by Morey, Trish
His appraisal moved down.
Her cobalt-blue suit fitted her well enough, yet hinted at curves not quite revealed, and maybe, just maybe, if she sat down in the chair behind her that skirt might just ride up enough for him to tell if the rest of her long legs were as shapely as those calves suggested.
She remained standing.
‘Mr Silvagni.’
He dragged his attention back from speculation about her legs to her mouth—and those lips.
‘Domenic, please.’
She looked at him and for a moment he thought she was going to fight about even that. Then she nodded slightly.
‘Domenic,’ she said softly, as if testing. He liked the way she said his name. Her voice was warm and mellow and somehow her slight yet unmistakable Australian accent helped to smooth the rhythm of the syllables. She had the kind of voice you wouldn’t mind waking up to—now the desperation factor had gone from it.
‘Like other major hotel chains in Australia and, indeed, even worldwide, the Silvers chain is suffering from a downturn in occupancy rates. There just isn’t the volume of travellers to fill the hotels. The pie has shrunk and the pieces are smaller. Marketing might increase one chain’s share over another, but it’s a short-term gain and can be easily lost in the next round of media advertising.’
He shifted, unfolded his arms and dropped his hands to his thighs. Nothing she said was new. He’d been reading the same bleak news in the report that was still sitting atop his desk.
‘And assuming that your assessment is right, I take it you have a solution to this problem?’ If she thought he sounded doubtful, she was right.
She clutched her hands together and he noticed her long fingers and clear buffed nails. No rings.
‘I have an opportunity for Silvers Hotels, if you’re astute enough to appreciate it.’
‘I see,’ he said, ignoring the none-too-subtle rebuke. ‘And that “opportunity” is?’
She took a deep breath. There was no way he couldn’t notice, with her chest at his eye level. She had shape, under that suit. More than a hint now. There were breasts and hips and a cinched-in waist. He shifted his gaze upwards and was immediately rewarded by a distinct flush to her cheeks. How about that? The lady was shy.
He cocked an eyebrow, questioning.
‘Clemengers owns three six-plus-star boutique hotels, located on prime sites in each of Sydney, Melbourne and Brisbane, and was founded by my late father over fifty years ago. Many of our staff have been with us for over twenty years, some more like forty. We’re a family company that never outgrew its roots, its original mission statement—to be the best, to give the best, to the best.
‘This downturn,’ she continued, ‘has affected us of course, but not to the same extent as it has Silvers. You have to ask yourself why.’
Domenic didn’t want to ask, not her, but he wanted to know. He hadn’t read anything about this in that report and one of the questions he was going to ask his finance manager once he got hold of him was why he had to learn this from the opposition, when he’d expected a comprehensive report.
‘You don’t want to know why?’ she asked.
‘I’m still listening,’ he conceded with a nod. ‘You tell me what you think.’
‘I know,’ she emphasised, ‘Clemengers offers more than just a place to stay. Clemengers offers an experience.’
‘You’re trying to say that Silvers doesn’t offer an experience? We’re one of the biggest hotel chains in the world. We would never have got there if we didn’t offer the best.’
‘But you don’t offer a point of difference. You offer a fine product, a quality five-star product, but it’s not the same thing. Just look at your clientele, for example—’
‘What’s wrong with it?’ he interjected. ‘Mick Jagger stayed in Silvers hotels during his last tour.’
‘Exactly,’ she continued. ‘You have rock stars, businessmen, and tourists who like comfort. Clemengers, on the other hand, has prime ministers, sheikhs and those who appreciate luxury.’
He pushed off from the desk, strode three paces across the room and turned around. ‘So what are you offering, then?’
‘Simply the chance to share in the most prestigious hotel market in Australia. The chance to benefit and learn from our methods, so that you might strengthen the rest of your business. I’m offering a share of Clemengers.’
It was a crazy proposal and certainly there was nothing at all like it mooted in the report he’d been wading through this morning. And yet maybe it was just the sort of strategy Silvers should be looking at. Maybe that was what was lacking in that report. It was so much ‘same old, same old’. Maybe it was about time someone thought outside the box.
‘So what’s in it for Clemengers? I can’t believe you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart, to strengthen your own competition.’
She crossed to the window, gazing out across the vista of harbour bridge and opera house, ferry traffic and sails on a harbour that sparkled and shimmered in the early-afternoon sun, though he suspected she saw none of it.
‘You could say,’ she said, still facing the window, ‘that Clemengers has a small cash-flow problem. My father took some bad advice that got him into trouble with the taxation department. I had no idea until after he died that we even had a problem. Six months ago I discovered how big that problem was. The banks were prepared to help—for a while.’ She shook her head. ‘We were making headway, until the latest tax office penalty notices came in. Now the banks won’t extend.’
‘How much is involved?’
She looked over and rattled off a figure that had him raising his eyebrows. ‘That’s exactly why the lawyers advised that Clemengers be sold. If the banks weren’t interested—where else could we go? And yet the business is profitable—I can show you the figures to back that up. It’s just that the outstanding back tax and penalties have to be paid, and soon.’
