“Of course.” I yawn and blink slowly as I stare at my computer screen in the darkened room.
“All right, Libby, do you have a pen and paper to jot this down?” Quentin says.
“I have a Word doc open on my laptop. Go ahead, Alan.”
“Brilliant. So, basically, this is what I do: I hang around for a few days checking everything out — the restaurants and bars and all that. Then I get the owner shit-faced drunk, sometimes up to three nights in a row, which leads him to admitting some gold nugget of information. The trick is when you're out drinking, you got to pretend you hate your job, or your wife, or both — pretty much whatever he hates — so he’ll start to trust you and unload all kinds of private stuff.”
“Gotcha. Get owner very drunk, pretend to have mutual dislike for a spouse, boss, etc.…” On my laptop, I'm typing, ‘Alan the Arsechitect is a blowhard.’
“Yup. You’re a quick study. But here's where the brilliant part comes in — once I get the guy talking, I tell him some lie, like I got a DUI or spent some time in prison for assault, that kind of thing. This gets him to unload some big secret. This last one actually admitted he hasn't paid his back taxes in three years, and he’s so far overdue, his wife’ll leave him if she finds out.”
“What a moron,” Quentin says.
“Totally, right? He never should have told me that.”
“Definitely not,” I say, trying to sound dazzled instead of disgusted.
“So, the next morning, when he's super hungover, I go see him and tell him I'll report him if he doesn't do the deal. Done and done!”
“Five days—a new record,” Quentin adds, his pride evident.
“Brilliant, Alan. So, let me just recap your strategy to make sure I’ve got it: You get the property owner super drunk several times until he admits something you can then use to extort him into selling.”
Alan says, “Yes” at the same time Quentin says, “No, no, no. Not extortion, Libby. Don't write that down, okay? Do not write that word down. Nobody wants you to extort anybody. Alan here is just demonstrating that he's thinking outside the box when it comes to getting the deal done. That's why he's closed four in a row while you’ve only managed two. But if you don't need his advice, we should just let you go so you can get back to sleep.” The way he says it, it's as though sleep is the most preposterous idea anyone could have at three in the morning.
You need to keep your job, Libby. You need to keep your job. You have already possibly lost your fiancé and your home. Do not lose your job on top of that. “Sorry, I didn't mean to sound ungrateful for your time and advice. I was just a little confused. But point taken, Quentin. I need to think outside the box, get close to the owner, and use whatever inside edge I can.”
“Exactly. Whatever edge you can,” Quentin says.
“Got it. Will do.”
“Are you sure? Because I could have Alan down there within twenty-four hours to take over if you don’t think you can close this one. Paradise Bay is going to be our gateway to the Benavente Islands. It’s crucial that you make this deal happen.”
“Not to worry, I’ve got a really great feeling about this one. In fact, I've already been drinking with the owner.”
“Seriously?” Quentin asks, bordering on sounding impressed.
“Oh yeah. We got totally hammered the first night I was here. Hit the beach, even.”
“And here I thought you would've been crying by the pool for the first two days.”
“Because of that whole wedding thing?” I scoff. “God, no. I’ve never been better. Okay, well, thanks for the tips, guys. If you don't have anything else to add, I'll let you get on with your day so I can get back at it.”
Did that sound confident? Christ, I hope so because there is absolutely no way I can put up with having Alan offer to rub sunblock on my back for the next few weeks.
“All right, we'll let you go,” Quentin says. “Just keep me updated every couple of days, okay?”
“And seriously, Libs, if you need me, I'll be there,” Alan adds.
“Thanks for the offer, Alan, but I promise I won’t need to take you up on it.” With that, I ring off.
I growl and snap my laptop shut, then get up and storm over to the mini-bar. Grabbing a half-litre bottle of champagne, I pop the cork and take a long swig without bothering to pour it into a glass. The bubbling rage in my gut blends with the cold liquid, and instead of popping the anger bubbles, the champagne causes them to multiply.
