The Saint's Devilish Deal

by Kristina Knight

  Four years ago he’d romanced her with promises of a future. Now, he was blunt enough to tell her he wanted her in bed, no promises at all. Great sex aside—and, yeah, her body still remembered just how Santiago’s fingers could play her—she wasn’t the same foolish girl she’d been back then.

  And this time around no amount of work could create a buffer between herself and her memories.

  She picked at her navy skirt and finally admitted that since he’d pulled his Napa act, she had played it safe. Challenging jobs. Unchallenging men who didn’t make demands. Who didn’t ask questions and were certainly in no danger of stealing her already broken heart.

  Even Jason hadn’t broken her heart. Wounded her pride, yes. Surprised the hell out of her, of course. Since Napa and Santiago’s betrayal she prided herself on her ability to read people, but she didn’t see that Jason was using her. That she was the other woman, in danger of tearing apart a family.

  Coming home, she admitted, was as much about facing her past with Santiago as it was about the villa or Constance. Only he was actually here, not just a memory she could examine and then put away. In the flesh, offering her a trip into the past. Could she survive another pass?

  She’d nearly thrown herself into his arms twice, had been torn between rejoicing in seeing him again and hating that he was living in her home. In her room. She couldn’t do this for the next six months, so she had to decide now what she wanted: to have a fun fling that would leave her bandaging old scars or to desert Constance and the villa now.

  To have no place to belong.

  When this was over, whether she indulged in a summer fling or not, the villa wouldn’t be the same inviting respite.

  Esme watched the tide roll in, obliterating a sandcastle in its path. All her hard work erecting the barriers around her heart were of no more resistance to Santiago than those grains of sand to the rolling waves.

  Stop feeling sorry for yourself, E. Suck it up and move on.

  There was no choice. She couldn’t leave her villa to the likes of Eduardo Cruz. Another wave crashed in on the sandcastle, flattening the last lump of wall into nothing more than a few hundred grains of sand the pipers scavenged. One bird frayed the corner of a left-behind flag, unraveling it as it flew to the clouds.

  Santiago wanted three hours of her time. Her skin heated at the thought. Three hours was too long; she would negotiate to two. Two hours away from the villa, but two hours when Santiago would not be there, either. And she would make sure those two hours were so filled with adventure—the kind not found in a bed—that she would keep her heart safe, too. She could make this work in her favor.

  Esme stood, gathered her suit jacket and sandals, and took a deep breath.

  Nothing mattered except holding on to Constance’s villa.

  Not even a re-broken heart.

  *

  Santiago sat perfectly still behind the massive desk in Constance’s office. He’d expected every reaction to his plan. Except the reaction Esme gave. She'd run from the office as if her feet were on fire but not before he saw her expression. The same defeated look he'd seen in Napa when Tobias arrived at the bank.

  Dios, you’re a bastard.

  Just like his father. This was how Eduardo’s plans to have Casa began all those years ago. He’d offered the world to Magdalena’s father so he would approve of their marriage. Once gained, he’d done his best to destroy Magdalena so he could have this small piece of the Mexican Riviera. Magdalena thwarted him and from that moment Eduardo did his level best to ruin her. Ruin Casa and Constance, too. And now Santiago was doing the same thing, pretending to give Esme everything she wanted. In reality he would snatch it from her.

  Marquez, dressed in green and blue board shorts and a tee shirt, knocked on the door, dropped a stack of mail on the desk, and exited just as quickly. His appearance shocked Santiago.

  “Why are you here?” Santiago asked as he caught up with Marquez at the front desk. The older man was tanned from the summer sun, his black hair was highlighted from time spent outdoors, and wrinkles fanned out from his eyes. Veins stood out from his skinny arms and the Birkenstocks on his feet were well worn, nearly falling apart. Santiago couldn’t remember ever seeing him dressed so casually, not even when he taught Santiago to surf all those years ago.

