Compromising Her Position
Page 4
“I beg to differ. Due diligence means more than showing up after the deal is signed, playing Santa Claus.”
A gull screeched overhead and a bead of sweat trickled down the center of his back. Was he being baited? His father frequently demonstrated extraordinary access to information, but, as far as he knew, the man wasn’t psychic. He couldn’t possibly have discovered what had happened in a supply closet while he’d “played” Santa. “I had a legitimate business reason for dressing up as Santa.”
“This, I realize. A small gesture to inspire employee goodwill. Very smart. But delegating the job of scrutinizing a deal to lawyers and accountants? Not smart. You will never find the real problems in the books. You find them by spending time at the property, talking to people, listening, digging deeper—”
“If I spend too much time at a hotel we don’t own, it tips people off that we’re looking to buy it, and then I have a bunch of competing offers to fend off.”
“Be creative. Devise a cover story, and work with someone trustworthy on the inside to get a detailed look at the operation. Any owner serious about selling, and confident in the value of the property, will agree to facilitate this request. Had you followed this protocol with Las Ventanas—”
“I don’t need a Monday morning quarterback on this deal, Luc. Relax.” A breeze cooled his face. He inhaled the salty air and tried to take his own advice. “Everything is under control. We have an employee communication ready to go first thing this morning concerning the assistant manager’s departure. Our corporate recruiter has already started a quiet search for a new assistant manager.”
“And a new general manager,” his father added. “Ultimately a new human resources person, too, because a triangle collapses when one corner falls away.”
“Yes,” Rafe conceded.
“Is there anybody left, or shall we make Las Ventanas our first self-service resort?”
There it was, the patented Luc St. Sebastian sarcasm. Heat having nothing to do with the weather or his run climbed up his neck. “I told you I’m handling it.”
“Priority to the general manager. He or she can fix the rest. I don’t want this Barrington hiring anyone. I don’t like his character.”
Rafe slowed as his house came into view, and headed to the water’s edge to cool down, adjusting the sweat-drenched waist of his workout shorts as he went. The thin, winter marine layer was already burning off. Sunshine warmed his bare shoulders. He flexed them, working tension out of the muscles. “Are you the pot or the kettle now?” Fidelity rated low on the list of St. Sebastian family core values, and his parents’ personal lives reflected as much.
“Neither. I don’t care who he fucks, but I do care about him putting his pleasure ahead of the business. This man has not acted strategically. His behavior weakened his organization, now my organization, which makes him a liability. A liability you purchased using the St. Sebastian checkbook.”
Right. Had he expected a verbal pat on the back for closing the deal on time and within budget? Or maybe a word of appreciation for adding two hundred and fifty new rooms in a coveted location to the company’s portfolio? Not from Luc. His father specialized in pointing out where Rafe fucked up. He squinted at the horizon, and found himself wondering what Chelsea was doing this morning. Thinking of her all bed-warmed and drowsy had him making other adjustments to his shorts. “I’m handling the liability.”
“Be sure you do. And understand this, someone seeking to take over as chairman of St. Sebastian Enterprises needs to know how to detect such liabilities ahead of time, and neutralize them. This is your mess to clean up.”
Chapter Six
Dec. 31
11:43 p.m.
Chelsea,
Two guests decided to get a jump on their New Year’s Eve celebration, and each other, in elevator 2. They stopped between floors, (multiple times), and now it’s stuck. Can you text me the reset code?
Thx.
Lynette
Chelsea texted her assistant the reset code, stuffed her phone into her black satin evening bag, and surveyed the Grand Ballroom. Tradewinds Maui pulled out all the stops for New Year’s Eve. Lights pulsed. Crystal glinted. Champagne flowed. A band performed on a raised stage at one end of the ballroom. The cute, tattoo-adorned singer channeled Adam Levine and howled out the opening lines of “Animals.” The room bristled with energy, excitement, and, in Chelsea’s opinion, a particular blend of anticipation unique to New Year’s Eve.
