“I’m fine, luv.”
He couldn’t look away from her. Her silk top clung to her slender curves. Her subtle fragrance of citrus and sunshine perfumed the air. She looked, well, smashing and quite enchanting.
“Honest. I was joking about the fussing.” His gaze veered to the buffet and beverage stations situated at strategic points along the deck. Dismissing his ankle with a wave, he asked, “Do you care for stuffed mushrooms or beef Wellington?”
Two hours later, Edward was relieved at a break from the swarm of outwardly good-natured acquaintances who had converged on them. He’d sensed a malevolence toward Maeve from a few women when they learned she worked for a company and didn’t own one. He knew Maeve heard the occasional murmurs of “Gold digger” from the way she gripped her hands together, and he had to refrain from lighting into the insensitive women.
“Ignore them, luv,” he whispered at one point as she curled her fingers tightly around his.
“I feel so unsophisticated,” she confessed. “Like I’m a silly girl playing dress-up in a world where I don’t belong.”
“You’re perfect. It’s them. They don’t belong in your world.” He sealed his assurance with a solid kiss.
Unlike the women, the men evidently agreed with Edward, showing a decided interest in Maeve. She accepted their over-the-top compliments, their gallant offers to fetch her plates of chocolate-dipped strawberries or a dozen French lemon tartes. With a flattering flush in her cheeks, she conversed with wit and self-assurance.
Now that they were finally alone for a beat, Edward asked if she wanted more sparkling water.
“Aye. Then can we please leave?” She sampled a last bite of strawberry, her mouth enticing, as rosy as her red-patterned blouse.
Her sparkling water forgotten for a minute, he pressed a kiss to her lips. “The problem with a yacht party is we’re stranded until the boat heads back to the dock. Since I figured Bentley would try to strand everyone out here until dawn, I hired our tender for the night. We can call for him to come back for us at any time.”
Edward circled back with her water a few minutes later, not pleased that Bentley had taken his place next to Maeve. The two of them were looking out at a calm sea. No waves, no white crests. Midnight and moonless, although the ocean mirrored the glitter from the yacht’s masthead and sidelights.
“Did you twist an offer of marriage from him yet?” Edward overheard Bentley ask Maeve before taking a gulp of whatever alcohol was in his high ball. Probably vodka.
Maeve kept her head high. “You’ve known Edward since your university days, so certainly you must realize no one can ‘twist’ anything out of him.”
Edward wedged himself between the two of them, forcing Bentley to step away.
“Back so soon?” Bentley said. “I was just asking Maeve about your relationship.”
“And Maeve wasn’t naïve enough to presume she had to acknowledge your disrespectful question.”
Undeterred, Bentley inquired, “So … this match arrangement. Do you two share a room?”
“We each have our own suite,” Maeve answered. She cloaked a pleading glimpse at Edward, then pointedly stared at the shore. It was high time they got off this yacht, she was silently telling him.
“You’re not sleeping together?”
“Maeve and I only met a few days ago,” Edward said.
“That’s never stopped you before.”
Edward’s heart pounded a furious beat against his ribs. Weighing his options, he decided not to end the night on a fistfight. With a slight inclination of his head along with a bland smile, he changed the subject. “Before we joined you tonight, Maeve and I discovered a beachfront property for sale.”
“Isn’t the Newell family wealthy enough? Why purchase another resort for Penelope and Edward?”
“Or for Merrimac,” Maeve put in. “My company is also searching for hotel property.”
Bentley sniffed his glass. “You’ll have little say. You’re only a mere purchasing agent.”
“Aye,” she agreed. “Although J and J Hospitality has saved Merrimac thousands of dollars through the years because of their low bids.”
“I’ve used them on occasion,” Bentley said. “They’ve never allowed my hotels reduced rates.”
“Maeve drives a tough bargain for the best price when dealing with suppliers for hotel seating and lighting.” With a playful grin, Edward raised her hand to his lips for a fleeting kiss. “She’s a skillful buyer.”
