He thought about the offer he’d made to the Templetons earlier in the day. “I may disappoint you there.” At her irritated glare, he shrugged. “It’s a small world, after all.”
“Not for a man with your resources. You can go anywhere. Do anything. There’s nothing in my little corner of Maui to interest you.”
He lowered his head and brought their faces closer, just to rattle her cage. “Sometimes the little corners hold the biggest surprises. I think we proved that at Las Ventanas.” Against his chest her heart beat hard and fast. Her cage was definitely rattled. “Are you telling me you never think about our adventure in the closet?”
Pink invaded her cheeks. “I don’t.”
“You do, you just don’t want to admit it. You know what else you don’t want to admit?”
“Your time is up, Mr. St. Sebastian.” She said the words, but didn’t move out of his embrace. If she expected him to release her before they’d finished this, she was going to be disappointed.
“Don’t you think we can drop the formalities, Miss Wayne? Our association has been extremely personal, after all.”
“There is nothing personal between us.”
“I beg to differ. In fact, I’m fairly certain I know your deepest, darkest secret.”
“I sincerely doubt that.”
He brought his mouth to her ear. “You knew I wasn’t Paul.”
“No.” The denial, though immediate, sounded slightly breathless, slightly desperate.
She had to have at least suspected, at some point. He refused to believe otherwise. “Not at first. But when I had you clinging to the tables, trembling so hard you could barely stand? You knew.”
“You-you’re delusional. If I’d realized you weren’t Paul, don’t you think I would have stopped you?”
“No. By the time you realized, you didn’t care.”
The crowd around them erupted into a countdown.
Ten… He cupped her jaw in one hand…
Nine… and slid the other down her back. Then lower.
Eight… “You didn’t care about anything except my tongue tracing the path of your thong”—he let his fingers do the honor now—“all the way down until I could taste your sweet, throbbing little—”
“I thought you were Paul!” Her wide eyes darted to his, pupils huge.
Five… “Remember how you used your body to beg for more? There’s no fucking way you’ve ever begged like that for Paul Barrington. No fucking way. I could have you begging again.”
Her breaths came in quick, shallow pants. The hands she’d rested lightly on his shoulders tightened, bunching his jacket in a white-knuckled grip. She shook her head. “Not going to happen.”
Three… He was risking getting his face slapped in the middle of a dance floor on New Year’s Eve, but he didn’t care. For some inexcusable reason, he needed to know she wanted him, not Barrington.
Two… He spread his palm over the perfect curve of her ass and hauled her against him, so she’d feel just how well he remembered every damn detail of their last meeting.
One…
“It’s not?” he challenged, and then crushed her lips under his.
Cheers of “Happy New Year” echoed around them over the strains of “Auld Lang Syne.” A flotilla of black and silver balloons sailed down from the ceiling. Guests laughed, and sang, and jostled them while he kissed her. Sparkly, star-shaped confetti rained over everyone and everything, and he kept right on kissing her. Her arms twined around his neck. Her lips parted. She flattened one hand against the back of his head and held on. When he bent her over his arm and swept his tongue into her soft, yielding mouth, she wrapped her leg around his hip. The heat of her body practically seared his thigh through his tuxedo pants.
He trapped her lower lip between his teeth and nibbled. There went his no biting promise, but her shuddery moan told him she didn’t mind.
The song ended. The house lights came up a few notches. He slowly drew her upright, and even more slowly relinquished her mouth. She stared up at him, dazed, her lips plumped from their kiss.
“You’re a terrible liar, Miss Wayne.”
Giving her a grin he hoped didn’t reveal how much the move cost him, he walked away.
Chapter Seven
Jan. 1
4:37 p.m.
Chelsea,
The McIntyre bachelorette party wants the waiters to wear grass skirts—and nothing else. Do we need a special permit for that kind of party?
Thx.
