The Saint's Devilish Deal

by Kristina Knight

“Just prioritizing.”

  “Like you prioritized yesterday’s staff meeting?” She straightened from the door, taking a small step into the office.

  “Actually, my plan for today was to find a new bakery for the morning sweets.” He barely held back his smile when Esme blanched, guilt written all over her face. So, she was behind the bakery’s increased prices. “By the way, convincing already-scheduled guests to postpone their visit until your three month stint as boss arrives won’t help me pay this month’s bills. You do want there to be a villa to run in three months, don’t you?” She said nothing but her creamy skin stretched taut over her sculpted cheekbones. Dios, he really had to get over this attraction to her.

  Or hurry up and get her back in his bed.

  “Are you blaming me for guests canceling their registrations?” she asked sweetly. When Santiago only raised an eyebrow in response, she continued. “Do you really think I’m that stupid, Santiago? I may not have been born into the Cruz Resorts family, but I do know how to run a business. If you’d like a reference, call Dana in Bristol Bay.”

  “Six couples have canceled, Esmerelda. That isn’t a coincidence.”

  “Let me get this straight. You blamed Tobias for the Napa deal four years ago. Now you’re blaming me for canceling reservations I knew nothing about? Get a grip, Saint.” He frowned at her use of the old nickname. He'd hated the English-version of his name since they were children, insisting he was no saint and proving it with countless pranks. But the name stuck, no matter how un-saintly his actions. She crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot, in another sexy, stiletto number, against the hardwood floor. The metallic pink sucked him in for a minute before he pushed his mind out of her shoe and back to the conversation.

  “Fine, I advised Cori to raise her rates, but that was months ago, and it was across the board. All of the resorts in Vallarta probably received the same notice. The fact that she waited until now to do it isn’t my fault, but if you’d like I’ll pay the extra fee until we start making more money.”

  Santiago ran his hand through his hair. “I don’t want your money, pequeña.”

  “No, you want my villa. Why don’t you tell me what’s really going on here?”

  His phone bleeped. Santiago glanced at the display and hit the ignore key, sending the call to voicemail. Playing resort manager was one thing. Answering that particular call quite another.

  He needed to change tactics. Santiago needed Esme’s support for the rest of the staff to fall in line; it was the only way he would win. “Don’t you think, in light of the cancellations, that the smart thing would be running the villa as a team, no matter who is in charge?”

  She clenched her hands into fists. “Easy to say when you’re the one running things and making accusations, isn’t it? Why don’t we stick with what Constance wanted? You run things for three months and then I’ll clean up your mess.”

  Santiago bit back a smile. Working closely with Esme was the best way to keep tabs on everything she planned. With the added benefit of having a sexy office partner to look at when things got boring. He took a step forward and she immediately backed up to the wall. Nervous, was she?

  “Since you’re so interested in my plans for the day, this afternoon I’ll make a few phone calls to friends on the circuit to get some guests in the door. A few radio and magazine ads in San Diego and Mexico City should fill out the rest of my three-month calendar nicely.” He ticked ideas off on his fingers as they came to him. Why was it that his brain only fired on all cylinders when he was arguing with Esme? “Since we’re talking about teamwork, however, Cori is the best confectioner in Vallarta, so maybe you could have one more conversation with her about her prices?”

  “And what do I get if I help you now? Run out of town once this ridiculous six-month arrangement is over?” She cocked her head to the side as if figuring him out was as hard as an advanced math placement test. “Yesterday, if you can think back that far, you told the chef to change the menu to cold sandwiches and beer, instructed housekeeping to spend less time in the rooms, and ignored Jack’s request for a new pool filter.” She ticked his perceived slights off on her fingers. “What are you planning for today? Turning guests away rather than checking them in?”

  “As far as the pool is concerned, the new filter arrived this morning.” He took a step toward her but she sidestepped, keeping a chair between them. Fine by him. He’d probably throttle her if she let him too close to her now. “By decreasing the amount of time the maids spend in our guests’ rooms we are forcing them to be more efficient—”

  “Or to leave linens unchanged,” she interrupted.