Bentley slammed back the rest of his drink. “I’m sure Merrimac’s accounting department is delighted, although we all like to generate a substantial profit in our businesses.”
A limo tender was speeding toward them. Edward wondered if maybe their driver, Timothe, had read Maeve’s mind. But it wasn’t theirs, so he pulled out his phone to text Timothe to come get them.
Maeve had also noticed the tender. “Are you expecting one more guest, Bentley?” she asked. “If so, he or she has redefined the phrase ‘fashionably late.’”
Maeve pulled her pashmina tight around her shoulders, and Edward tucked the ends around her waist. When had the air turned so bitter? he wondered, surveying the sky. All the stars were hidden behind a haze of black clouds. Friday, he remembered, called for showers.
Impatient for Timothe to arrive, he shifted. He was in a hurry to go back to the restful, familiar confines of La Bonaparte Resort, instead of being trapped with Bentley. Somehow, he vowed, he’d make tonight up to Maeve and atone for the behavior of his insolent friends.
“It is a she,” Bentley answered Maeve. “And fashionable is her middle name.”
“Did she travel far?” Maeve asked as the tender pulled up alongside the yacht and a woman stood up. She wasn’t the only one watching as the stunning, sensual woman in a form-fitting silver dress boarded the yacht.
Edward keyed in Timothe’s number again, willing his phone to connect faster.
“She sailed from Italy, chérie,” Bentley answered. “She summers in the Italian Alps and winters in Milan. Her family owns a conglomerate of high-fashion clothing stores, and she is the sole heiress.”
Edward swallowed hard, trying to get rid of the odd taste in the back of his throat.
“Italian Vogue will undoubtedly discover her, if they haven’t already.” Maeve watched as the woman glided toward them, waving and calling hello in Italian to various people. “Is she your super-model girlfriend?”
“Edward,” the woman called. “I’ve missed you!”
Edward’s head snapped up, and he found himself the center of too many people’s attention. Smug Bentley, acquaintances watching avidly, and wary Maeve. And Davinia, her smile as stiff as her tight dress.
“Why haven’t you answered when I’ve texted and called?” Davinia closed the distance between them. “I thought you fell off the planet this week, Edward.”
Stillness reigned, split only by the subtle motor of Timothe’s tender finally nearing the yacht.
“Didn’t he tell you, Maeve?” Bentley’s mocking tone cut through the awkward silence. “Davinia DeVito is Edward’s sweetheart. They’ve dated for years and are practically engaged.”
Chapter Nine
Just as the Corsican weather report had predicted, Friday morning brought rain. Maeve peered out the sliding doors leading to her balcony and watched a seabird take flight. Sleek and chilly, the face of the red cliffs looked unfriendly, shadowed by a fierce downpour and framed against an empty bleak sky.
The previous evening, after Edward swiftly boarded the tender behind her, he’d responded to her frosty silence by asking if he could explain himself.
Although she’d felt all the color drain from her face when Bentley had introduced Davinia as Edward’s sweetheart, she’d listened to Edward. Still, the shockwave of his betrayal had thumped the breath from her.
She had no reason to feel that way. She had known the entire week was for an online dating promotion. Nonetheless, tears had burned the backs of her eyes,
and she’d studiously avoided his gaze.
He’d dated Davinia, he said, although he certainly wasn’t engaged to her and didn’t plan on ever marrying the Italian heiress.
As the waves vibrated against the speeding limo, Maeve had sunk against the seat and tried to weigh whether or not he was lying. More important, she questioned why his relationship with Davinia mattered so much to her.
Once they reached shore, Edward opened his canvas bag and slipped on his tan sweater, then offered her shoes to change. “Bentley’s gone too far with his so-called practical jokes,” he muttered. “When we attended university, his pranks were silly. Now they’re mean-spirited and hurtful.”
“Aye.” Her anger had bubbled to the surface, and she let it loose. “Life’s a joke to idle men who have more time and money on their hands than they know what to do with.
“Are you referring to me?”
“Perhaps.” She heard the Irish temper in her voice and couldn’t even it out.