Lynette
Chelsea turned away from her computer and forced her attention back to her conference call. The Templetons’ banter flowed from her speakerphone, but she couldn’t concentrate on the words.
Where the heck was the happy in her Happy New Year? She slumped at her tidy, blond-wood desk in her tidy office and stifled a yawn. Bad enough to have spent the first seconds of the new year in a lip-lock with Rafe St. Sebastian, and then the next several hours tossing and turning in bed, too stirred up to sleep. When she’d finally dropped off, her dreams had hardly qualified as restful. They’d featured Cindy, hugely pregnant, cornering her at the Las Ventanas holiday party and informing her Paul wanted to speak with her right away. Then came Paul, in his office, with a crib where his desk should have been, calmly telling her he was in love with Cindy. She’d run, only to stumble across Rafe in the hallway, wearing a tuxedo and a knowing grin. He’d called her a liar, pulled her into the supply closet, and proved his point. She’d woken sweaty and aching, with his name on her lips.
Her cell phone vibrated. She scooped it up with an unsteady hand, silenced the thing, and told herself to focus on her call.
No use. The Templetons were teasing each other about their resolutions. Meanwhile, here she sat, tired and cranky and nowhere near a New Year’s frame of mind. Every second of the afternoon dragged by like an eternity and she placed the blame for her exhaustion squarely on Rafe’s annoyingly attractive head. How dare he show up out of the blue, bringing all sorts of bad memories—and even worse impulses—with him? True, she’d had plenty of restless nights before he arrived, and, okay, yes, a disturbingly steamy Santa dream or two, but today should have been the start of her clean slate, dammit.
There was one thing to be thankful for. The dance floor last night had been so packed with party-goers reveling in their own New Year’s Eve kisses, nobody appeared to have noticed the new manager surrendering her good sense, her clean slate, and every single hormone in her body to a walking orgasm in a tux.
She propped her elbows on her desk and rubbed her eyes. That’s when the silence struck her. She jerked her head up and stared at her speakerphone. “I’m sorry. Can you repeat the last part?”
John Templeton’s unhurried voice came over the speaker. “St. Sebastian made an offer to purchase Tradewinds Maui. A strong offer. Evelyn and I have decided to accept.”
The air couldn’t have rushed out of her lungs faster if he’d come through the phone and kicked her in the gut. “I didn’t…” She winced at the high pitch of her voice, took a deep breath and tried again. “I didn’t know you were contemplating selling.”
“We weren’t,” Evelyn broke in. “Believe me, Chelsea, we would have disclosed our intention to sell the resort before we offered you the job had we seen a sale on the horizon, but this offer came unexpectedly.”
“Are you sure you want to take it?”
“Yes. We’re in the final phase of construction on Tradewinds Tahiti, and the proceeds from the sale of the Maui property would enable us to do some really spectacular things with the new resort. As John said, Rafe made a very attractive offer.”
Yeah, he was full of them. She plowed her hands into her hair and tugged until her scalp protested. “How long until the sale goes through?”
“It’s still a potential sale right now,” John said. “We’ve agreed to price and terms, contingent on St. Sebastian’s satisfactory completion of due diligence. We’re estimating about six weeks to close, if all goes accordin
g to plan.”
“I see. Thank you for trusting me with the information. I’ll consider this confidential until you tell me otherwise.”
“We appreciate that,” Evelyn said. “We’re also hoping to entice you into an expanded role for the next six weeks.”
“A new role?” She didn’t have time for a new role, no matter how enticing. She’d be too busy finding another job.
“Yes. We need an on-site deal liaison. Someone to coordinate with our attorneys, particularly when they need information or documents located there rather than here at corporate, and also to give John and me daily status reports about the due diligence activities on your end.”
“Oh.” She picked up a pen and scribbled notes. “Not a problem.” Not exactly enticing, pulling documents and making copies, typing up daily status reports, but she could handle the tasks.
Evelyn laughed. “I know all that sounds incredibly dull and administrative, but don’t worry, there’s a fun part, too.”
