Captive Hearts (Hearts on Fire Book 2)

by L. M. Connolly

  His father broke contact to flick his gaze around the occupants of the long table. “Marriage works. The shareholders like it and the board is less edgy.”

  The two non-family members sitting at the end, didn’t move. Without them Ethan would have been even further outnumbered. He sent them a mute apology. Nobody else noticed. They were too busy trying to feather their own nests.

  The five surviving family members sat at the table, flanked by their children, at least the ones that had bothered to attend. The ones that their parents had ordered to attend, so they could outvote Ethan.

  His thoughts went back to that weekend out of time at the Woodward, still so fresh in his memory. He’d have told Scarlett anything and she could have used it without impunity. His instinct to trust her had almost led him to tell her who he was, but with an effort he’d kept his identity to himself.

  While he still planned to buy the Woodward, he’d decided to respect her request for a clean break. He’d stay away until the current occupants had left. Then he’d put a manager in charge of the necessary renovations and inspect it at his leisure.

  The existing two hotels were doing so well he could afford another, and he might have found it here in New York. He would use his time to inspect that and consider his options.

  “What’s impacting the bottom line is the lack of attention to detail,” Ethan said, aggravated into telling the truth.

  “I’ll cut you a deal,” his father said.

  Oh good, one of his father’s deals. They involved take-it-or-leave-it offers. His father prided himself on his negotiating skills, and actually believed it, but he was the worst dealmaker Ethan had ever come across. Everybody chose to leave his outrageous demands, so nothing got done.

  His father folded his hands before him, resting them on the pristine blotter he insisted on having. He actually had fountain pens, chunky, flashy gold things. Ethan couldn’t see the point. All show and no substance. But his father belonged to the generation where appearances mattered, probably more than action. The market slump of ten years before was all down to them, and their refusal to act when they could.

  Ethan wouldn’t take the same path, and he refused to agree to anything underhand. His family wasn’t above anything shady, as long as it turned a profit. He’d put paid to several iffy practices. Nothing against the law, of course. And now he had to do it again.

  “I’ll cut you one,” he said coolly. “You agree to pay the people in the kitchens a decent wage, and I’ll think about your demands. I’ve asked to see every contract of employment. I expect to find a valid certificate or tax number on every one.”

  The muffled, collective gasp told him what he needed to know. They’d been employing cheap labor, cash in hand and no questions asked. Probably illegals and underage workers, since they worked for nothing. He would stop that happening anyway. He wouldn’t compromise, but there was no need for his family to know what he intended from the outset.

  “How are we supposed to operate if we don’t employ cheaper labor?” his uncle Theo demanded.

  “We can do that,” Ethan conceded. “But we’re keeping it legit.”

  The collective sigh gave him a moment to collect his thoughts and move on. Reluctantly, the vote went his way on this point. Because they knew that Ethan would expose what he’d uncovered if they didn’t.

  One down. “Let’s get this done,” he said, motioning to the printed agenda. “Next.”

  “Next is the refurbishment of the London branch,” his PA murmured. “And the approval of the amendments the board has put forward.”

  Here it was. The replacement of the outworn fabric with cheaper stuff. The reduction of the menus to a few items using cheaper ingredients. Downgrading the staff where possible, replacing experience with new graduates.

  His excellent PA had provided Ethan with the details on the flight across. He’d gotten no sleep, but he’d worked out what he needed. Because what the board suggested was unacceptable, and no compromises would work. “What’s your deal?” he asked his father.

  “I want you married and with a family,” his father said. Just as if he hadn’t created his own scandals in his time. “I’ve got Willow Sarton to agree, which is amazing, considering the way you treated her in London.”

  So he’d locked down Willow’s vote. That brought Ethan perilously close to defeat, unless he could persuade her to change her mind. Or find someone else to tip the balance.

  Ethan was genuinely astonished. Equally, that his father would have the effrontery to bring up such a matter in front of the board.