  “The light on the hill is tremendous today and I wanted to take advantage. I saw the mail at the front desk and decided to save a few steps for Con. . .” The older man shook his head. “I used to do that a lot for her. It is so strange that she is no longer here.” Marquez picked up an oblong, leather satchel leaning against the side of the gleaming mahogany. “Should I leave the mail now that you and Esmerelda are running the business?”

  Santiago waved his hand. “Of course not. Thank you.”

  He glanced at the clock. Nearly noon. Motioning the other man back into the office, Santiago turned away. “We’re only beginning to see the problems that Constance’s illness has caused the villa,” he began. Marquez frowned as he sat, putting the portfolio of art supplies beside him on the floor. “Constance valued your hard work, but with Esmerelda and me in the office during the daytime hours, we don’t need a full time reception worker as well.”

  Marquez nodded, sadness filling his features. Santiago’s stomach clenched. This was why he didn’t like traditional business settings. Why he preferred working alone to working in crowded office buildings. Because sooner or later the boss had to be The Boss.

  “I feared a change would come once Constance left.” The older man shifted in his seat.

  Santiago was shocked by the graciousness of the man. He knew he shouldn’t be. This was Marquez, who took time to play catch when Santiago was a boy. Who taught Santiago to surf. And now he was being sacked by the very kid he’d been so kind to over the years. Santiago clenched his fists, his heart telling him not to fire Marquez but his head reminding him everyone would be out of a job in six months one way or another.

  He couldn’t do it. Not while Marquez was sitting across the desk from him. It was cowardly, Santiago knew, but there it was. “We still have a few hours for you, if you’d like to run the place while I teach Esme how to para-sail and take her on a canopy tour.” The words were out before Santiago could stop them. Relief crossed the older man’s face.

  “I would like that.” He picked up his bag and stood. “And I would like to paint on the hill in the mornings, when the light is good, if that is acceptable?”

  Santiago nodded and Marquez left. Well, that went better than I imagined.

  “It will get harder, you know,” Esme said from the doorway, pushing Santiago’s senses into full alert. She was here for one of two reasons: to accept his proposal or continue their minor war. He refused to acknowledge just how important her return was and instead lounged back in his chair as if he fully expected her to be at his office door.

  “I realize this was one of the simpler boss exercises,” he said. Dios, but she looked good. Only three days in Puerto Vallarta and already those irresistible freckles across her nose were deepening. Her sandals dangled from her fingertips, and her jacket was draped across the other arm leaving her creamy shoulders sunkissed. She should look disheveled but instead appeared completely put together.

  “Going forward we may have to fire more employees to cut our budget and I expect none of them to be as easygoing as Marquez,” Esme said, as if he hadn’t the slightest notion how to run a business. He supposed he deserved that since nine-tenths of the world, his family included, believed he’d immersed himself in the no worries, no work, no pressure life of a professional surfer. They didn't know the pain of getting caught under a wave, the training it took to stand up on a board in the middle of a crashing ocean. He'd never cared what anyone thought of his decision.

  Until now.

  He nodded at her assumption as Esme placed her suit jacket just so on the back of a chair before sitting to pull on her strappy sandals. Her shell pink toes wiggled and despite the fact that he preferred
his women to be bold with their makeup, he felt his groin tighten. Tiny grains of sand slid from the bottom of her feet as she secured the straps. So she’d gone to the beach. Maybe there was more of the old Esmerelda hiding under those power suits than he originally thought. She finally sat back, crossed her legs, and tapped her fingers against the chair arm.

  “Your proposal is ridiculous.”

  He raised an eyebrow. Another unexpected reply. He waited a beat and the pulse at the base of her throat thrummed harder beneath her skin. Esme chewed on her lower lip for a second, and Santiago could see her mental armor being placed one piece at a time. Whatever she was about to say, it wouldn’t change his plans for Casa.

