Compromising Her Position

by Samanthe Beck

  A new message started.

  Hello.

  Chelsea. The background echo told him she’d called from her car. The lack of preamble told him she was holding a grudge. Her voice sounded a little huskier than normal, which brought his dream back in full force.

  I trust you’re feeling better.

  Pissed, but ever polite. Her faultless manners almost made him smile.

  The meeting went well. They agreed to transfer the easement in exchange for…

  She drove through a dead zone, he didn’t catch what she said.

  …subject to St. Sebastian’s approval, of course. I’ve already spoken to the Templetons and the attorneys, and new documents are in the works.

  I’ll send you a draft as soon as I have one. Good-bye.

  He called her back, but the call immediately went to voicemail. After five minutes, he tried again, but got the same result. Was this her passive-aggressive way of barricading him from her personal life? Fine. They had business to discuss. He called her office. Lynette picked up after three rings and informed him Chelsea had gone home sick and “sounded terrible.”

  Shit. He’d given her his flu. Everything else instantly shifted to the back-burner—complications, negotiations, the entire deal. He dropped the phone on the bed and headed to the shower.

  An hour later he stood under the stingy overhang above the door to Chelsea’s apartment. It took some time, but she finally answered his knock, and guilt tore into him at the sight of her. Bleary-eyed, flushed, wrapped in a cloud of a robe that covered her to mid-calf, and shivering despite the bulk of the garment. She definitely had his flu, except while the bug had hit him like a two-by-four it had flattened her like a freight train.

  He stepped inside, picked her up, and kicked the door shut.

  “What are you doing here?” The sexy, husky phone voice had devolved into a hoarse whisper.

  “Returning the favor,” he muttered, and carried her down a short hall to the only logical place for her bedroom. He got a blurred impression of wood floors, blank white walls, and box-store rattan furniture as he strode into the little bedroom and deposited her on her already rumpled sheets. Three guesses as to where she’d spent the afternoon. She shivered like he’d dropped her onto a frozen lake in Siberia.

  A bottle of water and plastic shot glass from an over-the-counter cold and flu medicine sat on the nightstand. Nothing to knock out the virus, just manage the symptoms so she could sleep. He sat down next to her and ran his hand over her forehead, brushing her hair back from her face. “I don’t suppose you saw a doctor?”

  “No,” she murmured, not opening her eyes. “Too tired.”

  He fished his phone and Nick Bancroft’s card from his pocket, and placed a call.

  Minutes later he disconnected. Nick hadn’t been especially surprised to hear from him, and had agreed to come right away.

  He started to tell Chelsea, but she burrowed under her blanket and said, “I’m s-so cold.”

  No, she was burning up, but he remembered the frozen, achy feeling. “I know.” He aligned himself beside her in the bed, his front to her back, and gathered her close. She probably only sought his warmth, but she hugged his arm to her chest and clung to him like a little girl with a teddy bear. “The doctor will be here soon.”

  She mumbled something that sounded like, “Tell him I can’t sail today,” and fell back to sleep.

  No problem. He’d make sure Nick got the message. No sailing with Doctor Feelgood, today or ever.

  He roused himself to answer a knock at the door a short while later, and experienced competing feelings of relief and annoyance at the sight of Nick standing on the doorstep. Yes, he was there to help, and if the good doctor had never hit on Chelsea, Rafe would probably have considered him a perfectly decent human being, but right now his whole “dedicated savior” image put Rafe on edge. Rumpled brown hair—too busy saving lives to bother with a trim—and clean hospital scrubs—wouldn’t want anyone to forget what he did for a living—and a calm, reliable smile. Why did he have to come off so fucking smug?

  Because he senses you flew down here to be her rescuer, and fucked up in every way imaginable? He’d be right.

  “You look much better,” the guy observed…smugly.

  Rafe stepped back and turned to lead the way to Chelsea’s bedroom. “Yay for me.”

  Nick laughed. “Flu’s been a problem on the island this winter.”

