With a roll of her eyes that she made sure he didn’t see she started back across the asphalt of the overflow parking area and punched in the security code for the motel’s back door.
There were two staircases that accessed the upper floors—this one, and the one in the foyer. The conference room was located at the top of this set of stairs, with Xavier’s rooms stretching beyond it.
When she reached the landing at the top she saluted a painting on the wall. ‘Afternoon, Captain.’
Xavier halted in front of the painting. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m going to write you a report.’
‘I mean this.’ He gestured to the painting. ‘Why do you talk to it?’
She moved back. The old-time sea captain with his beard, pipe and the roguish twinkle in his eye beamed down at her. ‘I always salute the Captain. I have since I was a little girl. Some of the guests do too. We have no idea who he is, so we make up stories about him. It’s just a bit of whimsy that everyone seems to enjoy.’
‘He is...’ His lip curled. ‘This painting is clichéd and poorly executed. It has to go.’
She’d started to move towards the conference room, but she swung back at that. ‘You can’t get rid of the Captain! You’ll have a mutiny on your hands.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘I appreciate all you’ve done since my arrival, and I appreciate the fact that you’ve kept my son in your thoughts, but that doesn’t change the reason why I’m here or what I mean to do. If I haven’t made it clear enough already, let me do so now—this is my motel.’
His jaw tightened, but that didn’t hide the pain that she saw flash momentarily through his eyes.
‘As such, I can do with my motel whatever I like.’
He had a point. And she should want to punch him on the nose for pointing it out with such brutal bluntness, except...
Xavier slashed a hand through the air, but it didn’t hide the ache still stretching through his eyes. ‘Lorenzo deserves better than this!’
She pressed a hand to her chest. He must have loved his grandfather dearly. Yesterday she’d been granted a glimpse beneath Xavier’s steely façade, and rather than simmering aggression what she’d seen had been grief. God only knew she understood grief—understood how it could eat at you from the inside out, lie dormant for days and then rear up its head to spit poison at you from every direction.
She moved back towards him. He stood a step below her, which almost made them eye to eye. And for a moment she saw the pain she’d witnessed yesterday. She’d never been able to turn away from the wounded or the wretched.
‘You must miss Lorenzo so very much.’
His nostrils flared. His Adam’s apple bobbed.
She couldn’t stop herself from pressing her hand to his cheek. ‘I’m sorry that being here has made that wound so raw, Xavier.’
He reached up and removed her hand. She readied herself for some crushing set-down about inappropriate familiarity, but his touch was gentle, and his thumb ran back and forth across the sensitive skin of her inner wrist, sending a hypnotic but demanding heat spiralling through her.
His gaze lowered to her lips and his eyes turned smoky and heavy-lidded. He leaned towards her and her breath hitched. Surely he didn’t mean to kiss her? She shouldn’t be standing here as if...as if she were waiting for him to do exactly that!
‘What kind of comfort are you offering me, Wynne?’
His voice was low and seductive. His breath fanned across her lips, teasing them, sensitising them. The smoky accent heated something low down in her abdomen. Tendrils of temptation curled through her until she pulsed with need and heat, aching in places she’d forgotten she had. All she had to do was lean forward and she would know what this man tasted like. One kiss and...
She glanced up into his eyes. The cold, calculated hardness in them—so at odds with his touch and his words—made her shrink back inside herself.
She took a step away from him, tugging her hand free. ‘Not that kind of comfort.’
Her voice sounded as if it belonged to somebody else.
‘Are you sure?’
How could he make his voice so warm when his eyes were so hard?
‘Positive.’
‘Because I do not fraternise with my staff.’
She prickled at the threat latent in his words—that if she attempted to fraternise with him he’d see it as grounds for instant dismissal. She couldn’t be dismissed. Not yet.
She drew herself up to her full height. ‘If by fraternise you mean sleep with, then let me assure you that you’re safe from me.’ She whirled around and made for the conference room. ‘You’re not my type,’ she hurled over her shoulder.
She’d been told once before that she wasn’t good enough—not polished enough, first-rate enough, sophisticated enough to move in the exalted circles the very rich and the very talented moved in. Xavier moved in even more exalted circles than Duncan, and she had no intention of setting herself up to be told again that she didn’t measure up. No way, José!
‘Not your type?’
He roared the words at her back, and she didn’t know why her assertion should upset him. Maybe he was just grumpy because his ploy hadn’t worked.
She swung around when she reached the far side of the conference table. He stood framed in the doorway like some clichéd Greek god.
‘I don’t believe for a single moment that I’ve dented your fragile male ego. I don’t believe there’s a single fragile thing about you.’
Deference, Wynne! You’re supposed to be practising deference.
But the rotten man had all but sent her a heated invitation with the sole purpose of trapping her in inappropriate conduct. So he could fire her. And she’d almost fallen for it!
She folded her arms. ‘Admittedly, you’re attractive...’
Only an idiot would claim otherwise, and despite everything she wasn’t an idiot.
He glared at her, and bit by bit her sense of humour righted itself.
