<i>The Ritz</i> and it's surroundings had opened a whole new set of doors for Jameson. Not just in his personal life, but professionally as well. Originally, it was <i>business</i> that brought him to London. He reflects on the circumstances as he parades through the now <i>redesigned</i> lobby of the members-only hotel. Almost nothing is as he remembered. The tall pillars that broke up the wide opened floors were now dressed in what looked like stainless steel. The front desk remained as extravagant as it ever was, having been carved out of the highest quality wood on this side of the Atlantic- no doubt from trees of a forest older than this part of London.

Elouise had come along with him the <i>third</i> time he'd been here. He had extended the invitation and at that time didn't think that anything could have gone <i>awry</i>. He would need to spend an hour or two in a meeting with his contacts, but then he'd be free for the rest of the weekend and him and Elouise would have ample time to spend together.

There were too many moving parts, and eventually, the cogs had trouble turning.

The meeting with his contacts was a disaster. One of his oldest partners had taken off and sent a replacement. She was a beautiful woman, he could not deny that. But the game she was playing was one that Jameson had played himself many times before. He wasn't suseptible to her charms, or the curtain she'd tried to pull over his eyes. Her organization and Jameson had an <i>agreement</i>, and there was nothing that was going to keep him from securing the delivery of sedated vampires to his laboratory.

Nothing except, maybe, Elouise Warrock.

The woman had become irate. She demanded answers. Jameson couldn't fault her for that, especially when he'd kept her in the dark about the majority of his occupational undercrust. Maybe he should have thought better of bringing her along with him. But then, what came next would never have comed to fruition. Or maybe it's one of those things that <i>always</i> would have happened. What's that word romantics use? <i>Destiny</i>?

Who knows.

Jameson didn't bother stopping at the front desk to check in. It wouldn't do him any good as he didn't have a reservation, and honestly it didn't matter. Whether he was allowed to have access to <b>the</b> room or not wouldn't stop him getting inside. It's occupancy would only end in agony for whatever poor soul had overpaid for the 'magnificent' view of the skyline.

He used to think it was beautiful, too, until he'd seen into some of the lesser known corners of the world. He'd come to realize that the litter of tall buildings weren't a view at all, but an obstruction. But we're not here to wade through the half-hearted opinions of an  senseless vampire.

Slipping through the pillars unchecked (thanks in part to the expertly tailored suit that screamed <i>I spent too much money on this</i>), Jameson made his way to where the elevators waited in the lobby. One of them would take you to any floor between the ground and the fifth. The second elevator would bring you between the sixth and seventh floors- and that's where Jameson was headed. <b>The Piccadilly Suite</b>. If the room had remained the same as he remembered, it's high ceilings and crown moldings would give way to the belly of a larger-than-necessary lounging space; it's antique furnishings nearly as old as the building itself. What he remembered finding so delightful about this suite was not it's glass surfaces, or the victorian upolstery. Not the bedding that made him feel like he was sleeping on a cloud (but was god-awful tacky). Not the marble bathroom.

But the tiny touches of blue that were dropped into the Tiffany stained glass windows.. The swirls of cerulean that exploded against the cream colored curtains in the bedroom.. The velvet chairs that stunned in a magnificent shade of royal blue- All of these things reminded him of the way Elouise' eyes looked under that last bit of sunlight on the first night they'd spend together in Bloemfontein. The way they brightened whenever Jameson came into her line of vision. These were the things that had intrigued him the most about this room originally.

Now it only served to remind him that mortal life is fickle and finite.

Jameson adjusted the black <i>business bag</i> whos strap had been slung over his shoulder. His fingers tighten only briefly, before they loosen to allow his thumb to hook beneath the leather strap. Quick strides carry him into the second elevator, where he'd make his way up to the sixth floor. It wasn't the penthouse suite, but it was as close and he preferred at the time. There was more than enough room for <i>four people</i> with the Picadilly's two bedrooms- Emerson and Jason tagging along, of course, as they often did since the four of them were a blurred saturation of questionable friendship. The bells and whistles were abso<i>lutely</i> a way for Jameson to assert his financial dominance. Little did he know then that the dramatics and flair didn't matter to Elouise as much as he thought they would.

Looking back now, he thinks the whole attempt at courtship to be uncalled for.

The elevator <i>ding</i>s, and soon Jameson is staring down a long and lavish hallway; freshly polished stone floors beneath his feet guiding him along. The suites didn't have numbers but rather, they were marked by their names in an elegant script that was scrawled across a moniker over the top of the door. The indication wouldn't mater, since he remembered exactly where the room was, but his dark irises grazed over them anyway once he'd stopped and knocked three times on the door.

Everything was electronic in 2018. With cell phones and the internet, it was almost unheard of that someone unannounced would be knocking on the door of your suite in the middle of the day. But common courtesy says you <i>have</i> to answer. Especially with the kind of money that affords you such a luxurious accomodation. Manners in Europe were, of course, more heavily developed than they had been in the states.

<i>Hello?</i> A feminine voice peeks first from the opened crack of the door, followed by a face and then an entire body- revealed slowly as the suites inhabitant was (rightfully) wary. Jameson can hear the steady thrumming of her heart picking up its pace.

"Terribly sorry to bother you, madam." He speaks with his best English accent, though the Polish drawl to his words is impossible to hide. At best, he sounds like a transfer, but still passable as management. "There seems to be an issue with the alarm on the west bay window. I need to make sure the latching is secure. I wont be but a moment."

The young woman seemed to accept Jamesons reasoning after sizing him up (considerably). The plush wool of his fabric and the thick leather of his brogues had apparently spoke volumes to his credibility. After all,