“Is this all because you’re jealous of Davinia?”
Bristling at the gleam of satisfaction in his gaze, she didn’t answer, chiding herself for refusing to admit the truth, even to herself. She was relieved the tender had reached shore, and gathered her shawl more tightly around herself.
“Well, in any case,” Edward said, “I’m jealous of you.” Before she could step onto the deck, he planted a firm kiss on her lips. “That’s why I kept you within an inch of me all evening.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“I don’t trust other men. They’ll all lose their hearts to you, as I have, Maeve.”
She’d believed him, his assurances, the slumbering passion in his eyes when he’d kissed her. Hadn’t his sister said that Edward was taken with her? Surely Karen, of all people, knew him better than most. Besides, one glance at Bentley, his thin lips and silver-tongued manner, was all the assurance Maeve needed.
Bentley liked trouble. Some people did, she supposed.
So, the tight clutch in her stomach had dissolved. She’d woken in a good humor, and was perched on a stool in her suite’s efficiency kitchen, savoring the breakfast tray that had been delivered to her room. Buttery croissants, fresh melons topped with crushed mint, and café—a shot of espresso in a gleaming patterned cup. Achille had also included a special recipe, a goat cheese omelet compliments of his “Tata Jeanne.”
Relishing a bite of the sweet fruit, she glimpsed her sandals, crusted with sand, by the door and her bikini hanging on the back of a living room chair. These were wonderful reminders of her beach holiday with Edward.
Finishing her breakfast with a sigh of contentment, she showered and then dressed for the day in flared woven capris and a white cotton eyelet top. Finally, it was Friday and time for their visit to the Bonaparte Museum—an excursion she’d looked forward to all week. Carissa had planned a tour for after lunch, so she still had a few hours to fill.
Barefoot, she padded to her well-appointed bedroom. She’d already spent several minutes applying eye make-up, something she rarely did. She wanted to look pretty for Edward, especially after seeing the stunning Davinia and the high-powered style of the women who populated his exclusive, wealthy world.
And, she wanted to polish off the bumpy edges of the persistent disbelief in her mind, shake off her feelings of inadequacy in this elite universe she’d scarcely fathomed before this week.
Perched on a generously proportioned armchair, she picked up a hairbrush. After her shower she’d braided her freshly-shampooed hair to encourage more waves. Now she shook her hair free of the braid and pulled it to her crown in a messy bun.
Her cell phone rang, with Colleen’s name and number drifting across the screen.
She’d texted Colleen the night before, summarizing her evening on Bentley’s yacht, including her perception of the underhanded way he’d operated, and her encounter with Davinia DeVito.
As the phone rang a second time, Maeve peered at her watch. Midmorning in Ireland. Odd time for Colleen to call because she never rang anyone when she was working.
“Maeve?” Colleen’s voice sounded distant when Maeve answered. “This is Colleen from the purchasing department.”
Maeve paused. “I know who you are, Colleen.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in Corsica. Why?”
“You need to come home to Ireland immediately.”
An icy chill burrowed deep in her bones. “Owen? Is he all right?”
“Owen is fine. Mrs. McShea instructed me to ring you. In fact, she’s standing over my shoulder while we speak.”
“What’s the craic, Colleen?”
“Is Edward Newell in the hotel business?”
“You know the answer.” Maeve set down her hairbrush and stood. “Aye.”
“Well, the Merrimac Company is being charged with collusion. Did you and Edward visit a beachfront property yesterday?”
“I told you, remember?”
“Aye. And an informant rang Merrimac with the details this morning.”
“Who? What details?”
“We’re assuming it was Edward or one of his associates who rang. They’re demanding J and J Hospitality offer their hotels a better discount on lighting and seating—the same bidding price they extend to Merrimac.”
“What’s the name of the hotel chain?” Weighted by doubts, she heard the strain in her voice. “Are you certain it’s Penelope and Edward?”
“They didn’t say. Our accounting department is checking receipts and accounts payable. Maeve,” Colleen whispered into the phone, “if J and J raises their prices, Merrimac may no longer be profitable. We could all lose our jobs if the hotel folds.”