Somehow that giant bell-end Alan, who doesn’t know a spreadsheet from a sheet of arse wipe, manages to best me at every turn. I take another drink, cursing the injustice of the world.
My stomach churns as I think about how far I am from closing the deal. For one, Harrison never responded to my phone calls or correspondence. And despite what Alice said, after the drunken, almost-naked Breeze debacle, I’m pretty sure he’ll never take me seriously. I’m certainly not going to lower myself to extortion, but I do have to find a way to get Harrison Banks to see reason and agree to sell Paradise Bay so I can go home and get my life back.
I walk over to the patio door and slide it open, then step out onto the balcony. Leaning against the railing, I stare out at the night sky, noticing how much brighter the stars are here than in Valcourt. I watch as some clouds pass by the big round moon and start to feel a sense of calm settling in. The warm breeze fills my nostrils with a flowery scent and dances across my skin, assuring me that I’ll figure this out, just like I always do. I won’t fail. I’m not a failure. I’ll figure out a plan, and it will work.
A splashing sound distracts me, and when I look down, I see a man swimming in the pool in front of my building. I watch him while he cuts through the water with perfect form. Oh my…that’s Harrison.
I watch him long enough for my thoughts to cross over from admiration to creepy woman on the prowl, then wonder what he’s doing swimming at this hour, especially after doing all that running earlier. For someone who seems so carefree, he obviously has something that keeps him awake half the night. All I need to do is find out what it is and hope I can use it against him.
TEN
No Means No, Ladies…
Harrison
Just when I meet a cute girl I actually enjoy talking to, it turns out she wants to screw me, but not the fun way. We didn't go to dinner last night. The moment we introduced ourselves, things got awkward. We both just stood and stared at each other for about twenty seconds before either of us said anything.
She was the first to call off our evening’s plan, saying, “You know, now that I think about it, I should probably get some rest so I can be at my best for our meeting tomorrow morning.”
“Sure, yeah. Have a good night, Ms. Dewitt.”
“You too, Mr. Banks.”
So now I'm in my office, it’s 9 a.m., and I'm just finishing my second cup of coffee while I try to figure out the most polite way to tell Libby Dewitt to P.F.O., because no matter how sexy she is in red lacy underwear, there is absolutely no way she's getting her hands into my file cabinets.
I get up from my desk, brushing past the enormous potted palm Rosy had brought in ‘to make me feel more like I’m outside.’ I stand at the window, staring out at the carefully manicured grounds surrounding the building that holds both the lobby and the main offices.
I watch as Victor, our head gardener, teaches one of our new members of the landscape crew, Marcela, how to trim back a jasmine shrub. He patiently points to a spot she missed, bringing back memories of when I worked under him as a teenager. I can remember his quiet, reassuring voice as he showed me what to cut and what to leave. He was never hurried and took the time to show me how to correct my mistakes, instead of just doing it for me. I learned so much more from him than gardening — he taught me about patience and how to be a good leader. Nostalgia gives way to a sense of dread, and my chest feels tight at the thought of losing this place. Victor is closing in on seventy, so I doubt a big
company would keep him around long, even though he has a lot left to give.
There's a knock at the door, and I hurry back over to my desk to sit down and pick up a pen before I call, “Come in.”
Rosy opens the door, giving me a quizzical look. “There's a woman here from GlobalLux?”
“Thanks, Rosy. Please show her in.”
She narrows her eyes at me and doesn't make a move.
“I'll explain later,” I murmur.
“Fine.” Stepping to the side, she lets Libby into my office.
Today, Ms. Dewitt is dressed exactly as I expected — dark grey pencil skirt, white button-up blouse (with too many buttons done up), and a suit jacket that matches the skirt. Black, close-toed heels and a tight bun finish off the serious businesswoman look. Between you and me, it's sexy as hell, and part of me regrets throwing on a rumpled T-shirt to show her how little I care about this meeting.
Having been taught some basics in chivalry by Uncle Oscar, I stand and walk to the front of my desk to greet her. “Ms. Dewitt, I trust you slept well last night?”
