Free The Oldest Sin by Ellen Hart

sign above the doors: hotel staff only.
     
    The man pushed the button then turned to look at her. “The name’s Morton,” he said, grinning and rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.
     
    She had no idea if it was a first or last name, and he didn’t elaborate. She smiled at him briefly, and then returned her attention to the elevator doors. For whatever reason, she couldn’t seem to rid herself of the feeling that something about this guy was a little off. Oh, stop it, she told herself. You don’t need your New York City radar here. It’s the Midwest “Here she comes,” he said, continuing to grin. His teeth were yellowed by centuries of tobacco smoke.
     
    Finally, the doors opened.
     
    “Your carriage awaits, madam,” said Morton with a slight bow and a wave of his hand.
     
    Feeling a bit put off by his silly attempt at chivalry, Lavinia stepped on. Inside, the light was garish, the interior utilitarian. Still, it would get them where they wanted to go.
     
    “The lobby?” he asked, his hand poised over die controls.
     
    “Yes, thank you.” She moved to the rear, her eyes drawn to her shoes. She should have worn her blue pumps. She could walk more quickly in those. Checking her watch, she saw that she was already five minutes late for her appointment.
     
    Suddenly the elevator lurched to a stop.
     
    Lavinia looked up and saw the man with his hand resting on one of the buttons. “What’s going on?” she said, feeling her body tense.
     
    “Don’t you know?” he said, all innocence.
     
    Oh, God, he
was
a crazy person. She could see it in his eyes. Why hadn’t she listened to the alarms going off inside her head? “Know what?” she said, backing into the farthest corner. Her heart began to race.
     
    “Didn’t you recognize my name?” He repeated it again, this time more slowly.
     
    “I’ve never heard of you,” she said defensively, staring at a stain on his undershirt.
     
    He seemed offended. “Sure you have. I sent you all them letters tellin’ you how much I was lookin’ forward to meetin’ you in person when you got to the Twin Cities. I been a fan of yours for years. I use your cookbook all the time.”
     
    She swallowed back her fear and said timidly, “Do you? How … nice.”
     
    “Didn’t you get my mail? Or the gifts?”
     
    She rarely read her fan mail. She’d hired a secretary for that. And anything from potential weirdos went into a special file. Her lawyer took care of all those. “What gifts?” she said, steeling herself for the worst.
     
    “The bonsai trees. They’re my hobby. I just knew you’d like ‘em.”
     
    “Oh … sure.” She tittered. “The, ah … bonsai trees.” Her voice sounded more strangled than thrilled as her eyes darted frantically around the small chamber. There was simply nowhere to run. She had visions of him chasing her around in a circle, like a couple of cartoon characters. “I… love bonsai trees.” She lied.
     
    “I knew it.” He moved closer. “I could tell from your picture that we had lots in common. That’s why I invited you.”
     
    “Ah … invited me?” She clasped her hands in front of her breasts, ready to scream her bloody head off if he made even the slightest move to touch her.
     
    “Why, to my apartment, Lavinia. I can call you Lavinia, can’t I? I feel like we been pals for years.”
     
    “Your apartment,” she repeated.
     
    “Sure. Tonight. For a late-night candlelight dinner. In my note I said that if you couldn’t come, you should just write and let me know. I’m a reasonable man. We could of rescheduled. But since I ain’t heard from you, that means you’re comin’.”
     
    “It does?”
     
    “Say,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “You’re not toyin’ with me, are you? I hate women who toy with men’s affections. My first wife did that, but” — his expression turned sad — “she ain’t around no more, poor old gal. It was a terrible accident. I’ll tell you