  “Ridiculous or not, my offer is all you have to work with,” he said, hating himself as she twisted the ring on her finger. He closed down his emotions. Esme couldn’t want the hassle that a small-time resort brought. He would buy her another place, a better place, far away from his interfering family. Returning the villa to Magdalena, giving her a refuge safe from Eduardo Cruz, might also return her strength. That must be his priority. “Unless you want my contacts with the rich and famous and their willingness to be parted from their money to squash your innkeeper’s hopes.” It was mean-spirited, but a little reminder of his sphere of influence was never a bad thing.

  She took a deep breath. “Two hours.”

  Santiago clenched his jaw. He would accept her offer, but it irked him.

  “Well then, Ms. Quinn, why don’t we have dinner to seal our fates?”

  “Dinner isn’t part of our deal, Santiago, we have plans to make.” She turned away, busying herself with her suit jacket.

  “We could discuss that ad campaign in more detail.” He dangled a carrot he knew she was powerless to resist. “Drawing in more guests over the next few months is crucial, you know, and with the crew arriving on Wednesday we need to have all our ducks in a row.”

  Esme replaced the jacket over the chair back and crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s barely noon, I’m certain we can find time to discuss your advertising campaign this afternoon. After all, our non-working-afternoon bargain doesn’t being until tomorrow.”

  “Ahhh, but I have plans for the afternoon. Since we have no guests arriving, my surfboard is calling.” He picked up the mail from the desk, shuffled through the correspondence and handed the stack of envelopes to her. “I’ve done my duty. Now, I’ll leave you to pen notes back to our satisfied guests and pull a few quotes from happy customers. Work fast, the restoration crews arrive in one hour. Bring four or five quotes to dinner with you. I’ll pick you up at six.” With that, he left the office, Esme gaping in his wake. He popped his head back around the corner, watching closely as she breathed deeply.

  Angry or frustrated? Both? The tick at her temple was more pronounced than ever. Definitely both. “Oh, Esmerelda, just so you know, a suit is not the proper attire for dinner in Puerto Vallarta.”

  Esmerelda clenched her jaw and flexed her fists but before she could reply he stepped out of the office and hurried to his room on the second floor, grinning as he went.

  *

  There was nothing here. Esme stacked the last customer letter with the others and sighed. No useable quotes. Nothing spectacular. She wanted to smack her head against Constance’s desk, but that would only result in worsening the ache hammering at her temples. She didn’t have time for a headache.

  The whine of a sander and movers reached her through the closed door and the noise of her radio. More of Santiago’s handiwork. He’d no sooner left the villa for parts unknown, AKA the four foot swells down the beach, than the workmen had arrived. Complete with a list of “renovations” and letter of approval signed by Santiago.

  Only, darn it, this was her home they were messing with. Her dusky red walls, her mahogany floorboards, her comfortable furniture. Constance wasn’t here to assuage her fears. Santiago wasn’t here to fight with. She couldn’t even settle into her favorite chair and have a good wallow the way she needed because her favorite chair—along with the sofas, end tables, and shelving units—were gone. A sharp odor reached her nostrils and Esme flinched. Turpentine?

  In a flash she was away from the desk and hurtling through the office. She skidded to a stop at the front desk and her eyes bugged. He was actually doing it. Changing her lovely villa into a polished, one-size-fits-all Cruz resort. One man worked a sander over the gleaming floorboards while several others rolled a deep grey paint over the walls. No. He’d taken her furniture, he couldn’t take her walls, too.

  Esme grabbed the key to Constance’s office and pocketed it. Then she hurried around the front desk to grab every loose paintbrush she could find. No one noticed her; it was as if she didn’t exist. She’d show them she did exist in about five minutes. Tossing the unused brushes into the office, she then stormed upstairs to her old bedroom, pulled off her pencil skirt and shell, and grabbed one of Santiago’s dress shirts from the closet. It hung nearly to her knees and the sleeves dragged so she rolled them up, then cinched the shirt with one of his ties.