  Santiago carried on, talking over her. “I estimate that for every fifteen minutes they don’t spend in-room, we’re saving about two hundred dollars in wages and electricity. That’s per day—not a huge amount, but it adds up. We’re also making it easier for the guests to come and go.” He stepped around the chair but she countered, maneuvering herself behind Constance’s desk. “Unless you want unhappy, inconvenienced guests writing up complaints about our establishment on every message board they can find, hmmm?”

  “No, I’ll leave that job up to your brother. Did you ever consider, before blaming me, he was behind the cancellations?” She rallied, placing both hands on the chair back she leaned forward. “Even you can’t expect our guests to spend a thousand dollars a night for cold sandwiches and beer.”

  “I was thinking more like twenty-five-hundred per night.” Santiago bit back another smile when her eyes widened at the number he threw out. Arguing with Esme had always been fun. He took another step toward her, mimicking her pose across the chair until they were nearly nose to nose. “But if you check the register you’ll see that we are the only full-time residents, and I could use your help, if you’re interested in teaming up to whip this place into shape.” A look of unease flickered across her face. She pushed back from the desk, stepping toward the door. He knew she wasn’t in physical fear of him, so what was it? Maybe she wasn’t as immune to him as she pretended to be. Now, that was an interesting thought.

  She crossed her arms over her chest once more. “We could still get last minute stopovers. People on daytrips or taking an unplanned vacation along the coast,” she said, the confidence in her voice belied by the fact that she wouldn’t meet his gaze. And her constantly tapping toes.

  “Perhaps. But we need more than a few random stopovers. We need a makeover of this entire place. Everything must go, Esmerelda,” he said and bit back a sigh as her face blanched.

  “You can’t do that, Santiago. Forget for a minute that you hate this place. There isn’t money for renovations right now.”

  He shrugged one shoulder. It wasn’t hatred of Casa Constance. The feelings he had for this place were much more convoluted than that. But there was no need to go there now. “There is, if we’re careful.” No need to tell her there was plenty of money at this point because he’d filled the coffers.

  “Even renovated, you can’t expect guests to pay that kind of money for white bread, peanut butter, and beer.”

  He wondered how long it would take for her to ask what his idea of teamwork was. He already knew how he would answer her.

  “As far as Gloriana’s kitchen is concerned, why waste money on supplies that won’t be enjoyed? You and I don’t need a five-course meal every night. Besides, I am quite comfortable eating a cold sandwich in the kitchen while she uses the extra time to develop new and innovative dishes which will please our guests’ palates. It might even increase the number of reservations from the locals at our weekend dinner services and Sunday brunches.”

  “But—”

  “No buts, pequeña. This is my time in charge—unless you decide to take me up on my teamwork idea.” No harm reminding her that they didn’t have to be at war for the next six months. Even if watching her work up a good mad had him feeling a little uncomfortable below the equator. “Feel free to let the staff wander aimlessly around the guest rooms
and to have Gloriana prepare thousand-dollar dinners for nobody on your own dime. Not mine, and certainly not Constance’s.”

  “Well. . . well, stop calling me pequeña, I’m not seven years old any longer.” Fire flashed in her eyes, not from anger this time, but from exactly which emotional touchstone Santiago wasn’t certain.

  He ran his index finger along her jaw, breathing in the sweet-but-spicy scent of eucalyptus that had always enveloped her.

  “A status I am well aware of, Esmerelda.” His skin tightened. Her mouth fell into a smooth, surprised O at his touch, and his blood began to simmer. Her cheeks pinked up and her breaths came in short puffs as his index finger traced her lower lip, starting a slow burn at the tips of his fingers. The simmer went straight to boil. He tried to pull back. Dios, he tried, but her tongue flicked against her pouting lower lip. In and out in a heartbeat, pushing Santiago way past his limit.

  He imagined her tongue tangoing with his in the hammock beneath the palms poolside. Trailing down his chest as she tasted him. Would it be like before? Better? Personally, he couldn’t imagine better but she was too tempting not to do a little tasting of his own. He anchored his finger under her chin and pushed up so that he got the full effect of her mesmerizing, shamrock eyes. Her pupils dilated and she swayed toward him. Leaning down, Santiago pressed a kiss to her jaw, her sweet lips. The feel of her soft skin urged him to find that hammock or any other nearby edifice where he could get her on her back. Daring him to go much farther than the simple brushing of his lips against hers. He didn’t dare. Not just yet.