  “Or there’s Violet Spencer.” His father spread his hands, as if he was doing Ethan a favor and nodded at his acolyte at the other end of the table, Violet’s father. As far as Ethan knew, Violet Spencer was a quiet, amenable woman, a society princess. Not his taste at all.

  His father shrugged, barely disturbing the carefully sculpted suit he wore. “Take your pick. Willow’s your usual sophisticated type, and Violet is quiet and amenable.”

  Both women had votes, and both women had relatives on the other side, the one opposite to Ethan’s. Ethan knew his father’s thinking. Nepotism ruled, and with Ethan married to an amenable woman, Dustin could expect to carry the board. And then blame his son for any fallout.

  On paper, it might be, except that would tip the board even more toward Dustin’s point of view. When he’d appointed Ethan as the chairman, he’d expected his son to fall in line. Why, Ethan wasn’t sure, but presumably Dustin’s sheer arrogance had led him to that conclusion. He really didn’t know his son at all.

  Ethan wasn’t budging on the repairs and the so-called economies, which were really a cheapening of the Noir brand. Not on his watch. “If you do this,” he flicked the paper disdainfully, “I’ll resign.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  Oh, but he would. But he’d prefer to be more prepared for the move. How far would his father go to get the extra money he wanted? “So if I marry, you’ll sign off on the refurbishment I put forward?”

  “If you make your case.”

  “Here it is. The London hotel is on Park Lane. It’s a flagship hotel, next to the Savoy, the Dorchester, the Sheraton Grand and the rest. If we go cheap, we’ll lose. We might as well sell it outright. Everything there has to be quality, including all the staff. If that is compromised, the whole of the Noir Group suffers.”

  “We could install a few of the budget saving measures,” his aunt Clarice pointed out.

  Her special punishment to her children was locking them in their rooms and depriving them of food. Some hotelier she’d make. “Maybe,” he conceded, choosing to leave paths of negotiation open. “We can go through them in more detail another time.” He turned to his father. “So, you’re saying that if I marry, you’ll sign off on all the London renovations. You know how insane that sounds?”

  “I’m sick of the leaks coming from your girlfriends.”

  Ethan was sure that wasn’t the only source of the leaks. But if he married, he could prove that to his father and, after all, his father had proved that marriages weren’t permanent. It could be a strategic move in his favor. He didn’t even have to make it a real marriage, just something on paper.

  When his father nodded, he leaned back and spoke to his PA. “Note that down in the minutes. The day I marry, the original refurbishments to the London Noir will take place.”

  Violet or Willow? Probably Willow, since she understood his world. He didn’t care for either. Willow was an intelligent woman, so maybe she’d get over her inconvenient crush for him. From what he’d read about Violet, she was a bright woman too. She had a degree from a great university with high standards.

  A temporary marriage would give him someone he could trust to keep his plans to herself—he’d ensure it in the prenup.

  He’d marry his father’s stooge and turn her against his old man, come to an agreement with her.

  But how fair was that to the woman, and to him for that matter? Bringing a busines
s deal into his private life? He’d have to play politics at home as well as here.

  For a few moments his mind slid back to the extraordinary encounter in London. That weekend in London with Scarlett had given him a glimpse of something else. He’d never known anything like it before, someone who wanted him, Evan, not Ethan Black, who took pleasure in the man beneath the CEO. Coming home, he’d yearned for more of her. More of that.

  Marrying Scarlett would be no hardship at all.

  A plan began to form in his mind.

  *

  The day after Evan had left, Scarlett called her father, and warned him to stay in Margate.

  “Jack will see us right,” Scarlett’s father had assured her. He’d only lingered there for an extra day. Returning, he assured her that he might still be a bit weak, but he was far from helpless, and called a friend. Jack Bartlett was a qualified electrician, and cheap. He wouldn’t have come as quickly for Scarlett.

