Her Pleasure Warrior_A Military Romance

by Katerina Cole

  I didn’t want to stir panic in any of the employees. If they heard there was a buyer on-site, I couldn’t guarantee some wouldn’t quit immediately. I had to keep my inquiries low-key.

  She bit her lip, which was a bad sign. I could tell she didn’t want to tell me anything. I swiveled around and searched the lobby for someone. I didn’t know who I was looking for. A tall dark stranger in a trench coat? A paunchy, smug businessman with a briefcase?

  This person, this prospective buyer, was probably already inside my father’s resort. Sizing it up. Preparing to scoop it up and sell it for scraps like it was worth nothing at all. Like it wasn’t my home, my heart, the only hope I had left. I had to find that buyer and stop him, whatever it took.

  “Maybe.”

  “Kat, tell me. Who is it?”

  “He’s in the restaurant.”

  I nodded. “Thank you.”

  I knew exactly what I had to do.

  I was twenty-one when my father died suddenly in a car accident. He had been driving his brand-new Cadillac, the one my mother called unnecessary. The snow was thick, the sky was a dark gray, and the roads were coated in a thick, slippery layer of black ice. Visibility was dangerously low, and some of the roads had been closed.

  But my father never knew how to turn down a challenge. Once he had his mind set on something, there was nothing anyone could do to stop him. And that night, he wanted to drive into town and pick up the gift he had special-ordered from the jeweler for my mother. An anniversary gift, a white gold necklace with a locket engraved with their initials. There was a tiny photo of me as inside it.

  That sounds sweet and romantic, but I couldn’t think about it without my throat tightening.

  That night he drove down the mountainside, away from Peppertree. My father loved this place with every part of his heart that wasn’t already claimed for my mother and me. It was his pride and joy, the unmistakable evidence of his skill and hard work. Sometimes I thought that maybe that was why he spoiled us so much: he felt slightly guilty for throwing so much of his effort and time into the hotel.

  My father never stopped trying to make up for what he assumed was lost time. And that was why he ventured out into the inclement weather that night to retrieve yet another gorgeous gift for Mom, a token to prove how much he loved her even though she already knew. And when he was very near to the base of the mountain, so close to safer roads, something terrible happened. A freak accident. Something none of us could have imagined.

  A snow plow worked on the empty streets, clearing heaps of fresh crunchy snow. He tried to slow to give the plow plenty of room. He hit a patch of ice and his car skidded over the railing and over the last overpass into town.

  That was five years ago. I was just twenty-one then and had graduated from college with a business degree and a minor in, of all things, philosophy.

  After he died, the maintenance and survival of the resort fell to me. Mom was utterly broken by Dad’s death, especially because the whole reason he had been out in that awful weather was to collect her gift. She blamed herself, even though it was silly. She never asked him to go out in the snow storm, but she was drowning in guilt nonetheless. Besides, even if she had been able to rein in her grief, she never had the business mindset my father and I had. It simply wasn’t her world.

  So here I was, five years after my father’s death, clinging to what little I had left: my mother, who was distant and quiet nowadays, and the Peppertree Resort, which was nothing like the booming success it had been when Dad was still alive. Mom tried her best to be there for me, but after my father died, the Peppertree no longer felt like home to her. She moved out and got a little cottage closer to town, where the memories didn’t rise up and hurt her so much. That left me here alone at the Peppertree, scrambling to keep my father’s dream-- and the only home I’d ever known-- afloat in spite of all the troubles.

  Chapter Three

  Chase

  It wasn’t often that my research into a resort proved me wrong, but this dinner was full of surprises for me.

  The one part of the resort I hadn’t expected to have to change was the kitchen. From everything I had heard, there was a masterful French chef on staff who’d worked for the company for years. Supposedly, he hand-picked the kitchen staff and ran a very tight operation.

  The menu didn’t look anything near that level of class.