  Rafe paused at Chelsea’s bedroom door and glanced back at him. “But now it’s Chelsea’s problem, and that’s on me.”

  “Probably, yeah,” Nick agreed, smiling like a man enjoying an advantage. “But I’ll have her feeling better in no time.” With that, he brushed past Rafe and into the bedroom.

  Oh, hell no, he wasn’t standing in the hall while Nick played doctor. He walked to the far side of the bed and leaned over her. “Chelsea,” he called softly.

  “Hmm?” Heavy eyelids opened, and she looked at him. “Rafe,” she breathed out, just above a whisper.

  “Hey, beautiful. How would you feel about letting Nick check you out?”

  She closed her eyes, shook her head, and coughed. “I’m tired. You go ’head.”

  Rafe kissed her flushed cheek and then sat near the foot of the bed while Nick sat down on the other side, close to the patient.

  “Hi, Chelsea. Nice to see you again. Okay if I move you around a little to get a better look?”

  She coughed a few times—a dry, hacking sound—opened her eyes and nodded. Then Nick scooted her into a sitting position. Chelsea’s robe gaped, revealing a lot of skin, and Rafe realized she didn’t have much of anything on underneath. The possessive feeling swept over him again, stronger than ever. He reached under the blankets, found her bare foot, and held it while Nick did the eyes-ears-nose-and-throat bit.

  The possessiveness spiked dangerously close to violence when the doctor slid his stethoscope into the front of her robe, and moved it over her chest, listening to her heart and lungs. Chelsea’s cough cut that phase of the exam short, and Rafe mentally kicked his own ass. She sounded awful. She needed help, not some knee-jerk Neanderthal reaction from him.

  Nick sat back and draped the stethoscope around his neck. “It was nice of you to tend to patient zero here.” He tipped his head toward Rafe.

  Her eyes darted to Rafe, then away, as she settled against the pillows. “I manage the resort. Guest welfare concerns us.”

  “Are you familiar with the expression no good deed goes unpunished?”

  “Story of my life.”

  “This chapter includes a first-class case of the flu.” Nick stood and tucked the bedcovers around her. “The good news is the patient will survive, and I give you the same prognosis.” He took a small amber bottle from his bag, shook two capsules out and handed them to her. Then he handed her the bottle of water from her nightstand. “Same thing I gave Mr. St. Sebastian.” He set the pill bottle on the small table. “Follow the instructions on the label. I’ll call tomorrow to check in, but reach out to me if your symptoms get worse.”

  She swallowed the pills, chased them with an extra sip of water, and then murmured her thanks as she settled back against the pillows.

  Rafe walked him out, noticing the starkness of the bare walls and generic Aloha-Hawaii furnishings. No pictures, no personal touches. Chelsea didn’t live here, she merely inhabited the space. Even he, who traveled more than he stayed put, needed a place to escape and recharge. Where was Chelsea’s? Not Montenido anymore. Not here. Did she have a place she considered home?

  “Thanks for coming,” he said when they reached the front door. “My office will get in touch to settle the bill.”

  Nick paused at the door, one shoulder propped against the frame like he had all the time in the world. “I’m not worried. So, the deal with you and Chelsea is—?”

  “She’s mine.” Never mind keeping the Neanderthal in check.

  The doctor’s eyebrows rose at the blunt declaration. He straightened and shrug
ged. “I’m not going to test the truth of that statement because I place a high value on life and limb, but I will say I don’t think she’s on the same page. She told me you two were friends. You’re headed back to the mainland soon, and I’m not the only single guy in Maui.” With that, he smiled and stepped out onto the landing. “Aloha.”

  Rafe closed the door and tamped down on the urge to kick it. No, they were not on the same page. He wanted more. Where Chelsea was concerned, he always wanted more. He didn’t know what the fuck more entailed, but that’s what he wanted. What did she want?