‘But then so am I.’
When she wanted it, she never lacked for male company. It was just that these days she didn’t seem to want it. The motel and her grandmother took all her energy. Whatever was left was reserved for hunkering down with a bowl of popcorn and watching old movies.
She shook herself, wishing she could just as easily shake away the bad feeling that had developed between them. She didn’t want him taking out his resentment of her on the rest of the staff—she had to make sure that didn’t happen. So she set about making amends.
‘The simple fact of the matter is you’re too successful for my taste, Xavier.’
He moved into the room. He rolled his shoulders. ‘What does your taste normally run to?’
Lifting the lid of her laptop, she planted herself behind it. ‘I seem to attract...artistic types.’
He rocked back on his heels. She had a feeling he was trying hard not to let his lip curl.
She nodded once—hard. ‘Yes, artistic types... Which is a flattering term that, from my experience, few of them have earned.’ She slanted a glance up at him, trying hard not to laugh—though laughing would be better than crying. ‘You can translate that to mean that they don’t have jobs...nor any prospects on the horizon.’
She opened a new document. ‘Synonyms for “artistic type” might also include wastrel, layabout and slob. My personal favourite term, however, is no-hope loser. Hence my type, Xavier, is no-hope loser. You cannot be described as a no-hope loser in anybody’s language. So, you see, you’re quite safe.’
He sat, spreading his hands with an expansive and what she thought must be a typically Mediterranean eloquence that made her abdomen soften.
‘But why would you settle for this? This is a tragedy. You are a beautiful woman. What do you get from this kind of r
elationship?’
He thought her beautiful? Don’t think about that!
‘You mean besides a headache?’ She pursed her lips. ‘I’ve no idea.’
She typed Report for Xavier: Suggested Repairs across the top of the page.
‘Believe me, I’ve thought about it—long and hard. The best I’ve come up with is that these men must bring out my maternal instincts, or something equally Freudian.’
He sat back, his brow furrowing. ‘It is true that you are nurturing and kind. You were excellent with Serena yesterday.’
She couldn’t have said why, but the compliment warmed her.
‘I’m also a sucker for a hard luck story.’
She selected a bullet point list from the dropdown menu, and then glanced across to find him staring at her with a mystified expression.
She shrugged. ‘I used to have this fantasy of being a—’ She broke off with a laugh. ‘Listen to me rabbit on.’
Talk less; work more.
‘Rabbit?’
‘It means talk too much.’
‘No, this you do not do. You do not rabbit. Tell me this fantasy of yours.’
She gave up pretending to concentrate on the report. ‘Fine—but only if this is tit for tat, quid pro quo, what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander and all that.’
She needed to find some common ground with this man. She was willing to try anything if it would help soften him.
A faint smile touched those sensual lips. ‘All of these expressions I understand. You want to know what kind of woman I am drawn to, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Cruel women,’ he said without hesitation.
It took an effort to keep her jaw from dropping. ‘And what kind of satisfaction do you get from relationships with cruel women?’
‘No satisfaction. Just disappointment.’
Heavens, what a pair they made. Not a pair, though, as in couple.
‘Well, then...you’re doubly safe, aren’t you? You’re not a no-hope loser and I’m most definitely not a cruel woman.’
‘Very true.’
‘But now I have to ask why? Why are you drawn to cruel women?’
He studied his hands for several long moments. ‘I come from a very wealthy family. You know this, yes?’
Understanding dawned. ‘All your life people have pandered to you—bowed and scraped, so to speak, because of your wealth and your position. So...you find cruel women refreshing?’
‘I suppose that must be part of it. This lack of pandering, as you call it, always gives me the impression that they care nothing for my wealth or my social standing.’
‘Oh, but—’ She snapped her mouth shut.
His lips twisted. ‘Yes. It is a false impression...a front. I learned that lesson early.’
Her research had revealed that Xavier was divorced, his marriage having only lasted two years. Had his wife been a cruel woman? Her heart beat hard, but she forced herself to recall the disdain in Xavier’s eyes when she’d contemplated kissing him. She wanted him to be doubly—triply—sure that wouldn’t happen again. Ever.
She lifted her chin. ‘I know several very cruel women. Would you like me to introduce you to them during your stay here at the Gold Coast?’
He visibly shuddered. ‘No, thank you.’
She refused to examine why his refusal made her breathe more easily.
‘Now, tell me this fantasy of yours.’
‘Oh, that.’ She started to laugh. ‘I’ve always had this secret yearning to be a wild woman—a femme fatale who attracts tall, dark and deliciously dangerous men.’
He raised one eyebrow. ‘Dangerous?’
‘Not criminally dangerous. But, you know—daredevils, pirates, rakes.’
‘And what would you do with these...pirates?’
‘Have wild, carefree flings and then toss them aside without a care once I was done with them.’
He spread his hands wide. ‘Then why do you not do this?’
