Marbella Beauty

by Oster, Camille

  “Mr. Dunbury, this is a surprise. Finding out my home address. That is not stalkerish at all.”

  “It is listed on your tenancy contract,” he said and moved closer. That contract would belong to him now. Cheryl pursed her lips in annoyance as he approached. His back was utterly straight as if it had been fused.

  Turning his head, he looked up at the house, which was doubtlessly modest in his view. “To what do I owe this honour?” she asked, stressing the last word sarcastically.

  “I thought we could carry on our negotiation.” Was that distaste she saw in his eyes?

  “See now, I thought I was very clear. I will not be shifting.”

  If she hadn’t been adamant before, she was all for digging in her heels now. She did not like being harassed, or pushed, or her opinion being treated as if it didn’t matter. She’d been there before and she wasn’t going back.

  “Come, Miss Waters, we are just starting.” He smiled, a handsome smile, which she expected typically got him whatever he was after. His eyes were the same dark colour as his hair, and she could see it wasn’t dyed. The men in Marbella were sometimes as careful with their appearance as the women. If fact, she had a few of them as clients. Barbers tended not to be experts with colour.

  Cheryl caught herself mid-thought, standing there with a bougainvillea plant in her hand. What the hell was she supposed to do now?

  “You have quite a bit of land, I take it?” he said.

  “Yes, land is cheap out here.”

  “Do you own this place?”

  She didn’t answer. It was none of his business, but it wasn’t in her nature to be outright rude. One of the boys came running around the corner with one of the water guns, spraying across Dunbury’s legs. It wasn’t one of those piddly pistols either; it was a proper spray of water.

  “Dylan!” she yelled, mortified. “It is actually worth looking where you’re spraying.”

  “Sorry, Mum,” Dylan said, dropping the offending gun down his side. Apology done, he took off again before she made him do something. She felt like swearing.

  “I apologise,” she said. Water might well ruin a suit like that, for all she knew. It was probably worth more than her entire wardrobe. “I’ll get you a towel.”

  “Thank you,” he said and moved with her as she walked in through the door. “It is surprisingly cool inside,” he said. He looked around the hall where the staircase was. Wildness exploded when the boys barged inside, screaming.

  “Out!” she screamed.

  “No, which one of you took my new shirt!” Grace yelled, leaning over the iron railing above them. “Stay out of my room.”

  “The dog pooped in the living room,” Zoa said, walking past with the offending gift picked up in a paper towel.

  The boys took no notice and ran past, Zoa swearing at them in Spanish.

  “Is it a bad time?” Dominic asked.

  “It’s always a bad time,” she said. “Perhaps you should go.” She took a towel off the folded stack sitting on the dining table and handed it to him.

  Pressing the towel to his legs, he soaked up the worst of the wetness. Cheryl felt embarrassed about the chaos in her house, until she remembered that he’d come uninvited.

  “My children are grown,” he said.

  “I didn’t know you had children.” She couldn’t imagine what his children were like. If fact, he seemed too cold to have been a father. Crossing her arms, she shifted between her feet, not exactly knowing what to do with herself. “Would you like… a coffee?” Only manners made her ask.

  “That would be appreciated.”

  Grabbing the coffee tin, she scooped some into the percolator. “Only old-fashioned coffee, I’m afraid.”

  Awkward silence stretched and he placed the towel down on the kitchen island. She was conscious of how decrepit her kitchen was as she hadn’t had the funds to redo it yet.

  The percolator made whiny, gurgling noises and Cheryl placed two empty cups down on the bench and waited for enough coffee to drip through. Then she changed her mind about the waiting. “Please come through to the garden,” she said, smiling tightly.

  He followed her out into the sunshine, and she led him to the small and round mosaic table she’d bought—again, something she felt was so very Mediterranean. It had two iron chairs and he joined her as she sat down.

  Screaming was heard inside the house and Cheryl bit her teeth together. “Dylan!” she finally yelled, “Let go of your brother.”