She sighed and gave a wan smile. Right now she looked tired. Tired and so vulnerable, not at all the intrepid, risk-taking female who’d pushed her way into his office demanding he listen to her proposal. Her head tilted to one side as she looked up at him.
‘Clemengers has quietly been on the market for two months—why hasn’t Silvers expressed any interest? For a business looking for solutions to its own problems, I would have thought someone might have made an expression of interest, or at least made some enquiries.’
Domenic didn’t know. His Australian finance director had never passed on the information that the boutique hotel business was for sale. And while he may have had good reason to have discounted any opportunities the Clemenger deal might offer, why was there not even a mention of it in the report?
There was one way to find out. ‘I think I’ve heard just about enough.’ He moved to the desk, picked up the phone and dialled the finance director’s number. She watched him from where she still stood, near the window, eyes wide, lips slightly parted, as if she’d been on the verge of saying something, copper flecks in her hair suddenly brought to life. Did she realise how beautiful she looked right now? Was that why she’d chosen that particular spot to stand, with the sunlight washing over her in a golden sheen?
Probably not, he decided while the phone rang at the other end, she seemed to lack the guile of the women he usually associated with.
Evan Hooper answered on the third ring and Domenic dragged his eyes from Opal and focused on the wall, where those peculiar eyes—not quite blue, not quite green—couldn’t distract him. ‘Evan, what can you tell me about the Clemengers sale?’
Opal drew in a deep breath. For a moment, just a moment, she’d thought he was going to call Security and have her thrown out. Instead, she was still in with a chance. And he just had to see the benefits—there was far too much at stake for him not to.
‘And the finances?’ Domenic’s terse questions to the finance director were meeting with very long answers.
‘Then why?’ His voice kicked up a few decibels befor
e, on a muttered curse, he flung the phone down. For a second he stayed where he was, leaning his weight with his hands on the desk, his chest heaving, until he looked up at her and pushed himself upright. He swiped up his jacket.
‘Come on, then, Ms Clemenger. Or may I call you Opal?’
‘Of course, but—where are we going?’
‘Where do you think? You’re going to show me that six-plus-star hotel you’re so proud of.’
She motioned to the desk, the plates of food still untouched. ‘Your lunch…’ she said.
‘Leave it,’ he said, putting a hand under her arm and guiding her towards the door. His face turned to hers and she caught his scent—woody tones over a mantle of male. It suited him. His teeth flashed as his mouth paused to smile. ‘I want to see what you’ve got to offer.’
His touch was warm through her jacket, yet that still didn’t stop the shiver that coursed through her. He meant the hotel, of course. Why would she imagine for a minute that she’d seen something else in the dark, heady gaze he’d turned her way? Sure he might be a playboy, but he was hardly likely to come the playboy with her—she wasn’t the type, which was exactly the way she wanted it.
All she wanted from Domenic Silvagni was an investment, funds to ensure the future of Clemengers and its staff. If it took a playboy to save it, then so be it. Right now she couldn’t afford to be too choosy.
Deirdre Hancock was back at her desk when they left the office. If she was surprised or pleased to see them together, she was the consummate professional again and didn’t show it.
‘I’ll be out for the next couple of hours,’ he said as he surged by. ‘Would you arrange a car to pick us up downstairs?’
‘Certainly, Mr Silvagni. By the way, your father rang again. I told him you were in conference.’
He stopped dead in his tracks, allowing Opal the opportunity to slip from his arm and retrieve her folio from the chair where she’d left it earlier.
‘Did he leave a message?’
‘He wonders if you’re free Thursday evening in Rome. He and your mother have met a charming young woman they’d like to introduce you to.’
A noise like a deep snarl emanated from his throat.
‘Do you have a message for him?’ Deirdre asked.
‘No. I’ll deal with it later.’ Then he turned to Opal and held out his hand towards the lift and she fell into step alongside him. She glanced back over her shoulder and caught an uncharacteristic thumbs-up Deirdre sent her way. Thank you, she mouthed back.
He followed her into the lift, his size dwarfing hers in the reflection from the highly polished mirrors lining the interior. She turned to face the door, expecting Domenic to do the same, but he continued to face the back of the lift—and her—as the car hummed downwards. Her eyes sought anywhere to look but at him, and they sought refuge by studying the recession of numbers, which was altogether too slow for her liking.
But even avoiding his face, there was no escaping the raw heat of his proximity, the frank assessment of his gaze. Her body could feel it and responded, her skin tingling, her breasts firming, even as her eyes attempted to deny it. Even his scent, masculine and woody, seemed to taunt her. Try to ignore me, it mocked.
There was no ignoring him. But she could still show how unimpressed she was. Another time maybe she might have been intrigued, might have been attracted by the intense magnetism this man projected.
Another time and another man. But not now, not with Domenic Silvagni. Never with a playboy.
‘How old are you?’ he finally asked.
Her eyes snapped back to his. So that was what all the close inspection had been about. He’d been studying her for age lines. Given the adolescents he was used to dating, he was no doubt none too familiar with those.
‘Is that relevant?’
‘Twenty-four? Twenty-five?’
She straightened her spine, kicked up her chin. ‘How old are you?’
‘Thirty-two.’