No. Maeve squeezed her eyes shut. Edward would never undermine her and betray her trust to save money on supplies—although the savings for his business could tally up to hundreds of thousands of dollars.
Still, the suspicions wove a ribbon of confusion through her mind. She kept her eyes closed, trying to recall her conversation with Bentley. If he attempted to discredit her position, why didn’t he realize her savings didn’t include numerous stocks and bonds and trust funds to fall back on? She lived paycheck to paycheck. Yet she could see him in her mind’s eye, smirking, finding her predicament amusing.
“Get on the next flight out of Corsica,” Colleen said, “and you’ll arrive in Ireland before the work day ends. Hold on.” Maeve recognized their boss’s high-pitched voice in the background, then Colleen was back. “Mrs. McShea said for you to come directly to the office. She also wants to review all the reports you’ve compiled this week. She hasn’t received anything. Is your internet working?”
Before Maeve could answer, Colleen hung up.
Breathless, she booked a return flight to Ireland at an exorbitant last-minute rate, rang for a taxi, and then packed quickly and charged out the door. A stinging throb pinched her side. She held her hip and ignored the rapid-fire questions Pierre shot at her when she reached the lobby. He gestured to a taxi waiting curbside to bring her to the airport.
“Mademoiselle, does Monsieur Newell know you are leaving?”
“No.”
“Forgive my intrusion into your privacy, but shouldn’t you notify him? Today is your outing to the Bonaparte Museum.”
“Another time, Pierre.” Although she knew there would be no other time. “Please tell him I was summoned back to work.”
She wasn’t lying, really. All sense of right and wrong and proper and inconsiderate was pushed to the back of her mind.
Disconcerted, she flicked a glance around the lobby. When had the hotel become so crowded? And why did every guest seem to hover so close to her?
She breathed in and out. The lobby was too small.
Pierre was typing something into his computer. “You live at 101 Fourth Street in Dublin, oui?”
“Aye.”
“You are obviously in a great hurry. I will arrange a taxi for you when you arrive in Dublin.”
“Thank you.”
It was too much effort to explain to Pierre that she was reporting to Merrimac first. She’d tell the taxi driver once she landed.
Somehow, she kept her gaze confident, her expression neutral. But how could she explain to Amy and Dawson … to Edward?
Why, oh, why had she been so short-sighted? Prideful of her responsible behavior, she’d lost her head and her heart to a man she’d known for only a few days. And now she and Colleen might lose their positions and their incomes.
And what would happen to the other Merrimac employees if the company closed? Jobs in Ireland were hard to come by.
Her throat tightened around a sob. She’d never belonged here in Corsica, milling with affluent people whose lifestyles were as distant from hers as shooting stars. She hadn’t considered the practical, only the impossible. In her dream castle, her life and Edward’s could be woven together.
She’d now received the proof that she’d been very, very wrong.
Wheeling her suitcase behind her, she shuffled down the stone steps of the resort. Fortunately, Pierre had abandoned his position behind his desk and hurried after her with an enormous umbrella, saving her from the drenching rain.
“Mademoiselle, is there anything I can do?” he asked as the taxi driver stowed her suitcase in the trunk.
“No, you’ve been wonderful, really.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Yates? Shall I ring them?”
“I’ll contact Amy and arrange to reimburse any booking expenses for today and tomorrow, as well as whatever else I might owe.”
How she’d repay, she couldn’t comprehend, because there was no money in her bank account. The driver opened the back door for her, and she started to step in. Pierre kept the umbrella over her, which left him in the rain. Almost instantly, his tawny-colored hair, lacquered in its familiar side-sweep, was plastered to his head. His shoes, normally gleaming to a fine black polish, were soaked. Funny how she’d never noticed the lines on his thin face before, nor how misplaced he looked outside of his setting behind his desk.
“Come back to our paradise soon?” he said.
She shook her head, sorrow in her farewell smile. “Au revoir, and merci beaucoup, my dear friend.”
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