“Fun part?”
“Yes. Rafe wants to get under the covers, so to speak, so he understands firsthand the property’s strengths and weaknesses. To that end, he proposes he spend a week at Tradewinds and requested we appoint someone to familiarize him with everything the resort has to offer. Naturally, we thought of you.”
Chelsea fought the urge to bang her head against her desk. A week under the covers with Rafe? Fun wasn’t the word.
“Sounds great,” Chelsea said carefully, “but I don’t think I’m the right person to play tour guide. I mean, I haven’t been here very long. I’m sure there are others on staff more qualified.”
“He specifically asked for you,” John told her. “Evelyn and I mentioned how well you’ve done in such a short time, and shared some of the ideas you brought to us about how to improve the resort. He wants to hear all your thoughts.”
Sure he did, preferably while horizontal. Sadly, after last night, she wasn’t sure she could trust herself to remain upright around him. She’d jumped into his kiss like a kid jumping into the waves on a sweltering summer day.
Someone coughed on the other end of the call. She pulled her mind away from the kiss. “I’m flattered, but I can think of several employees who would do an outstanding job. I’m happy to shoulder the other duties, and find the right person to take care of Mr. St. Sebastian.”
“We need you in both roles,” Evelyn insisted. “And we know we’re asking a lot, so we’ve put together a package we hope makes the deal liaison job, in its entirety, worth your while. John’s sending you an email outlining the details in writing, but to give you the high points, we’re offering you a fifty thousand dollar bonus when—or I guess I should say if—the deal closes.”
Fifty thousand dollars? She fumbled her pen. It landed on her desk, rolled across the smooth surface and fell onto the floor. “Wow. That’s very generous.”
“There’s more. If the Maui sale closes, we’d offer you the general manager position at the new resort in Tahiti. I don’t know how you feel about moving again, so soon, but—”
“Not that you’re out of a job if the sale happens,” John interjected. “Rafe assured us he envisions no layoffs. He hopes everyone will transition to St. Sebastian. It’s a large organization with plenty of opportunities. We understand if you prefer to stay on in Maui.”
“No.” She had zero interest in joining the same organization that employed Paul and Cindy, no matter how large and far flung. “If the sale happens, I’ll definitely move on.”
“Well, then.” Evelyn sounded pleased. “You’ll have our written offer shortly. Give it some thought, and then get back to us.”
“Get back to us with a ‘yes,’” John added.
“I’ll look it over,” she promised, and said good-bye, knowing full well she’d have to refuse. She hated turning down the bonus, as well as passing on the general manager slot at a brand new resort, though she was slightly less conflicted about that decision. Moving to Maui had been a purposeful step toward a fresh start, and a new perspective. Accepting the transfer to Tahiti felt more like getting swept along by events than controlling her destiny, plus Tahiti made the distance between Maui and Montenido look like a day trip.
The real deal killer, however, remained the tour guide part of the job. Spending so much time with Rafe amounted to an engraved invitation to mix business with pleasure. She’d learned a hard lesson about the consequences of that particular mix, but last night’s kiss left her with no delusions. A little persuasion from him and she’d make all kinds of bad decisions.
She swiveled in her chair and stared out her office window at the resort’s palm-lined walkways. He was still out there somewhere. She’d checked the registry this morning and discovered his reservation, discreetly made under a corporate account, ended tomorrow. Another reason to stay in the safe zone of her office. If she played things right, she could avoid him for the rest of his stay.
Turning back to her desk, she woke her computer and checked her emails. At the top was a message from John, confirming everything they’d discussed.
General manager of a new Tradewinds resort. Damn. Fifty thousand dollars. Double damn. Quite an offer. Too bad she couldn’t accept. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, about to click reply, when her cell phone vibrated again. She glanced at the caller ID, saw “Babycakes,” and picked up.
“Happy New Year, Babycakes.” Her mood lifted as she pictured Laurie sitting in the kitchen at the bakery.