  “He started it.”

  “I don’t care. We have a guest.” How she wished this little impromptu meeting would be over. “They’re little savages,” she said to her unwanted guest.

  “Young and spirited.”

  “I’ll check on the coffee.” She was about to yell at the boys as she walked inside, but they’d had the foresight to be well away by the time she got there. Grabbing the coffee, she poured it into two cups and placed them on a tray, along with sugar and milk, and some biscuits. “Here we are,” she said as she returned outside.

  “Can I go into town?” Grace said, appearing in the doorway.

  “If you wait an hour, I can probably take you,” Cheryl sighed. Grace disappeared again. “Sorry, you were saying? As you can see, this is not a fantastic place to have business discussions, but since you came all the way out here, why don’t we settle this once and for all? I’m not budging. You can take me to court. We discussed the constraints between my money and your time.”

  “Obviously, I can make your financial situation easier.”

  “But at considerable risk to my business. And frankly, I want my business the way it is more than I want your money, Mr. Dunbury.”

  “Please, call me Dominic.”

  Cheryl was certain she was supposed to be charmed right out of her socks. Charming men were dangerous—she’d fallen for one of those before.

  “There is land everywhere here in Marbella. There is no reason on God’s green earth you need to pick my spot.”

  “You are being illogical.”

  “Illogical?” she repeated, struggling to contain the fury bubbling up in her. “Illogical is buying a lot contracted to someone else. Don’t you have people who advise you against such stupid decisions? Well, it was a bad investment, Mr. Dunbury, and you can wear it. I’m not moving. End of story. I think you should leave.”

  He sat there with his legs crossed to the side, cool as a cucumber as if her tirade meant nothing to him. “And has no one ever told you, it’s rude to turn up at someone’s house unannounced?” she finished.

  “The offer I’ll make you is more than generous. In fact, you may never see money like it again.”

  “Not everything in the world is about money. Have you never understood that?”

  “My experience is to the contrary.”

  “Well, you can contrary yourself right off my property.”

  “My understanding is that this property belongs to Mr. Olivando.”

  “If you knew that, why did you ask if I own this place?”

  “To see how you’d respond.”

  “Well, here’s how I respond. I don’t like people who play games. They’re not my kind of people. Goodbye. I am sure you can manage to see yourself out. Don’t let the dog bowl you over on the way.” Marching inside, she closed the door and bolted it, leaving him still sitting in the garden. There was only so much she was willing to put up with.

  Chapter 22

  Paul stood in front of a buffet table full of canapés on silver platters. They were at yet another cocktail party. Rosalie was chatting with some man Paul didn’t know.

  “Ah, Professor Wilkes, it’s so good to see you here. I hear such good things about your lectures from my niece,” a woman said, approaching him.

  “Thank you for saying so,” Paul said, fighting the embarrassment of being complimented.

  “It is so nice you could come to the party.”

  “An absolutely beautiful house you have,” Paul said, looking around at the
artwork on the white walls. Everything was very tastefully done and judging from the woman’s dress, a Mrs. Jerriminch, the décor was not created by her. But taste could be bought in Marbella, along with seemingly everything else.

  The woman smiled and clasped her hands together, surveying the canapés. “We have a new chef tonight, trained with Gordon Ramsey. Fabulous young man. So innovative, and these little creations are simply divine. You much try the coconut mouse and ceviche tarts. The coconut is the first fruit from virgin trees in Madagascar. Not to be confused with virgin oil, which is common as dust, but actual virgin trees. It’s their very first fruit.

  “And those little biscuits there are an utter treat. That is caramelised Galapagonese capcicum—exceedingly rare. Quite spicy, but utterly divine. Before today, I didn’t even know they existed, and I’m sure no one on the coast has served them before.”

