protruded slightly from his skull. He had unusually thin lips and a small chin.
“Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome,” he announced. “That’s what’s wrong with me.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“But you were wondering,” he said knowingly. “People always do. It’s a genetic condition that affects the way your body makes collagen.” He framed