“Not exactly.” Laurie’s voice cracked on the last word.
Chelsea straightened in her chair. “Uh-oh. What’s wrong?”
“We had a fire this morning, Chels. A bad one.”
Now she shot to her feet. “Are you hurt? Is anyone—?”
“Everyone’s fine, thank God. We were closed for the holiday. But Babycakes is…” Laurie paused and took a ragged breath. “The bakery is gone. I’m standing where my shop used to be, staring at a burned-out shell of a building.”
“I’m so sorry, Laurie.” She sank into her chair. “I wish I was there.”
“Be glad you’re not. It’s a pretty sad sight.”
“You’ll rebuild. You’ll use the insurance money and open Babycakes again, even better now because you’ll take into account the things you learned the first time around.”
“I—I don’t think so Chels. Not anytime soon.”
“Why not? I thought you loved working for yourself?”
“I went cheap on insurance, trying to be smart with my money.” Her laugh was all irony. “Even if I get the maximum under my policy and throw every penny of my savings into the pot, I’m still a good seventy grand short of what I’d need to rebuild.”
“Seventy thousand?” Chelsea looked at her computer screen. Her eyes honed in on the bonus.
“At least,” Laurie puffed, and Chelsea pictured her friend digging through rubble. “Might as well be seventy million, because I don’t have that kind of money, unless a scorched mixer brings a lot more at a fire sale than I’m estimating.” A low thud signified the pitching of said mixer into a bin or Dumpster.
“Hold off on the fire sale.”
“What?”
She scanned the email again, and then hit reply. “I might have a way to get you a decent chunk of what you need. The Templetons made me an offer today, to take on a new role. I was kind of on the fence about it”—she crossed her fingers at the white lie—“but now I’m not. I’m going to accept. If things go as planned, I can send you fifty thousand in about six weeks.”
“Chelsea, I can’t. You’re my best friend, but I can’t take your money.”
“You have to. For me.”
“Chelsea—”
“You’re always there for me. Let me at least try. I can’t guarantee the funds yet, but I guarantee I’ll do my best.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say a thing right now. You can thank me when I come through with the money.”
She typed I accept and hit se
nd before her brain could reiterate all the reasons why she shouldn’t.
Chapter Eight
Rafe watched Chelsea emerge from the waves, tug her white bikini bottoms into place, and wring the water from her long, loose hair. The sunset turned the sky behind her pink and orange, but he had a hard time focusing on nature’s show because The Chelsea Show commanded his full attention.
She made her way up the beach, smiled at a pair of kids playing in the sand, and then strolled to the spot where she’d dropped her beach bag. When she bent and searched the bag for her towel, an almost painful bolt of lust shot through him. She hadn’t spotted him yet, so he let his eyes linger. Memories of her laid out for him, moving under him, coming around him, had predictable effects, and made it harder than it should have been to cross the sand to where she stood, still digging around in her bag.
Jesus, he needed to get her out from under his skin. Do what it took to scratch this incessant itch she stirred in him. The one only she could reach. Finding a mutually beneficial way to make it happen while accomplishing his primary goals was a stroke of genius, because he had to keep his sights on the deal.
Chelsea had cooperated, thank Christ, at least as far as the business goals went. She’d need some convincing to feel safe indulging in the rest, but he could offer her that security. This wasn’t going to blow up in their faces. She could trust him. A few days with her—a week, tops—and then they could both move on with their lives, satisfied and no worse for wear. He came around to face her at the same time she straightened, and her unsuspecting gaze collided with his.
All right, maybe a little worse for wear. It took every bit of discipline he owned not to let his eyes wander to where her tight nipples poked against her bikini top, practically daring him to look. Her eyes narrowed, as if she’d read his mind, and she draped her towel around her shoulders.
“Chelsea.”
“Mr. St. Sebastian.”
Compromising Her Position Page 5