She sobered and tucked her hair back behind her ears. ‘Because whenever I’ve tried in the past I’ve always found myself stuck in a corner with some soulful poet or oversensitive artist who’s looking for a free bed, a free meal and a mummy substitute. I’ve had to face the hard truth, Xavier. I don’t have a wild woman bone in my body.’
She shrugged.
‘Besides, it’s mean to treat people as if they’re expendable and don’t have feelings.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I’m a good girl through and through, I’m afraid.’
‘Why is this a bad thing?’
‘You even have to ask?’ He stared at her so blankly that she added, ‘Have you ever dated a good girl?’
His brow furrowed. ‘No.’
‘And do you know why?’
‘I...’ He trailed off.
‘Because they’re boring! Because they remind you of your mother. And who wants to date their mother? No one. Except for...’ She raised her eyebrows.
‘Ah...’ He nodded again. ‘Except for these poets and artists of yours?’
‘Exactly.’
He stared at her, and the intensity of his gaze made everything inside her clench.
‘No more,’ she said when he opened his mouth. ‘I have to write this report.’
* * *
‘Have you told him about us yet?’ Tina demanded the next morning.
Wynne misjudged the first step of the stairs. She grabbed onto the bannister. ‘There hasn’t been time...or the opportunity.’
She didn’t wait for a lecture, but set off straight up the stairs for the conference room. She needed to time her staffing policy revelation carefully.
Turning into the conference room, she came to the swift conclusion that the timing wasn’t right this morning. If thunder had a face it would be Xavier’s.
She bit back a sigh. This man, it appeared, lacked an inner cheer button. ‘Good morning, Xavier.’
‘Good morning, Wynne.’
At least he took the time to give her a salutation instead of barking questions and orders at her the moment she walked in. She set her laptop down and switched on the coffee percolator on the sideboard. Coffee was never a bad idea. A cheerful gurgle and the invigorating scent of coffee soon filled the air.
‘Serena Gladstone phoned this morning to thank us for the huge bunch of flowers.’ She sent him a smile over her shoulder. ‘That was a lovely thing to do, Xavier. They’re transferring her today to a hospital closer to where she lives. She’s feeling much better and improving every day.’
‘That is good to know.’
He looked a little embarrassed that his flower gesture had been found out. She hid a smile as she made their coffees.
She slid a mug in front of him.
He cleared his throat. ‘Now, perhaps you’ll tell me about this?’
He sat at the head of the table and handed her a sheaf of papers. She slipped into the seat on his right and glanced at them. ‘This is the report I wrote for you yesterday afternoon.’
‘And you emailed to me late last night—very late.’
She sipped her coffee, surprised at his tight tone. ‘Are you annoyed about that?’
Why should that annoy him?
She glanced down at her report, frowning. ‘Is there something wrong with this?’
‘What is wrong is that you work outrageous hours! You’re up at the crack of dawn to do the breakfasts and then...and then you continue through all hours of the night writing reports.’
She hadn’t had time to finish it before dinner had had to be started. She’d spent an hour after dinner finishing it. She’d then let it sit for a while before reading it over and deciding it was fit to send.
‘What is wrong, Wynne Antonia Stephens—’
Whoa! He had that tone down pat. She found herself fighting the desire to fidget. As if she were guilty of some crime.
‘—is that you spent what should be your leisure time writing a work report!’
‘Oh...um...’ She didn’t know what to say.
His glare deepened. ‘I do not expect you to work twenty-four hours a day seven days a week.’
‘No, of course you don’t.’
Was he worried she’d sue him for poor workplace practices?
‘Going from owner-manager to manager is an...interesting transition.’ Deep inside an ache started up. ‘I mean, I used to be on call twenty-four-seven.’ When Aggie’s Retreat had been hers. ‘And I believe that as your manager I need to be flexible in my hours. I mean, I took most of Tuesday afternoon off.’
‘Off?’ He stared at her in so much outrage his hair seemed to bristle with it. ‘You were looking after Serena Gladstone!’
‘But it wasn’t actual work.’
‘You were looking after a client’s needs!’
She wished he’d stop yelling at her. She forced her chin up. ‘You’re paying me a very generous wage. I intend to earn it.’
His mouth firmed. ‘You will not work all the hours of the week, Wynne. It leads to burnout. And burnout is an inefficient business practice.’
She only just prevented herself from clapping a hand to her brow and saying, Silly me! Of course it is!
She shuffled forward. ‘Okay, how’s this for a plan? During the busy periods I work long hours. It’s inevitable. This is the hotel business after all,’ she added when he looked as if he’d argue.
‘It is not how my five-star hotels are run.’
‘Of course not—but this is a much smaller operation. It’s a very different beast from one of your giant hotels.’
‘And what do you get for working all these very long hours?’
‘Your undying admiration?’
He didn’t crack even the faintest of smiles. She recalled that moment on the stairs yesterday afternoon and decided it might be better not to joke with this man. He might take it the wrong way. He might misinterpret it as flirtation.
‘What I get in return, Xavier, is a corresponding flexibility from you.’
The Spanish Tycoon's Takeover Page 6