She gives me a small nod, and an even smaller smile as she moves in the direction of the chair in front of my desk. “Just fine, thank you. I trust you didn’t sleep at all, Mr. Banks?”
She’s referring to my admission that I’m an insomniac, which in hindsight, I wish she didn’t know. “Actually, I slept like a log last night for a change,” I lie. I was up most of the night — in fact, I even went for a 3 a.m. swim.
Wanting to get some space in-between us, I sit back behind my desk again and wait while she fumbles with the clasp on her leather briefcase. Part of me feels sorry for her — she's trying so hard to be professional even though we both know there’s very little chance I’ll be able to stop thinking of her breezy side, if you get my drift.
Oh damn. Now her cheeks are turning bright pink. She's embarrassed. I instinctively want to let her off the hook by saying something encouraging, but strategically, that seems like a foolish move. I have to stop thinking of her as the cute redhead who played the starring role in my dreams when I finally fell asleep last night.
Note to self: She’s the devil incarnate. The devil in light pink glossy lipstick that brings out those lusciously full lips. The devil with makeup that doesn’t quite hide those adorable freckles across her nose. The devil whose cowardly fiancé jilted her at the altar. But the devil, nonetheless.
She finally succeeds in getting her attaché open and pulls out a wad of papers, looking momentarily relieved. “So, Mr. Banks, as you know, I've had a couple of days here at Paradise Bay to get a sense of the resort and what you have to offer. Although I haven't taken the opportunity to go on any excursions, utilize any of the spa treatments, or try out the à la carte restaurants yet, already from what I've seen, I'm certain that the property would benefit greatly from having the backing of the world’s leading luxury hotel chain.”
She gives me a confident smile and a little nod, but her smile quickly fades as she takes in the dead-eyed look I’m giving her.
Clearing her throat, she says, “Yes, umm, well, I've prepared a packet for you detailing GlobalLux’s purchasing process, FAQs, as well as the employee handbook and benefits package so you can see your staff will be in good hands should you decide to sell.”
She holds out the packet, but instead of politely accepting it, I sit back in my chair, clasping my hands behind my head. It's a bit of a prick move, but sometimes it's best to let your body do the talking, and right now, my body is saying a pretty strong “hell no” on my behalf.
“You can read that at your leisure,” she says, placing the packet on my desk. Then she sighs. “Listen, I know how difficult this can be. I mean, I don't know from personal experience, but I can put myself in your shoes and I know I'd be hesitant about handing my family's property over to some faceless corporation. So I'd like you to think of me as the face of GlobalLux, because, should you chose to partner with us, I’ll be with you the entire way.” She smiles again, then fidgets a little. “Unless you don’t want me here, that is. If you wanted someone else, I can definitely make that happen. But if you want me, I could be here.”
“Nothing personal, Ms. Dewitt, but I really don't want you here.” Another lie. I absolutely do want her here, so badly I can almost taste it.
Come on, brain, do not think about what she would taste like. That’s a massive mistake.
Damn, now she looks sad, and all I want to do is make her smile again. I soften my tone a bit. “I assure you, Paradise Bay is doing just fine on its own. We really don’t need anybody to back us.”
“Sometimes when a person is too close to a situation, we see what we want to, instead of what is real,” she says, her voice quiet. “Paradise Bay has been losing money for some time now. I’m not saying it’s anyone’s fault. The Benavente Islands were hit particularly hard by last year’s hurricane season. Couple that with the recent economic downturn, and it’s sort of a recipe for disaster, really.”
“Not for us.”
“Harrison, I know about the loan on the property, and I understand that up until last weekend, you were two months behind on your payments. Inexplicably, you've managed to get caught up, which I’m sure is a well-timed relief. But the turnaround isn’t likely to last. Not at the rate things are going.
“In my few short days of being here, I already noticed four pretty major inefficiencies that are robbing you of profits. And that's without me opening the books or doing any type of real assessment of your processes. Those were just my observations during the check-in procedure and, well, at the beach bar.”