  “But ‘small one’ is not the only definition of the word.” He breathed the words against the sensitive skin of her neck and stepped back, leaving her swaying in his wake.

  Oh yeah, she wasn’t nearly as immune to him as she pretended to be. Maldito, neither was he to her. Seducing Esme, which seemed like the perfect solution to their problems five minutes ago, wouldn't be nearly as simple as he'd envisioned. They were both likely to go down in flames, and where would that leave Constance’s villa?

  Chapter Three

  Three grueling hours passed before Esme ventured back into the lobby. Her new plan was simple: focus on the wall behind his head, admit he was right, and ask about his ideas for working as a team. And now here she was, fidgeting outside the closed office door like an unruly child afraid of being grounded.

  Lord, but he looked good in a suit. She shook herself. Stop thinking of his looks and start focusing on the villa, Esmerelda.

  She fiddled with the cuff of her navy blue suit, switching her balance from her left foot to the right. The crisp suit, deep pink shell, and strappy sandals made her feel feminine but in charge. Amethyst earrings deepened the green of her eyes.

  Come on, E. This is as good as your armor is going to get, now let’s go charm the charmer.

  She knocked lightly once. No response, not even a slight creak of the desk chair. Esme pressed her ear to the door. Was he ignoring her?

  Reaching for the doorknob, she twisted it right and then left. It didn’t give. Locked? He had locked her out of her own office? This was utterly ridiculous. He couldn’t shut her out of the running of the villa because it was his time in charge. What did that say about teamwork?

  Esme spun around and stomped over to the front desk where Constance kept a spare key. If Santiago were trying to shut her out, he would have to do better than locking a single door. She pawed through three drawers and one shelf before she found the key in the cash drawer under a mountain of American pennies and quarters, Canadian nickels, and other change she didn’t recognize. She should take the collection, which filled the bottom of an entire drawer, to the bank to replenish the dwindling petty cash box.

  “I see things are progressing well between you and my brother,” said a deep voice. Esme froze. Tobias Cruz. He lounged in a chair near the front door, set the magazine in his hands aside and stood. How long had he been there? There was no need to ask why – he must be waiting for Santiago.

  She should have trusted her instincts rather than buying into Santiago’s assurances that he wanted to repay Constance’s kindness. She was a fool.

  Tobias, his dark gaze so similar to Santiago’s that she nearly had to look twice, stalked across the tile floor.

  “I’ve been listening to the gossip for days now, but I didn’t believe Constance would be stupid enough to leave you two to fight over ownership of this villa.” Tobias waved his hand in a dismissal of Constance’s pride and joy. Of her home. “But then, people do strange things when they’re sick and tired. So, what is the plan? Are you going to fight against my brother as if you’re both still schoolchildren? Locking each other out of rooms? The financial reward for admitting defeat now will be much higher than in six months.”

  Esme realized she had the key to Constance’s office pointed at his chest like a saber and quickly lowered her arm. Nothing like being caught with her hand in the proverbial cookie jar. His mouth twisted into a menacing grin as he stepped up to the desk. Esme fought against her instinct to retreat, closing her fist around the key as if it alone could anchor her to the villa.

  “If you’re here to request a room, we’re at capacity.” Esme smiled, praying he hadn’t noticed the empty car park. “Why don’t you try us again in six months? By then I’ll be running things without the nuisance of any Cruz.” She cocked her head as if inspecting his countenance. “You’ll have to leave your massive ego at the door, but the rest of you could fit nicely here.”

  “You won’t catch me within ten miles of this place in six months’ time.” He laughed at her.

  “Could I have that in writing?”

  He went on as if she’d said nothing. “Because in six months Casa Constance will no longer exist.” He turned, surveying the room, distaste at the décor evident in the pursing of his lips. “This shabby inn will be another Cruz Resort, decorated to reflect the exquisite tastes of my moneyed guests. Guests who fill my pockets with their hard-earned cash. How did they pay Constance? Oh, yes, with their sad stories.”