‘Oh.’ Her indignation evaporated in the realisation she’d been churlish. He was only asking her age after all. It wasn’t exactly privileged information. ‘I was twenty-six in June.’
He arched one eyebrow high. ‘And neither married nor engaged. Why is that?’
Self-consciously she covered one hand with the other, even though it was patently already too late.
‘Maybe I have a boyfriend.’
‘And do you? I wouldn’t be surprised. You are a disarmingly beautiful woman.’
She felt the heat rise to her face and stared at the numbers—twenty-eight, twenty-seven—willing them to speed up before her cheeks were as red as the lights flashing their progress. ‘Disarmingly beautiful’—what kind of a backhanded compliment was that? But there was no way she was going to ask.
Instead she said, ‘I can’t see what that has to do with the sale of Clemengers.’
He spun back against the wall of the lift, head raised to the ceiling. ‘You’re right. This isn’t your problem.’
For a moment she was confused. Then realisation sank in. ‘The phone call,’ she said.
He nodded. ‘The phone call. My father thinks I should be married. My mother makes it her career to interview every finishing-school graduate or European princess she comes across.’
Opal was reminded of the women photographed with Domenic. Clearly neither finishing-school graduates nor princesses. So what did he expect? His parents were no doubt concerned he’d end up hitched to one of those photo opportunists. In spite of herself, she felt a smile flirt around the corners of her mouth. ‘I can see how that might be a problem—for someone like you.’
Her words snagged into him, their ragged edges scratching barbs across his consciousness. But if she expected that to put him on the defensive, she was very much mistaken. Notwithstanding his family connections, he hadn’t got to where he was by rolling with the punches. That was something Ms Clemenger was going to have to learn.
He swung around and took a step closer, cramping her up against the back of the lift before dropping an arm each side of her to the brass handrail. She was trapped.
He saw the fright flicker in her widening eyes, the spark of alarm that glowed red in their greenish-blue depths, and was glad. ‘Someone like me? That sounds very much like some kind of put-down, Ms Clemenger.’
But even as he waited for her response, something else happened in her eyes. The momentary flare cooled, a sheen of varnish turning them hard and cold and unreadable.
‘Opal,’ she said, only a touch shakily around the edges even though he could see the tightening white-knuckled grip on her folio, held up as a barrier between them. ‘I said you could call me Opal.’
In spite of himself, he liked the way she said her name. Liked the way her mouth opened and then pouted to form the ‘p’, widening once more until her pink tongue brushed her top teeth over the ‘l’. There was something very sexy about the way her lips made that word. Come to think of it, there was something very sexy about her lips, period.
If only her eyes gave the same message.
‘Opal,’ he said, his lips curling but a few centimetres from hers. ‘You wouldn’t try to put down the man who was thinking about saving your business?’
This time her eyes met his savagely. ‘And here was I thinking I was offering a solution for yours.’
He smiled. Those lips were so close he could just about reach over and sample them. ‘That’s not how it sounded to me.’
Now he had her nervous, her eyes darting from side to side, searching for escape almost as if she could read his mind. Her tongue flicked out, moistened her lips before darting back in.
‘So maybe you weren’t listening,’ she said, her eyes fixed on the wall to his left.
‘Oh, I’ve been listening,’ he crooned, ‘and watching, and wondering.’
Without Opal turning her head, her eyes found his before fleeing to fix on the wall once more.
‘Wondering what?’
He dropped his head even close
r. ‘Whether that mouth tastes as good as it looks.’
He dipped his head, banishing the remaining few centimetres between them. His lips brushed hers, catching her sharp intake of air, and tasted warmth, life and just a hint of sweetness, before the lift doors behind him dinged, heralding their arrival at the ground floor and then opening with a whoosh.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, sounding a little bit breathless as she ducked her face, pushing past his arm and out to the freedom of the richly decorated marble foyer beyond. ‘I think this is where I get off.’
He watched her shapely rear view as she fled for the safety of the foyer. She was some surprise package all right. He’d set out to intimidate her, not kiss her, but that didn’t stop him thinking about the possibilities of a second chance.
‘Lady,’ he muttered under his breath as he followed her, ‘this ride has only just begun.’
Chapter 3
She was a fool. Opal poured herself a cup of Earl Grey tea from the silver pot, watching a flurry of tiny leaves swirl and tumble through the amber liquid. She didn’t need to be a fortune-teller to know they were telling her the selfsame thing.
It was at least two hours since Domenic had pressed her against the back of the lift, had brushed her lips with his own and frozen her to the spot, and still she couldn’t think about anything else.
He would be back to finish his coffee any moment, after excusing himself to take a private call on his mobile phone, and here she was, still thinking about what might have happened if those lift doors had not opened when they had, when she should be thinking about how to convince him to invest in the business.
By all accounts he had been impressed with the luxury and sheer class of Clemengers, from the moment Sebastian, the doorman, had greeted their entry with a formal nod to them both, his top hat and tails setting the tone for the tour to follow. He’d appreciated the generous size and furnishings of the suites, the bold antique tones that decorated each room, their sumptuous furnishings spelling wealth, luxury and prestige, with not a bland pastel water-colour print in sight.