A bank of glass doors leading to the hotel’s poetically named Heaven’s Gate Terrace drew her attention. Beyond, the moon hung over the ocean, pristine and round. Its pale reflection danced on the water like a blurry dream, or a memory of past mistakes—faded and insubstantial.
Bring on the clean slate. Her mistakes were behind her, and she was ready for this new phase of her life. Tradewinds suited her perfectly. Granted she’d only been here three weeks, but she appreciated the beauty of the island, the vitality of the resort, and she enjoyed working for the Templetons. Yes, she missed home, but it was a speed dial away.
Three hours ago Laurie had called from her annual Montenido New Year’s Eve bash, and they’d done the California countdown together. Listening to everyone cheering in the background had made her feel every single one of the miles separating Maui and Montenido.
She was lucky to have friends like Laurie who would hold fast no matter what distance separated them, and luckier still to have this opportunity at Tradewinds, but lucky or not, the music suddenly seemed too loud, and the blinking lights too bright. She moved toward the terrace, hoping some air and a quiet moment might help, but stopped halfway through the door when she saw a couple standing in the moonlight, kissing passionately. She looked left, then right. And sighed. Heaven’s Gate Terrace earned its name tonight. Amorous couples occupied every corner.
People, we have over four hundred rooms. Please get one.
“Chelsea Wayne, you’re a hard woman to track down.”
The deep voice flowed over her. She squeezed her eyes shut. The last time she’d heard that voice she’d been coming so hard she still felt the aftershocks every so often—like now. Pulse hammering, she opened her eyes, stared at one particularly bright star and prayed she’d just suffered some kind of weird audio hallucination, because the alternative was too awful to contemplate. But when an arm reached around her and a strong, male hand took the weight of the door she knew one of the biggest mistakes of her year stood directly behind her.
Slowly she turned, and there he was, Rafe St. Sebastian, smiling down at her like a sinful ghost of Christmas past. Her thoughts had detoured to him far too often during the last few weeks, but after leaving Las Ventanas, he was about the last person she’d expected to see again. Ever.
He definitely did not need a Santa costume to command attention. A comparatively generic tuxedo worked fine, though his probably cost more than she earned in a pay period, so maybe generic didn’t fit. But the tux certainly did. The jacket stretched across his broad shoulders, and skimmed the rest of him well enough to hint at a toned chest and a hard, flat stomach. She realized she wasn’t the only one who noticed. Rafe drew almost as many admiring stares as the view.
“I wasn’t aware anyone was looking for me,” she replied, relieved she sounded composed.
His seductive smile remained in place as he lifted an eyebrow. “In or out?”
Out to Heaven’s Gate? With him? Not even if the ballroom burst into flames. “In,” she said, and wove her way through the press of people. Maybe she’d lose him in the crowd.
No such luck. When she reached the bar, his voice rumbled in her ear again. “I wanted to speak to you. And give you this.” He pulled a small envelope from the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket.
She reached for the envelope, but then hesitated. “What is it?”
“Your bonus check from Las Ventanas.”
She took the envelope and tried to ignore the lingering heat his touch left on her skin. Did he feel it too? She
took her time tucking the check into her bag to keep from looking at him. The chore didn’t take long. Eventually she had to face him. “You’ve traveled a long way to play postman.”
“I was coming to Maui anyway. Playing postman was a happy coincidence.”
“How’d you find me?”
“I tapped my vast network of informants.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. A little detail she’d missed the last time they’d been standing this close.
“My mother.” She’d listed her mom as her contact on her employee data sheet.
“Yes. Suzanne told me where you’d landed.”
Her mom was a wonderful woman, but a little too eager to brag about her daughter’s amazing new job.
“I see. Well, thanks for the check. I hope you enjoy your stay in Maui. Aloha.”