I raise an eyebrow and smirk a little at the thought of her managing to assess anything at the bar other than the quality of rum used in our piña coladas.
She must be able to read my mind because she adds, “Before I started drinking the other night.”
“Listen, Libby, I have no doubt that you're a highly intelligent, very organized, competent person. I'm sure you're very good at your job, and if given the opportunity, you could streamline the hell out of this place. But I like things the way they are around here, and more importantly, so do the staff and our many return guests. Things you may see as ‘inefficiencies’ might actually be why people come back to Paradise Bay every year,” I say, looking her straight in the eye as I talk. “You may not be able to see that because you're a numbers person, but when I walk around out there, I see the opportunity to give my staff a good living and a great place to work until they retire, and I know we’re giving our guests a truly memorable experience — not the kind of one-size-fits-all, ‘what was the name of that resort we stayed at last year, honey’ sort of place. I know big corporations like yours don’t see the value in that, which is why, no matter what you offer me, GlobalPutz cannot have this place.”
I finish on a confident note, despite the GlobalPutz dig (which I know was childish, but I couldn’t help myself). Although I know she’s not going to just pick up and leave like I want her to (sort of), I don’t expect what comes next.
Setting her shoulders back and crossing her legs, she says, “With all due respect, Mr. Banks, what I see is someone who's trying so hard to hold on to his home that he’s got a horrible case of tunnel vision.”
I open my mouth to object, but she raises her hand to stop me and continues.
“If you don't get with the times — and trust me, you aren’t — you'll end up losing everything. So, you can either take what I’m offering, which is your very last opportunity to sell and have something left for yourself and your family, or you can choose to keep your blinders on and hope for the best over the next eight to ten months max while you sink deeper and deeper into debt. But by then, I'll have moved on to another property, the bank will own everything, and you’ll walk away with nothing.”
Well played, devil woman. Well played. Now that she brought up my family and painted such a grim picture of our future, it would be ridiculously short-sighted of me to not at le
ast see what the offer is. But I’m one step ahead of her. “If you’re so sure the end is coming, why not just wait for me to go bankrupt? Why would your company waste time on this now, only to spend a lot more than you need to buy up my property?”
“Because GlobalLux is looking to expand into the Caribbean now. It's our belief that the smart money is to get in during the aftereffects of Irma, turn things around, and within fifteen months, have this place making a tidy profit. Harrison, I'm offering you a great opportunity, and I promise if I didn't believe what I was saying, I wouldn't be here. If you take us up on our offer, it’ll benefit you as well as your employees.”
“Sorry, but I'm not buying that one. I highly doubt you or your corporation could give two craps about the people here. It's all dollars and cents to you. You said it yourself, you're going to have this place turning a profit in nine months. How exactly are you going to do that? It's the whole ‘do more with less’ thing that grinds people into the ground,” I say with disgust. “I may be foolish to think I can keep things going, but I'd rather go down fighting then just lay down and die.”
“I'm not asking you to lay down and die. I’m asking you to say yes to what could be the greatest opportunity of your life. I could make you rich, Harrison, your brother and sister, too. After all, isn’t that what your uncle would have wanted for you?”
Whatever goodwill I ever held toward this woman has now vanished. “I really don’t think you’re qualified to know what my uncle would have wanted—or what I want, for that matter,” I say, my tone sharp. “You don’t know me, Ms. Dewitt, because if you did, you’d know I’d never sell my soul — or the people I care about — no matter the price.”
Her eyes fill with regret and she opens her mouth to speak, but I stand quickly and cut her off. “I don’t want to lead you on here. The answer is no. Not maybe. Not we’ll see. It’s one hundred percent no. So, we’re done here. You’re welcome to stay and enjoy the rest of your non-honeymoon, or you can pack up and head back home today. It makes no difference to me.”
The Honeymooner (A Paradise Bay Romantic Comedy Book 1) Page 9