Andrea drew in a deep breath and forced down the unproductive thoughts. Her mother was gone, and whatever hopes she’d had for her daughter had gone with her. Maybe it was for the best. It would have broken her heart to see her younger child abandon the beliefs that had sustained her through her own trials.
She straightened her jacket, extended the handle of her rolling suitcase, and mentally prepared herself for what awaited her. Today was the day she would turn this whole mess around. She’d close this deal, and then she’d be back on the fast track to promotion. She could forget this whole disaster in London and move on with her orderly, predictable life.
The bill had already been settled by credit card, so Andrea breezed through the lobby downstairs, her carry-on bag whirring across the marble floor behind her. The doorman opened the glass door for her, and she stepped outside to find a black sedan at the curb, a uniformed driver waiting casually by the rear bumper.
He strode toward her with a polite nod. “Ms. Sullivan, may I take your bag?”
Andrea handed it to him with a smile and followed him to the curb. Then the car’s back door opened, and James MacDonald stepped out, wearing a broad smile. “Good morning.”
She faltered, her smile slipping at the sudden lurch in her chest. Somehow it had never occurred to her that he would be in the car—the car she had kept waiting for twenty-five minutes.
There went her plan to use the trip to the airport to prepare her pitch. There would be no thought-gathering now, not when those thoughts solely consisted of how attractive he looked in his impeccably tailored charcoal suit and crisp white shirt. Rather than dwell on those details, she focused on the two paper cups he held. “You brought coffee?”
“Call it a peace offering.” He held one out. “After a long night of research, I figured you’d take yours black.”
“Clever.” He would rub in last night’s faux pas. Still, she took the offered cup—no doubt already cold—while the driver placed her suitcase in the trunk of the sedan.
James stepped out of her way and gestured toward the car. “Shall we?”
She slid into the backseat, and he closed the door behind her before circling around to the other side. She settled her shoulder bag on the floor next to her feet and laid her wool overcoat on the seat between them.
The rear of the car seemed roomy enough until he climbed in the other side and shut the door behind him. She slid away an inch or two and jerked her head to indicate the vehicle. “Yours?”
“Hired. I don’t keep a car in London.”
“And I suppose you know my flight the same way you knew my hotel?”
He flashed a grin. “I’m very efficient.”
Andrea sipped her tepid coffee and looked out the window as the sedan pulled away from the curb. She’d have to stay on guard against that smile. He used it like a weapon, and no doubt it slew females by the dozens. She’d already fallen victim to it once. “So, Mr. MacDonald, tell me what you have planned for us today.”
“Mr. MacDonald? Are we so formal? I thought we were on a first-name basis now, after I complimented your legs.”
She whipped her head toward him and then cursed herself for letting him catch her off guard again. “If I recall, you noticed my skirt and my shoes. Legs were never mentioned.”
“They were implied. Just like you implied I was a self-indulgent playboy.”
“You are a self-indulgent playboy.” The words came out before she could think better of them. She softened her tone and added, “But that has nothing to do with your business sense. I did my research. You don’t get to this place in life at thirty-five without hard work and vision. It’s impressive.”
Surprise flickered across his face. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now, you didn’t answer my question. This would go a lot more smoothly if I knew exactly what you expected from me.”
“This was Ian’s idea. Frankly, I’ve no idea what you’re doing here.”
Andrea blinked. “Who’s Ian?”
“My chief operations officer. He owns a one-third interest in the hotel, and he took it upon himself to set this up.”
Andrea’s heart sank. Great. No wonder James was so resistant to treating her like a colleague. “If you don’t want me here, why go to all this effort?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t want you here.” The twinkle in his eye raised warning flags. “I just said it was Ian’s idea. Why don’t you tell me exactly what you hope to accomplish?”
She straightened in the seat and smoothed her jacket. No chance she would let some internal corporate power struggle ruin this for her. “Morrison Hospitality Consulting is a boutique firm specializing in unique, historic properties. Our clients rank among the most impressive hoteliers in the world, including Excelsior Properties and Hôtel du Soleil, but we also work with other smaller, more focused—”
“I know all that,” James said. “I read the website last night. I want to know why you are here. You, specifically.”
Very well, she could deal with straightforward. “I’m here to evaluate your hotel’s needs, from infrastructure to marketing and competitive analysis. Before I leave, I’ll provide a detailed proposal for the areas in which I think we can help you. I’m awarded 90 percent of the projects I bid on, and my accounts see a minimum 55 percent increase in revenue within nine months. In the eight years I’ve been in the industry, I’ve never had a client go out of business.”
“So if we contracted your company, you would be the one doing the work?”
She searched his expression, wondering if there was more to that question, but he seemed serious. “I work out of New York, but I would be your account manager, yes. It’s my job to make sure our team in London accomplishes what we lay out in the next two days and to ensure your revenue goals are being met.”
Now his expression turned guarded, the perpetual half-smile fading. “I’m not in this for the money. This is a personal project.”