Big hands banded her arms. Memories tumbled through her mind—the very same hands hiking up her skirt, sliding between her legs, and those long fingers parting her—Uh-uh. No hiking, no sliding, no parting. Protesting the familiarity, as well as her body’s reaction, she tried to tug out of his grasp. Tried, and failed. “Look, Mr. St. Sebastian—”
“Rafe,” he corrected. “As I mentioned, in addition to delivering your check, I wanted to speak to you. Join me for a drink?”
Though posed as a question, it sounded more like a politely delivered order. She shook her head. “I think our last encounter left you with the wrong impression. If you’re looking for a repeat—” She broke off because the band shifted into Chris Isaak’s “Wicked Game,” and her voice suddenly carried.
“Chelsea, I’m looking to talk to you. That’s all.” He released her arms and hit her with a stern frown that dug a devastating notch between his brows and set off fireworks in all her erogenous zones. “I didn’t even pack my Santa suit.”
Funny guy. Too bad she’d left her sense of humor in a supply closet. She looked at her watch. Six minutes until midnight. “I can give you five minutes. And I’ll pass on the drink. Technically, I’m working.”
“Let’s go somewhere we can talk.” Then, to her consternation, he took her hand and led her to the dance floor.
“Oh, no, let’s go to the…” Lobby, she intended to say, but it was too late. He swung her into his arms and settled her against him, breasts to chest, hips to hips—the same amazing hips he’d used to rock her headlong into the most soul-shattering orgasm she’d ever known. She closed her eyes and inhaled, attempting to settle her racing system. Bad move. She accidentally breathed in his scent, something sophisticated and dangerously compelling. Another round of aftershocks rolled through her. Slowly, she opened her eyes, and focused on his chin.
His lips curved into a knowing smile. “I won’t bite.”
Rafe didn’t think he’d ever held a more reluctant dance partner. She stood stiff, staring down, or over his shoulder…everywhere except at him. And even so, she felt good in his arms. Too good, because the thoughts filling his mind involved skin, sweat, and a hell of a lot more privacy than could be found in the middle of a dance floor.
Where were her thoughts? He moved his hand low on her back and let it rest there. A subtle reminder of how thoroughly he’d explored the territory just beyond his fingertips, and how much she’d enjoyed every second. Her quick intake of breath confirmed her powers of recall, and pushed her breasts against his chest so they plumped over the top of her strapless black dress. He imagined tugging the top down, filling his hands with those mouthwatering curves, and finding out whether she liked slow, feather-light caresses, or the rough drag of his palms across her nipples. Then he’d torture her with both until she made the same urgent little noises she’d made for him before.
Had she allowed her mind to wander back to the closet to relive their encounter? The pulse beating away at the hollow of her throat suggested she was thinking about it now.
Good, because he couldn’t get her out of his mind, and constantly having her in his head was driving him in-fucking-sane at a time he could least afford a distraction. The home stretch of hurdles his father had placed between him and his goal loomed ahead, and the Las Ventanas deal demonstrated with painful clarity he needed to give the damn process his undivided attention—not put his dick in charge of prioritizing and fixate on a woman. Especially when, as a rule, he didn’t fixate on women. He enjoyed them and moved on. Why Chelsea proved to be an exception to this formerly unchallenged rule only added to his frustration.
Maybe his ego demanded proof that the way she’d responded to him had nothing to do with her confusing him for someone else? Maybe he just craved another round with her where they could spread out, take their time, and be as loud as they wanted? Whatever the reason, when it came to Chelsea Wayne, once was definitely not enough. Luckily, he’d learned strategy from a master, and if everything went as planned, he’d have the opportunity to satisfy his lingering fascination, and even his father wouldn’t fault his tactics.
He glanced down at her. The look she shot him from beneath her lashes brimmed with anxiety and suspicion—not exactly an invitation to seduction. He had some work to do, and the first step involved getting her off the defensive. “Why Maui?”
She shrugged. “Why not? Maui offers sunshine and sea breezes.”