  She caught sight of herself in the mirror and stopped cold. She looked like a seven-year-old raiding her father’s closet. Stop it, Esmerelda. Get out of his clothes and keep things businesslike and you’ll be fine. Esme tossed the shirt and tie on his bed, put her own clothes back on, and then pulled his shirt over them for protection from the paint and chemicals downstairs.

  Businesslike. Businesslike. Like he was keeping things businesslike by demanding she spend hours away from work each day.

  Returning downstairs, Esme grabbed first one paintbrush from a worker she didn’t recognize, then another. Amid cries of “Que?!” and “Para!” she grabbed the rest of the brushes, rolled them up in another of Santiago’s shirts, and locked them in her office.

  “No more painting, no more hauling until I get back,” she said, back to the door, pointing to first one worker and then another.

  “We are only doing our jobs,” a spindly man with a mullet said.

  “Feel free to take a break until I return, then.” She hurried out the terrace door.

  Hot summer sun beat down on the white sand beach, causing a war of feelings inside. On the one hand, she wanted to tear off down the beach and scream at Santiago until he agreed to leave her home alone. On the other hand, the hand holding her favorite silver Jimmy Choos—and she wasn’t sure when or why she’d picked them back up—she wanted to get off the beach and back to the relative safety of the office. The place she felt most in control.

  Except there were workmen even now waiting to restart the destruction of everything she held dear. So here she was, tracking down Santiago, the man Constance swore would help her save the villa. She twisted her lips. So far all he’d done was set her libido into overdrive.

  Esme shaded her eyes against the glare, saw a lone figure in the surf, and started walking. Finding Santiago on her beach should be much harder. There should be people everywhere, but the sand was empty, no umbrellas opened to shade vacationers. Only a lone beach towel and the man sitting on a surfboard a few yards from shore met her eyes.

  The sight of him, tanned legs dangling in the water, arms braced against the fiberglass board, stopped her heart for a second. A pair of Oakleys protected his eyes from the glare, longish, black hair flirted with the collar of his tee shirt, and his soaked board shorts outlined the muscles of his legs. A few more steps and she stood at the shoreline, just out of reach of the incoming tide. Waving her arms in the air, Esme called to him, but Santiago either didn’t hear her over the surf or chose to ignore her as his board rocked on the water. She checked her watch. No choice. It was a short drive into town; the workmen could potentially be back to work Santiago’s black magic on the villa any minute.

  Esme untied the paint-spattered tie, tossing it in a heap on Santiago’s towel. His shirt, now decorated with white and grey splotches, followed. She placed the shoes on top of the pile. Feeling only a little self-conscious, her bra and panties covered more t
han most bikinis anyway, she waded into the warm water. All too quickly she was chest-deep, standing beside Santiago’s board.

  “You promised.”

  “It isn’t time for dinner, pequeña, but you do look delicious,” he drawled, the words rolling off his tongue like the deepest of dark chocolates. Santiago didn’t spare her a glance, just kept staring out to sea.

  Esme’s fingers bit into the board as she leaned forward. “You can’t keep doing this, Santiago. Sitting for hours in the ocean won’t change what happened to you in Tahiti. Turning my lovely villa into some weird replica of a Cruz Resort won’t, either.”

  “I’m not turning Casa into a replica of my father’s businesses.” He sounded genuinely perplexed. “We agreed on an upgrade, to entice a wealthier clientele.”

  “Wrong. You agreed. You didn’t say anything about changing everything in my home.”

  “‘Everything must go.’ What part of that did you miss?”

  “I didn’t think you were serious. How are we going to completely renovate the villa in less than a week?”

  “Money changes things, Esme. It isn’t like you’ve been living there for the past few years. And you know what appeals as well as I. Wealthy vacationers don’t want homey. They don’t want Old Mexico. They want adventure, modern conveniences. And this isn’t your home. It’s your business.”

  “So you decided to do an Extreme Makeover without my consent? Without even asking me?”

  “You’re the one who said the first three-month stint as manager was mine.”

  “You’re the one who, not more than an hour ago, said we were in this together. And then you came out here to sulk because you’d rather be anywhere than here.”