  “Pork tenderloin,” I murmured in disbelief as I browsed the menu. It wasn’t a bad menu, necessarily, but it wasn’t the caliber I was expecting, based on the place’s reputation. The look on my face must have made the server nervous, because when I noticed him finally approaching, he had an apologetic look on his face already.

  “Good evening, sir,” he greeted me, “a pleasure to have you here.”

  “What Scotch do you recommend?” I asked without missing a beat, peering up at him and setting the menu down. He looked like a deer in the headlights, obviously not prepared for the question.

  “I’m not much of a Scotch drinker,” he admitted. “I do know we have a rare, top-shelf single malt that’s supposed to be imported from a very old distillery in the Highlands.”

  I gave him a tight smile and let silence hang between us for a few painfully tense seconds.

  “I would hope it’s imported, if it’s Scotch,” I explained, barely holding back my condescension. The server laughed nervously, but I just stared back at him.

  “If you have something that has a number ‘18’ or higher on it from the top shelf, bring me that,” I requested slowly, handing him the menu. “And I’ll take the lamb stew.”

  “Excellent choice, sir.” The server hurried away. I watched him go with a glare made of steel.

  I was sitting in the far back of the resort’s restaurant where I could see everything from the most shadowy corner of the room. The fact that there was a part of the room more shadowy than the rest was another mark off in my book.

  Fortunately, I wasn’t really inspecting this place so much as taking stock of everything.

  I was assessing my purchase.

  While I waited for my food, I surveyed the room. There were a few handfuls of people around, but it certainly wasn’t a full house. Not the kind of night you’d expect at the peak of skiing season. At one of my resorts, this would be considered a stunning failure of a night.

  Meanwhile, I could have sworn I caught some of the conversation between two of the bartenders complaining about how busy things were this evening.

  Some of the guests were younger people, including a group of young women at bar who were less than subtle about throwing glances my way, but I ignored them for the time being. If I wanted a little fun after my initial assessment of the place was finished, I’d give them the attention they were craving, but business was business.

  I never got distracted. That kind of behavior was my little brother’s attitude to life. He was part of the reason I was so busy nearly all of the time. With him always distracted by fooling around with every woman from waitresses to multi-billion-dollar heiresses, the actual business was handled mainly by me and partly by my younger sister.

  She had a good head on her shoulders, but she had her own affairs to handle. Besides, I preferred going it alone in times like this.

  My food arrived longer than I’d expect, especially for a table of one. Some kitchens can get away with longer wait times for big tables where the guests distract each other with conversation, but an experienced staff knows that a lone man as well dressed as me at a table is going to be impatient, an inspector, or both.

  But I was more than halfway through my scotch when my food arrived, and the presentation was more underwhelming than the service. It smelled fine, but it looked more like something I’d get at an upscale airport hotel than a supposedly world-class resort.

  “Anything else for you, sir?” the waiter offered, and I just tapped the rim of my glass of scotch meaningfully. He nodded promptly and hurried off to bring me another glass.

  The food tas
ted about as good as it looked. Not bad, but not nearly the kind of quality this place deserved. I made short work of it and didn’t bother with dessert when the server brought me the menu. He was getting increasingly nervous around me.

  At least one person here had a good sense for when things were going badly.

  The scotch was fantastic, I had to admit. At least that much was hard to screw up. But the only thing that still puzzled me was just how a place with this kind of reputation could have fallen so hard and fast.

  The servers were slow. It wasn’t just my table, it was everywhere. My eyes flitted to each one, and all had the same vaguely stressed looks on their faces. I caught snippets of their conversations here and there, carrying from all the way across the bar.

  Someone was running late for her shift. Another had swapped shifts with another employee at the last minute, and there was some confusion about the new schedule. They were running out of mint, and someone was frantically trying to call in a favor from another employee over the phone who was near a grocery store.

  I shook my head. There was a serious breakdown of authority here. The servers themselves weren’t that bad, just a little inexperienced. A waiter who’d been properly trained would have been able to tell me what kind of scotches they had, or better yet, it would have been on a menu. The staff was trying hard, but there was only so much they could do when the lower management was clearly having trouble getting their act together.