  Worst case scenario, she still wanted Barrington. Everything inside him rejected the notion, despite the telephone conversation he’d overheard. Could be his ego refused to entertain the possibility he could lose out to the useless prick, but beyond that, carrying on an illicit, long-distance relationship with a man who’d cheated on her and was now poised to start a family with the other woman simply didn’t fit Chelsea’s character. So no, she wasn’t cheating with her ex, and he doubted she’d welcome him back into her life in any capacity, but that didn’t mean she didn’t still harbor feelings for the man. Her head might insist things with Barrington irrevocably ended the moment he took up with Cindy, but what about her heart?

  His jealousy surged anew in the face of uncertainty. The heart followed whatever perverse, masochistic path it followed. He ought to know. Look where his was leading him.

  Even if her ex didn’t have any lingering hold on her heart, it wasn’t exactly his for the taking. She sought no-strings-attached sex, without the risk of a messy emotional investment. The very thing he specialized in, and which now sounded empty and unsatisfying as hell.

  Want more from her? Prove you’ve got more to give. Convince her this thing is worth bending a few rules for.

  Fine idea in theory, but assuming the deal was back on track, it provided him just a couple weeks to change her mind. He swung into her small, galley-style kitchen and took another bottle of water from her fridge. His phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket and checked the screen. The battery icon hovered at 20 percent. Her phone sat charging on the counter separating the living area from the kitchen. A tap confirmed hers had a full charge. He switched them out, and was about to put hers on the counter next to his, when the display of new emails caught his eye, and, more specifically, Cindy Ruffy’s name.

  For someone consistently behind on her job responsibilities, she’d still found the time to email Chelsea. Repeatedly. Without stopping to question the ethics, he scrolled through a series of harassing, accusatory communications. All personal in nature, all sent from her Las Ventanas account, and all a clear violation of the St. Sebastian communication policy.

  The irony of a woman in Cindy’s glass house flinging stones like, “You’re a selfish, cheating bitch,” and “You don’t care who you hurt,” pulled his lips into a grim smile.

  Too bad irony didn’t satisfy the situation, but frankly, neither his anger at the thought of Chelsea wading through this particular sewer of emails, nor the corporation’s reputation, could settle for anything except Cindy’s immediate dismissal.

  Only the “immediate” part of the plan gave him pause. Firing her long-distance from Maui wouldn’t work. He forwarded the messages to his email, debated his options for a moment, and then sucked it up and placed a call.

  His father answered on the second ring.

  “Where are you right now?”

  “Good day to you too, Rafe. I am well, thank you for asking. And you?”

  He ignored the manners lesson his father attempted to deliver. “Are you at Las Ventanas?”

  “Yes. Your sister has accomplished very impressive changes, but I hope the integration is not purely superficial—”

  “I need a favor.”

  “You may not borrow the jet.”

  “I don’t need the jet,” he said with all the patience he could manage, and refrained from mentioning he wouldn’t require his father’s permission if he did. “I need you to fire someone.”

  “Picking up dry cleaning, signing for a package…these are favors. Acting as your hatchet man is not a favor. It is me doing your dirty work. Do it yourself.”

  “I can’t. I’m in Maui.”

  “Because of the Tradewinds fiasco? I told you to walk away.”

  “The easement is resolved. Apparently the deal liaison worked her magic and the owners agreed to a transfer.”

  “The woman displays talent. Why isn’t she working for us? We need a general manager at Las Ventanas.”

  “It’s complicated.” And off topic, and nothing he hadn’t already considered, but Chelsea wouldn’t agree to return to Las Ventanas while Paul or Cindy remained. Fifty percent of that roadblock was about to be removed, assuming he could get his father to step up. “The point is I’m not there to do the termination myself.”

  “Get Barrington to do it. Make him useful.”

  “Impossible. The employee we’re letting go is his fiancée, Cindy Ruffy.”

  A long moment of silence greeted that announcement, and then, “You wish for me to fire the head of human resources mere weeks after she announced her pregnancy? Please consider the timing. Why not wait until she’s in the delivery room, having the baby?”