Andrea nodded and swallowed her response, but she hadn’t gotten this far in her career by questioning her gut. “May I speak frankly?”
“Please.”
“You obviously know how to run a restaurant. But a hotel is another venture entirely. Most fail within the first five years, many within the first two years. If you’re serious, you need us. Your COO chose us because we’re the best. And out of all Morrison’s account managers, I’m the best. So if this is all just some bed-and-breakfast fantasy, you might as well tell me now, before this becomes a colossal waste of my time. And yours.”
James held her eyes for a long moment, appraising, as if he were trying to see deep inside her. She struggled to keep her breathing even and just barely managed to avoid shifting under his gaze. Then he smiled again, and it felt like the seat had dropped out from beneath her. “All right, I’ll give you a shot. If only to prove I’m not a dilettante.”
She nodded. “Fair enough. That’s all I ask.”
The twinkle returned, a sure sign he was preparing another onslaught of charm, but before he could speak, his phone rang. He shot her an apologetic glance and answered briskly, a smile creasing his face. “Hello, Bridget.”
Bridget? A girlfriend, maybe? A man like him would never be single for long. Which, of course, made his flirting all the more unsettling.
“No, that’s fine. I’ll be back in London at the end of the month. Just change my flight to Cardiff from eight to three.”
Not a girlfriend then. His assistant. Not that it was her business anyway.
She leaned back into the plush leather seat and watched him arrange his month, his tablet balanced on one knee, notebook on the other, phone braced against his ear. His overflowing schedule eased some of her concern. James MacDonald might like to tease and flirt, but he was serious about his career and the management of his business. He couldn’t fail to recognize the value she and her company bro
ught to his project as long as she could keep their relationship on friendly, professional terms.
When he hung up, Andrea said, “I’m curious. Why Skye? Why not Edinburgh or Glasgow or Inverness?”
“When we arrive, you’ll understand.” His phone rang in his hand again and back to his ear it went. “James.”
Andrea pulled a small notebook from her purse and jotted down a few thoughts on how to pitch her company—time sensitive, capable, turnkey—while James rearranged his schedule yet again in order to fly to Canada to judge a televised cooking competition.
He hung up his phone as the driver pulled up to Gatwick’s North Terminal. “Sorry for that.” He fixed his intense blue stare on her, the businessman gone and the charmer firmly back in place. “There’s no mobile signal at the hotel. Once we arrive, you will have my full and undivided attention.”
It sounded like a promise, but the wicked glint in his eye told her she’d be safer taking it as a threat.
Chapter Four
Andrea Sullivan was handling him.
James followed her through the sliding doors into the terminal. It was subtle, of course, and she was good at it. Most women would have thrown up an icy shield against him, but she’d probably realized he would see it as a dare. Instead, she was cordial, professional, and straightforward, brushing aside his flirtation with the skill of a woman used to being in complete control of every situation.
As much as he hated to admit it, Ian had chosen well. He had no doubt Andrea could do what she claimed. And maybe it wouldn’t be such a terrible idea to have an outside perspective on the hotel. It had been closed for over a year now, and his last look at the books had shown it hadn’t been as profitable as it should have been under his father’s management. He had a vision for what it could become. He simply didn’t have the time to implement it. Some outside help could ease his overburdened schedule.
They passed directly through security, where they both underwent the usual dance of pocket-emptying, scanners, and baggage checks with the bored calm of frequent fliers. Andrea shrugged out of her suit jacket, stepped out of her pumps, and laid them precisely beneath her coat in the bins on the conveyor belt. She absently ran her fingers through her hair and walked to the scanner in her bare feet.
How did she do that? He was used to the overt sensuality of the women he dated, perfect figures displayed in body-skimming dresses, their movements calculated to draw the eye of every man in the room. Beautiful and yet somehow plastic. Two-dimensional. Andrea Sullivan, on the other hand, wore a conservative business suit and still managed to make her most mundane gestures worthy of lingering over.
“Sir?” The security officer looked at him impatiently, and he hurriedly put his belt, keys, and watch into the bin on the conveyor. She was definitely a distraction. He reined in his imagination while the scanner did its work. Flirting was one thing. Entertaining thoughts of more was entirely another. Besides, he had plenty of practice admiring beautiful things from afar. Paintings at the National Gallery, for example. He’d never had the urge to caress a Rembrandt.
He chuckled at the thought of attempting to kiss Andrea, just to be dragged off by security. Unfortunately, that brought him around to topics he was trying to avoid.
By the time he passed through the security barrier, she’d already put herself back together and was waiting for him with one hand on her rolling case.
“Ready?” James tucked his keys into his pocket and fastened his watch. He followed her gaze to his wrist. “Don’t worry. We’re on time.”
A smile played at the corners of her mouth. “I should have known it wouldn’t be a Rolex.”
He glanced down at the timepiece, a moderately expensive Breitling in stainless steel. “What? You don’t approve?”
Her eyes flicked down him and then back up. “It’s exquisite. Just … telling.”