  She’d need her father’s contacts in the months to come. She’d have to work extra hard, especially since she’d sacked the scummy cook. But that meant she’d have less time to miss Evan, or regret asking him not to contact her.

  She’d asked for a clean break because she couldn’t bear what had started with such passion to fade away into duty calls and an unsatisfactory long-distance affair.

  She just hadn’t realized she’d miss Evan so much.

  But she hadn’t wanted to go through the agony of losing someone again, the slow death of something that had started so well. She tended to be the dumpee rather than the dumper, even with Peter, the man she had once agreed to marry.

  Once her fiancé realized she couldn’t turn into the baby machine he wanted, he was off like a rocket. He was minor aristocracy, and he kindly explained to her that he needed heirs for the title. “Sorry, old darling, but that’s what I need.” She could still remember that. She’d been young and idealistic, and thought she’d met the love of her life.

  The last she’d heard, he was married with a stay-at-home wife and three kids. They’d probably had another by now.

  Scarlett tried not to feel bitter about her ex. Even though she’d told Peter she might be able to have a baby with a little medical assistance, he was still gone, the metaphorical cloud of dust kicked up by his feet blinding her.

  Ever since, she’d taken care not to get involved with anyone, and she’d concentrated on her career, the one she’d had to drop to come home and take care of her father. She’d chosen resort management, something that had always been her dream, but that was gone now. She wasn’t about to let the Woodward go as well.

  The banging coming from the cellar stopped, and feet sounded on the stone steps. Jack appeared. A small man with tousled gray hair, currently sprinkled with brick dust, he glanced at Scarlett, then at her father.

  Scarlett got to her feet. “Tea?” If she’d learned anything in her life, it was that workmen needed regular tea. Strong and dark, in a mug. She provided the necessary fluid from the brown pot set on the counter. Yesterday, she’d gone out and bought a camping stove, two rings powered by compressed gas. So at least they could have hot meals and tea, and they could boil water for washing. That made everything better. Well, almost everything.

  “Right.” Jack took a slurp of the hot brew. “You’d better sit down.”

  That didn’t sound good. Taking her own tea, she sat opposite him, and closed the lid of her laptop. She’d gone out to the café to charge it up. Pretty soon she’d have to go out again. But not for long, now they had Jack. She could manage a week of this, easy.

  “When was the last time you had this place rewired?” Jack asked bluntly.

  Scarlett exchanged a glance with her father. “Thirty years ago, maybe,” he said diffidently. That meant it had been longer. Her heart sank, and faint nausea stirred her stomach.

  “I can tell.” Jack scratched his chest, putting grubby streaks on his faded T-shirt. “That’s your problem. Listen, I can’t do a repair. This place needs rewiring. All of it.”

  “Can’t you do something for now?” Stephen demanded. “Rig something up?”

  Jack slurped his tea. “Nope. The rubber is rotten, peeling off the wires. This place is dangerous. And it gets worse. I’m sorry, mate, but I’m going to have to condemn the electrics and stop you turning the power back on.”

  Scarlett’s mood plummeted. It was already bad, having to say goodbye to her lover and then dealing with the results of the kitchen fire, but now—“How much will it cost, and how long will it take to do it?” Best to face everything head-on.

  Jack named a sum that made her feel faint. “And then there’ll be all the redecorating. I’ll have to channel out the plaster. I can get a man in to do the work, but you have to leave it a while to set, and then redecorate everything. While you’re at it, you might as well get the replumbing done, because you’ll only have to go through the whole thing again. And I’m no plumber, but it needs doing.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. But it’s a wonder you didn’t burn in your beds.”

  Should she ask for a second opinion? No point. Her father had known Jack for years, so he wasn’t a workman angling for more. Her mind spun, unable to take everything in.

  “Go and clear up that room,” her father said softly. “Then come downstairs and we’ll talk.”

  Yes, the guest room. By the time she’d done she’d have her mind wrapped around the problem.