  “That is interesting,” Paul said, picking up one of the coconut and ceviche tarts. It tasted very tropical, but the coconut tasted like every other coconut he’d ever tasted before. No doubt it was a thousand percent more expensive due to the virgin fruit from Madagascar. And capsicum from Galapagos; it seemed utterly insane the distances this food had come from. The woman was seeking his approval, though, and he moaned in appreciation as if right on cue.

  It seemed at every party, something had to be more extreme than whatever other people had. At one party, jugglers from Mongolian had been flown in for the partygoers’ entertainment.

  “You must let me introduce you,” she said, urging him away from the table. “Have you got a drink?”

  “Yes, I’m well-furnished on that account.”

  “Wonderful, oh, let me introduce you to Cynthia Church and this is Alice Cavandish.”

  Paul smiled and shook hands with the women. His attention settled on Alice Cavandish, who had very lovely eyes—kind eyes. She was pretty, with light brown hair cut just below her jawline.

  Alice smiled and shook his hand in a non-committed handshake.

  “This is Professor Paul Wilkes, one of the esteemed professors at the business school. Bella is studying there this year and she finds all the courses interesting.”

  “What do you specialise in?” the other woman, Cynthia, asked. Her nose was sharp and long, almost like a dorsal fin.

  “Strategic management,” he said.

  “Ah. Fascinating.”

  “Have you been in Marbella long?”

  “Over a year now.”

  “So you’re one of the new arrivals,” Cynthia said with distaste. “There are so many people moving in now, it is hard to keep track. Things are changing so fast. I grew up here, you see. We came every winter when I was a child. Do you have any family tradition with Marbella?”

  “No, I’m afraid it’s an academic posting.”

  “Kind of like the church will post clergymen around the country?”

  “No, it’s more like receiving offers. My family is from Oxford.”

  “I see—academics,” she said with exaggerated eyebrows that rendered her with a look more like intense surprise.

  “Yes, you could say so.”

  “You don’t live that far from there, do you, Alice? Or was that before you split from that dreadful husband? I understand Roger is running around with some tart these days.”

  Alice looked mortified and Paul felt embarrassed for her. He tried to think of something to say. “I tried that capsicum from Galapagos. I have to admit, I’ve never eaten anything from Galapagos before—quite a treat.”

  Cynthia was staring at him as if she didn’t know what to say. “I have not tried them.”

  “Oh, it’s the biscuits with the caramelised capsicum. You must try them. They are exceedingly rare, I hear. No doubt endangered with the changing climate.”

  She waved her hand as if she didn’t care, while Paul had hoped it would make her go away. Instead, she stayed and the conversation stilted awkwardly.

  “Have you lived here long?” he asked Alice.

  “We’ve had a property here for close to a decade. Well, it’s mine now.”

  “Alice did extraordinarily well in the divorce,” Cynthia pointed out.

  Again, Paul felt embarrassed. Alice lowered her eyes and took a quick sip of her drink—a martini by the look of it. Cynthia wasn’t going to leave. “Actually, I believe I could use one of those,” he said. “Could you use another?”

  Alice paused, uncertain what to do. “That would be lovely.”

  “You seem fine there,” he said to Cynthia and walked off to the bar.

  To his relief, Alice was standing on her own when he returned. “Cynthia went to find the ladies.”

  “Is she a friend of yours?”

  “An acquaintance.”

  “I met a man the other night, a Roger Cavandish,” he said carefully.

  “That is my ex-husband,” she said with a hint of bitterness in her voice.

  “Awful man,” he professed and she laughed. “No sense of humour at all.” Although that could have been primarily because the tart Roger was shacked up with was reaching down and playing with Paul’s appendage at the time. Yes, he’d slept with the tart sleeping with this woman’s ex-husband. Embarrassment flared up his cheeks. The seediness of it all left a bad taste in his mouth.

  But Alice was smiling into her drink as she took a sip. She was actually quite lovely, and Paul wouldn’t feel so awful thinking so if it hadn’t been for the messy circumstances she didn’t know about. Now he couldn’t think of anything to say. What had he in common with this woman?