  Rafe gritted his teeth and let the sarcasm slide. “I understand the optics of the situation, Luc, but the termination is for cause and waiting is not an option. Waiting implies St. Sebastian endorses her behavior, and we don’t. She sent numerous inappropriate emails to the former assistant manager using her Las Ventanas email account.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “I’m staring at them as we speak.” He paused, crossed his fingers and hoped Luc didn’t require any additional information. He’d just as soon not explain tricky details like how the deal liaison on the Tradewinds acquisition turned out to be the runaway assistant manager from Las Ventanas.

  Luc cursed. The single word conveyed his frustration at being pulled into the situation. “You bought this hornet’s nest when you bought Las Ventanas.”

  “Yes.”

  “At last we agree on one thing. You realize she will likely sue us for wrongful termination?”

  “We agree on two things,” Rafe replied. “But she’ll lose. The emails speak for themselves. Buy her cooperation with a severance package if you need to, but make sure she agrees to refrain from contacting the former assistant manager again.”

  Luc sighed. “Send me the emails, and the termination paperwork. I will do this for you. Once.”

  “Thank you.” Hopefully the words rang sincere, because much as he hated asking his father for assistance, he was thankful.

  “You’re welcome. Unlike Barrington, I can be useful. Please advise Miss Wayne so she can concentrate on finalizing our deal.”

  So much for keeping the tricky details to himself. No matter. As long as Cindy left Las Ventanas today with a security escort by her side and her personal effects in a box, mission accomplished.

  His father might not admire the timing, but he’d supported Rafe’s decision, and that felt strangely like a triumph.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The brush of a cool palm against her cheek pulled Chelsea the rest of the way out of the comfortable fog she’d been lingering in, just between asleep and awake. She blinked Rafe’s face into focus, and dealt with the reckless acceleration in her pulse. A wave of thick, dark hair fell over his forehead. Stubble shadowed his jaw. The corner of his mouth tilted up, but the result couldn’t be classified as a smile thanks to the furrow between his brows.

  She pushed herself into a sitting position and realized she felt a little better. He was to thank, but what came out of her mouth instead, was, “You didn’t have to stay.”

  He tucked her hair behind her ear. “I got you sick.”

  She steeled herself against his touch, because her heart wanted to read too much into the offhand gesture. “I assumed the risk when I pushed my way into your villa.”

  “About that�
�”

  Last night sat well down on the list of topics she wished to rehash. “Did you get my message about the easement?”

  He eyed her for a moment, but went along with her change of topic. “I caught the resolved part, but not the details. Did they go for a payoff?”

  “They weren’t interested in money at all. They’re all about the land.”

  One black brow arched. “They want some other piece of the property? St. Sebastian won’t agree to that.”

  “No, no. They only care about their piece. The MILC representatives simply hope to preserve a slice of old Hawaii. They don’t want the trail paved over or, like you said, turned into a super-highway. They’d like the passage maintained exactly as it is now. They believe the land, preserved in a natural state, serves as a living memorial to their ancestors, who carved the trail hundreds of years ago.”

  “That’s it? Keep the path as it is?”

  “I may have committed you to one tiny additional thing.”

  “Describe tiny.”

  “The MILC representatives weren’t very reassured by the idea of a signed piece of paper outlining everyone’s good intentions. They said a piece of paper ends up in a drawer gathering dust. People forget. I couldn’t argue, considering the Templetons basically forgot about the conveyance restriction they signed. I suggested we install a plaque at the entrance to the trail, to honor the original islanders who forged the path, and their descendants, who graciously share it with visitors.”

  She thought he’d be ecstatic, but he stared at her for so long she thought perhaps she’d made the stupidest move since leaving a Santa costume in Paul’s office. Finally, he said, “A plaque for the easement?”

  For God’s sake, she’d saved the deal, not to mention his shot at taking over the St. Sebastian empire. Didn’t that merit at least a smile? “Tradewinds will fund the design and installation. St. Sebastian will have to absorb the cost of future maintenance, which should be minimal. Is that a problem?”

  A sweep of his hand brushed the comment aside, and she remembered the feel of that hand sweeping over her bare skin. “No. You found a win for everyone. How can I show my appreciation?”