“So did Montenido.”
“I needed a change.” Her gaze shifted to some point over his shoulder and her glossy mouth twisted into a not-quite smile. The subtle move set off a fast, dirty fantasy of kissing her lips until they were bare and swollen. “For a number of reasons, I couldn’t stay at Las Ventanas.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” He slid his hand up to the center of her back. “I hear the new owner was very impressed with you.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet. That brings us to reason number one—banging the new owner before even shaking his hand. I’m sure that sends quite a message. Something like, ‘Hi, I’m a closet nymphomaniac with a Santa fetish.’”
No way could he let her shoulder 100 percent of the responsibility for what happened. He tightened his arm around her waist in a silent gesture of solidarity, gratified when she finally tipped her head and looked at him. “I wore the suit, and I went willingly into the closet. Maybe I’m the closet nympho with the Santa fetish?”
She made a dismissive sound. “I threw myself at you. My friend Laurie had to invent a whole new word for it.”
Intrigued, he raised an eyebrow. “Which was?”
“Tackle-fucked.” She blushed. “Fitting, unfortunately.”
Rafe would have laughed had his mind not dove immediately back into the closet. Would her cheeks turn the same shade of pink when she quivered around him and called out his name? Or was this particular shade specific to embarrassment? Saying the right thing at this moment would improve his chances of finding out. “I intended to stop you, but—”
“But you didn’t.” Her blush deepened. “You went along for the ride, because you assumed I knew it was you in the costume. An arrogant assumption, if you want my humble opinion, but I guess you’re accustomed to that kind of behavior. What an exciting life you must lead.”
Nice try, but he refused to take the bait. The level of excitement in his life wasn’t the issue, and while he might win a debate over which one of them should have known better, he’d lose in the long run. The situation called for a little humility on his part. He dug deep to find some. “As much as it obliterates my ego to admit it, I know I wasn’t the intended recipient of your attention. You thought I was somebody else.”
Her lids lowered, shuttering her eyes, but her chin came up. “Reason number two for my departure,” she said quietly. “I’m sure by now you’ve heard all about Paul and me.”
He knew enough, and not just Barrington’s one-sided explanation. A hotel like Las Ventanas functioned as its own small, self-contained world. Gossip circulated like oxygen, particularly when it involved the sudden departure of a popular member of the team. “I heard a few things, but I prefer to get my information from the source.”
He stayed silent, because experience taught him when a woman said, “I don’t want to talk about it,” it was exactly what she wished to discuss. The tactic paid off.
“Why in God’s name were you wearing the costume? I ordered the suit for Paul. I never dreamt he’d gotten someone else to play Santa.” She shook her head again. “How’d he talk you into it?”
“Paul didn’t. Someone on my team saw the costume and came up with the idea. Santa generates instant goodwill. Employees of an acquired property always fear layoffs. Since nobody gets pink-slipped by Santa during the holiday party, we thought me dressing the part to announce the acquisition offered a quick and effective way to shortcut people’s worries.”
“Oh.” A little stiffness drained from her shoulders. “That makes sense, I guess.”
“By the time I realized you thought I was Paul, you’d already joined the party. I’m sorry I didn’t react more quickly.” And that was the only thing he was sorry about, so the apology would have to do.
She winced. “Forget about it. Please.”
Well, there was the problem. He couldn’t forget about it. Or her. He leaned in until her sweet, mouthwatering scent teased his senses. “Can you forget?”
A little shiver danced along her shoulders, but she drew back and gave him what she probably considered a don’t-mess-with-me look. He wondered if she knew the dimple appeared in her cheek when she twisted the corner of her mouth. He also wondered what she’d do if she knew it made him want to mess with her all the more. “Can you?” he repeated.
“Yes. What happened was a mistake. I take complete responsibility, but I need to put my mistakes behind me, and focus on the future. So, no offense, but it would be best if our paths never crossed again.”