Telling? What exactly did that mean? “Considering we barely know one another, you seem to have some particularly strong opinions about me.”
She met his eye. “Oh, I know you.”
“Why don’t you tell me then?” He smiled and lifted his eyebrows in challenge.
“Fine.” She studied him openly. “I think you’re the youngest in the family. Always looking for attention, always trying to prove yourself. But you’d want to do it your own way. Something like banking or law would be too boring and too respectable. Now that you’ve made it, you don’t like to do what others would expect. Custom suit, but no tie. Breitling watch, not Rolex or Omega. I’m sure you could afford to live anywhere you want in the city, but since you’d be expected to live in a hip district, you’d pick something quiet and elegant. Mayfair. Belgravia, maybe. A flat, though. Anything more would require too much upkeep when you’re on the road.”
He stared at her, unsettled by how close she’d come to the truth. Of course, some of it she could have come by last night in her Internet research, but her tone said she was speaking off the cuff. She did read people well. “So this is how you establish a rapport with your client? By dissecting him piece by piece?”
Her mouth opened and snapped closed again. A shadow of regret—or was it embarrassment?—passed over her face. “Am I wrong?”
He let the silence stretch, and only the slight press of her lips hinted at her discomfort. He rescued her. “No, you’re not far off. Except I live in South Kensington.”
“Close enough.”
“I suppose it is.” He stole a look at her while they moved toward the departure concourse. Its complement of restaurants and duty-free shops rivaled a high street for variety and expense, but Andrea didn’t give them a second look as they proceeded to their gate. She seemed entirely too satisfied with her evaluation of him. Time to shake her up a bit.
“My turn now.”
Alarm flashed over her face. “For what?”
“To play our little guessing game.” He grinned and gave her a blatant once-over. “Let me see. You grew up someplace rural, probably barely middle class, and you haven’t quite gotten used to having money or living in the city. You’re the only woman at your firm, at least at your level, which makes you feel vulnerable. The men say you only got this far because of your looks, and you resent it, just not enough to wear dowdy shoes or hide your figure. No, I take that back. You dress in open defiance of the stereotype, because, as you say, you could close a deal in jeans and trainers. How am I doing so far?”
“Pretty close.” She dipped her head, but she didn’t look at him. “I grew up in a small town in Ohio. How did you guess?”
He softened. “Because you made a point of mentioning my suit, and you treat those six-hundred quid shoes of yours like you remember every hour of work it took to earn them. You don’t take things for granted.” Like you assume I do.
She nodded, a faint tinge of pink coloring her cheeks. He hadn’t meant to embarrass her. He had actually meant it as a compliment. Then she threw a look in his direction. “How do you know how much my shoes cost?”
“I spend a lot of time with women. I recognize Louboutins when I see them.” And Cassie owned a couple dozen pairs. He knew how it felt to be walked on by those red-lacquered soles—metaphorically speaking. He quickly shifted the direction of the conversation. “How many of these do you do each month?”
“This is my ninth one in thirty days.”
“And I thought I traveled a lot. From how many of those did you walk away with a signed contract?”
“Five. Two more are working their way through legal.”
“Very impressive.”
“I told you, I’m the best.” The glint in her eye was a clear challenge.
Oh, he’d unsettled her all right. She hated showing vulnerability and talking about her past made her feel exposed. Interesting. “What happened to the eighth then?”
“He offered to trade a contract for certain favors. My reply might have been les
s than diplomatic.”
“Meaning?”
The pink in her cheeks deepened. “I hit him.”
“Where?”
“In the elevator.”
James chuckled. “I mean, where on his body?”
“Oh. The jaw.” She held up her hand ruefully. The faint marks of a new bruise shadowed her knuckles.
A startled laugh escaped James’s lips. “Well done! Remind me not to become acquainted with your left hook.”
“That’s entirely up to you, isn’t it?” She threw him a mischievous glance, and he breathed a sigh of relief that they were back on comfortable footing. Though why it should matter to him …
“Wait.” James’s hand shot out and grasped her upper arm before he had time to think about the wisdom of the action.
Andrea jerked to a halt, spinning to face him. He blinked and let go before she could take a swing at him. That client of hers must have been completely daft not to see the danger in that expression. He inclined his head to his right. “You missed our gate.”
She glanced up at the sign, and the tension drained from her posture. “Oh. I’m sorry. It’s just … after the last time …”
The client had really spooked her. James had figured the man had just propositioned her, but maybe it had been more. Had he tried to force himself on her?
If that were the case, he deserved far worse than a bruised jaw.
He realized they were still standing too close to one another on the concourse walkway. In her high-heeled pumps, she could nearly look him in the eye, and that sensual perfume enveloped him again. Amber. Sandalwood. A hint of vanilla, perhaps?
The distraction made him lower his tone, speak more quietly than he intended. “I assure you. I am very capable of keeping my personal and professional interests separate.”
Five Days in Skye: A Novel Page 3