  Esme clenched her jaw. He saw his guests as nothing more than cash cows? She knew she shouldn’t be surprised and yet. . . wasn’t this exactly how Eduardo wanted both of his sons to act?

  “I wonder if your guests know what you really think of them?”

  “Cruz Resorts guests don’t care what anyone thinks of them. That is the difference between us. Constance always thought her guests needed handholding and talking to, when all any vacationer really needs is another reason to spend money. I thought you would have learned that in Napa.”

  “You know, Tobias, I really didn’t believe I could think less of you and Cruz Resorts. And then you opened your mouth. Feel free to see yourself out. Now.”

  Tobias walked to the entryway, ran his large hands over the doorjamb and turned. “Between my brother’s inability to stick with a project and your inability to run an efficient inn, I’ll take ownership of this slice of the Mexican Riviera before the summer is out. If you need a job, we always have openings in housekeeping.”

  The insult sent fingers of rage down Esme’s spine. She straightened behind the front desk, glad for the four-inch stiletto heels that pushed her to nearly six feet tall.

  “I am more than happy to clean Cruz Resorts straight out of Puerto Vallarta, but I don’t need a Cruz Resorts paycheck to do that. As for Santiago, I didn’t realize that a number one, worldwide ranking in surfing made one inadequate,” Esme said, wondering even as the words passed her lips why she was defending Santiago. But she couldn’t stop. “I’d say the millions in endorsement deals and tournament wins would have shown you that Santiago has much more to offer Cruz Resorts or Casa Constance or whatever business he chooses to run than you ever gave him credit for.”

  Anger flashed behind Tobias’s smoldering gaze. “How certain are you that my brother won’t cut out on the villa to go surf the Indian Ocean? You should sell to me now. I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “Casa Constance isn’t
for sale, Tobias. And the lady asked you to leave.” Santiago stepped around the corner before Esme could round the front desk and physically show Tobias the door. His hand-tooled leather loafers clacked against the hardwood floor with an angry, staccato sound. He looked like a sexy version of Lucifer in the tailored suit, the pin stripe making his tan look even deeper. Where had he been that he needed to wear a suit rather than this usual board shorts and sandals attire?

  He continued, “The villa wasn’t for sale when Constance was running things two weeks ago and it isn’t now that I’m running things. I see you found the door, feel free to use it.” Santiago strode behind the front desk to stand beside Esme. She supposed they looked like a united front, but a sneaky voice reminded her this was a competition with the villa as the ultimate prize.

  “Ponce,” Tobias said, grinning. The last time she’d heard Tobias use the nickname, Santiago had dragged him to the ground until he swore never to call him “fifth-born”—the equivalent of “baby,” since Santiago was the fifth and final Cruz son—again. She watched the two closely, seeing no sign of anything other than sibling rivalry. “You will sell, ponce, because this is not the life you want. Why don’t you sell now and get it over with?”

  Tobias watched them carefully for a full minute—Esme watched the wall clock over his right shoulder—before turning on his heel and walking away. She breathed a sigh of relief. Long after his footfalls stopped echoing in the hall, they stood side by side behind the front desk.

  The perfect united front.

  Several minutes later, still standing side by side, Esme realized that at some point Santiago had taken her hand and was now carelessly caressing her thumb with his. She snatched her hand away.

  “Where have you been?”

  Santiago rolled his eyes. “No more lectures about how proper business people construct their days, Esmerelda, I’ve had enough. I’m even wearing a suit. Don’t push me.”

  He pulled at the tie around his neck as if it was suffocating him. How could he look so divine—the suit somehow showed off more of his surfer physique than board shorts and tight tees did—and be so uncomfortable at the same time? Esme’s cheeks flushed and her fingers itched to straighten the tie. Or remove it completely along with the rest of his clothes. God, she had to get a handle on this physical reaction. Esmerelda Quinn was over Santiago Cruz, his ability to under-react to almost every life situation, and his surfer-god looks. She most definitely was. Not. Looking.