  “I am divorced, too,” he offered. “It ended rather badly, which is the real reason I’m in Marbella.” Brutal honesty might not be a good idea, either. People didn’t want to know about his failed marriage and his cowardice in hightailing out of Oxford. He probably shouldn’t have been so honest.

  “Leaving your ex behind is probably an excellent idea,” she said and he was grateful she hadn’t awkwardly shifted away from him. “Mine left, then returned.”

  “Did he what?” Cynthia said, returning. “But you got back at him, didn’t you, my dear? Everyone, of course, has heard that you have a fondness for dabbling with the hired help.” Cynthia made an exaggerated wink, and Paul wasn’t sure this woman was being purposefully cruel or was simply clueless. Alice was bright red and Paul didn’t know what do with himself, or where to look.

  Chapter 23

  The sun was shining brightly outside, but the tinted windows gave everything a slightly yellow tone. It did cut out the glare, although the sea still sparkled in the distance. He hated this office. The new one he wanted to build sat bright and shiny in his mind’s eye and he had trouble imagining another course of action.

  Miss Waters had proved uncommonly unreasonable. Her house had been utter chaos. It had been a spur of the moment decision to seek her out at home. In a way, he had wanted her to know he could find her; he could make this happen the way he wanted. It had the wrong effect and she now seemed set against him on principle.

  She wasn’t even prepared to listen to the offer. If she was driving a hard bargain, she was holding a surprisingly cool hand.

  His assistant walked into the office. “Arnie said you wanted a dossier on Miss Waters?”

  “Yes,” he said and took the folder. In hindsight, perhaps he should have waited for this before going to see her, but he’d assumed that dealing with her, even after some initial hesitancy, would be a simple affair. But she wasn’t a simple creature, and her house was run like a lunatic asylum. She appeared to have little control over her children, and a rude housekeeper. How was this woman capable of running a successful small business? It was a miracle she hadn’t folded yet.

  Opening the folder, he saw a picture of her. Her hair was up in a French twist and she wore too much makeup. She was beautiful, but she didn’t display it in a way he thought was flattering. Her taste ran a little to the cheap and tatty.

  As he read, he discovered that she hadn’t always been Miss Waters. She�
��d been Mrs. Rawley for a while, and apparently her husband had an extensive rap sheet, including domestic abuse. They had two sons together, to which this man had never tried to establish visitation rights. He’d stolen and sold her previous salon back in the UK. This man sounded like a right charmer. Miss Waters obviously had excellent taste in men.

  There was no mention of a daughter, so he had no idea who the teenage girl at the house had been—apparently not her child. There was also a diploma in small business management from the Open University.

  This woman’s background was more complex than he’d imagined. On some level, this woman was dealing with emotional trauma, which he guessed was at the source of her irrationalism. Searching through their dealings, he concluded that Miss Waters was not going to be told what to do, after having been trodden on within her marriage.

  But see, he would have thought the security of money would have appealed to her. That had always been the security the women in his life wanted. But for her, it was her business—her livelihood. In a sense, that was smart—the means to create wealth was more meaningful than wealth itself. He just hadn’t seen it, because to him, a piddly salon meant nothing, but to her, it meant everything.

  Crossing his arms, he stared out the window again as he liked to do when he was thinking. This all made more sense now. And yes, she had been truthful and adamant when she said she wasn’t going to give in. It was still in his power to run roughshod over her. Yes, he wanted this sorted quickly, but he could give himself leeway to run her down in the courts. As much as she didn’t like to hear it, money cleared all obstacles. He just felt like an arsehole doing it now that he knew how much this meant to her. It wasn’t about clients or the salon, it was about this woman standing her ground.

  It must have been a big deal for this woman to pack up her family and move them across the continent, and to set up a business in a foreign city. She would have had to have done it with next to nothing and here he came along to wipe her hard work, all her security, away.