"Evening, ma'am," Samuel said. "Looks like you caught the worst of it. Need a hand with your bag?"
"I've got it, thank you. Is Mr. Whitmore here yet?"
Samuel thought about the cars scheduled to arrive for the gala and the portrait of Daniel Whitmore he had seen on the staff television during the ownership announcement. He had no reason to connect the woman before him with that man, but he heard the name and answered courteously. "I believe he's expected later. The desk will be able to check for you. Straight ahead on your left."
Claire thanked him and stepped into the warmth. A pianist at the far end of the lobby was playing something light and familiar, and the polished floor reflected hundreds of tiny lights from the chandelier. The scent of lilies mingled with furniture polish and the faint smell of fresh coffee from the lounge. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine Daniel turning a corner and seeing her before she had time to say anything.
The lobby was filled with people whose evenings were apparently going according to plan. A couple wearing formal clothes examined a restaurant menu. Three men with conference badges argued amiably over a sports result. A mother crouched beside a little girl in a red sweater, trying to persuade her to put on her shoes. Claire looked at the child's stocking feet and smiled because it was a familiar battle in every airport and hotel she had ever visited.
She approached the front desk just as Tessa finished handing a key card to an elderly guest. Tessa glanced up with her practiced smile, but her attention sharpened when she saw the rain on Claire's coat and the fragile bundle in her arms. She was about to ask whether Claire wanted a towel when Graham Vance appeared from the passage beside the elevators. He had crossed the lobby after seeing the woman on the security monitor.
"Can I help you?" Graham asked, though his expression suggested that helping her was the last thing he intended.
"Good evening. My name is Claire Whitmore. I'm here to meet my husband, Daniel. I believe he has a room, and I may be listed with his party."
Graham looked down at her shoes, then at the canvas bag, then at the damp hem of her coat. His eyes did not linger on her face long enough to recognize that she was waiting for a professional answer. Instead, he gave a small impatient sigh and shifted his body between her and the desk. "The reception downstairs is for invited guests only," he said. "If you're looking for a public event, you've come to the wrong entrance."
"I'm not looking for a public event," Claire replied. "I'm looking for my husband."
"And his name is Whitmore?"
"Daniel Whitmore."