  Upstairs, she surveyed the room where she’d spent two wonderful days. Laughter seemed so far away now. After Evan had gone, she’d made the room roughly respectable, throwing the bedcover over the mess they’d made of the sheets. A heavy scent lingered in the air, stale sex and the faint aroma of his aftershave, an elusive scent she’d never encountered before but now would always associate with him. She went over to the window and threw it open. Sash windows had a complex mechanism, and like most of the rooms it had failed. She had to prop it up with an old wooden coat hanger. Some windows were sealed shut by layers of paint. Safer that way.

  Turning back to the bed, she stripped it. Something bright blue fell out from under the pillow. A tie, which they’d used to play with. Now she saw the label. Designer, and not the kind easily bought at a department store. Maybe it had been a present from somebody. It would have cost more than his shirt.

  An image came to her, of Evan leaning over her, brandishing the tie. “Shall I tie you up? Or do you want to do it to me?”

  “Neither,” she’d answered, reaching for him. He’d thrown the tie aside and they’d lost themselves in each other.

  She shook her head, and stopped running the silk through her fingers. She’d have to return it to him. He’d miss something this special. Not like her, her melancholy side inserted, before she locked her sadness away again.

  Evan had been so much better than Peter, but then, Evan had never asked her to marry him.

  Maybe she should have persuaded her father to sell the hotel and start somewhere else with a clean sheet but with so many failures in her past, she couldn’t bear the thought of yet another one on her side of the balance sheet.

  So she’d done the opposite, and when he’d suggested selling up, she wouldn’t hear of it. Her family home, her last defense, her castle. She would redeem herself by making the Woodward strong again. She’d show Peter, and anybody else watching. She’d make such a success of her hotel that nobody would be able to miss it.

  Except it wasn’t working out that way.

  With the sheets in a neat heap outside the room, Scarlett took a detour upstairs. She got busy finding Evan on the internet. She’d just post the tie on to him, nothing else.

  At the end of twenty minutes, she gave up. She’d found no trace of him. Or anyone of that name working for his company. That was the kicker. There was only one conclusion she could make. He’d lied to her. Fake name, fake address, fake job. He’d paid his bill using an online company that she couldn’t trace. How many other women had he fooled doing that? And she’d fallen for it, she’d g
iven him everything.

  So he was right about one thing; she should never have let him into the house in the first place. Now even that wonderful weekend was tarnished.

  Downstairs, she met her father in the office for the conversation she dreaded.

  “We can’t do this,” he said bluntly. “We’ll have to stay closed for so long. The costs of the rewiring, plus the redecorating—we just can’t do it. I’m so sorry, my girl. I know how hard you’ve worked.”

  She bowed her head, refusing to let the tears fall. What good would they do? Since she’d heard Jack’s words of doom, the certainty had grown in her heart. “I know. There’s too much to do. If we can’t open, we can’t make money.”

  Her father shook his head. “It’s my fault. I’m so sorry, love. All those years, I could have had things done, but I pissed it away. Because nothing actually fell down, I kept thinking it was fine.”

  She couldn’t let him take all the blame. “When you asked me to come home after Mum died, I said no. I didn’t even check that you were okay.”

  When she’d left home to pursue her own career, she’d flown out into the world, and only checked back a few times. A few phone calls home and a visit at Christmas wasn’t enough. Consumed with grief after her mother’s passing, missing regular contact with his daughter, her father had lost himself in a bottle until he’d nearly died from it. And not told her, although if she’d come home more often, she’d have seen it.

  Life didn’t get much worse than this. But at least they wouldn’t be homeless. Opening the desk drawer, she got out the letter she’d shoved in it just before Evan’s arrival, the one from the estate agent. “This came just after you left on Friday.”

  Her father glanced over the letter. “Interesting. That will leave us with more than enough to start again.” He brightened up. She couldn’t tell how much he was putting on for her sake. Her father’s essential optimism never stayed submerged for long.