  The whole place was just mediocre. I was growing bored. There wasn’t any one glaring flaw that needed fixing, it just reeked of inefficiency.

  If I had any doubt that I’d need to gut the place and rebuild it according to my exact specifications, it vanished with the last of my first glass of scotch.

  But as soon as my second glass arrived, something else caught my attention.

  My jaw nearly dropped, and I didn’t even acknowledge the waiter.

  She strode through the restaurant, a wild yet determined look in her eyes as she scanned the room. Her blue eyes were as crisp and vivid as I remembered them, drawing your gaze to them with the intensity of a painting. Her black hair hung over her shoulders like a mantle, even richer and darker than I remembered it the last time I saw her all those years ago.

  That was Haley Simmons.

  There was no doubt about it.

  And just what on earth are you doing here?

  But in truth, I knew the answer the moment I saw her. And for once in my life, I wished I was wrong about my gut instinct.

  The way she carried herself around the restaurant was unmistakable, though. There was a kind of casual authority she carried with her despite the anxiety of not being experienced and showing it. She walked like she owned the place.

  She walked that way because she did.

  I knew I was taking this place over from a Simmons family, but the idea that it was the same Simmons as the stock Haley came from never even crossed my mind.

  I knew Haley from college. She was stunning then as she was stunning now, and the years had only made her more beautiful. It was more than that, though--the confidence that leadership gave her made her all the more attractive. It was instinct that drew my eye to her, and our history held it there.

  So many sweet, lustful memories flooded my mind. I knew what was under those clothes, and the image of her naked body was locked in my mind no matter how much I tried to forget it. She was impeccable. And for a while, she had been mine.

  My relationship with her was the last meaningful one I’d had. Sure, I took dates to dinners and galas when it was necessary to have someone beautiful on my arm, but I just didn’t have time for anyone I could talk with for hours like Haley and I had talked.

  ...and it was her that I was here to wrest the resort from.

  I felt my gut twist into a knot, and I frowned.

  This evening had just gotten a lot more complicated than I expected.

  Chapter Four

  Haley

  “Kat. I can always tell when you’re trying to hide something. You do that weird thing with your chin,” I whispered, leaning over the front desk. Kat, my desk clerk, was trying her damnedest to keep a straight face and play dumb. She was a sweetheart and a people-pleaser, with a cheerful smile. Just the kind of person you would want to greet your guests when they came in. But she was so much of a people-pleaser that it seemed to physically pain her to have to deliver bad news. Luckily, she was also extremely easy to read. Her chin was just slightly trembling as she struggled to keep her mouth shut. I knew this was awful for her, but I needed to know.

  “Seriously, I won’t be mad. It’s not your fault. I know that. I just need you to tell me if that stupid buyer showed up from the bank,” I told her meaningfully, without breaking eye contact. That was an ability I picked up from watching my dad do business when I was growing up. Occasionally, he would take me to board meetings, with the promise of ice cream if I behaved and stayed quiet. As I got older, I started actually paying attention to those meetings I attended, taking notes on my father’s strategies and demeanor when discussing business. He was big on eye contact. He used to tell me that, “Even when someone’s mouth is telling lies, their eyes will always tell the truth. So don’t just listen to words, watch the eyes.”

  And nowadays, I did just that. Granted, even the tools of the trade I picked up from Dad weren’t quite enough to keep the Peppertree from sinking, but they did come in handy. Kat, for example, was quickly crumbling under my intense stare. She looked away, biting her lip and wringing her hands. Bingo.

  “Okay, okay,” she sighed. “But you’re not going to like it, and I hate to be the bearer of bad news. Like, I really hate it.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. But I’m not mad at you. Just spill.”

  “Fine. Well, there was a guy who came by the front desk earlier to check in. In fact, there were a few guys,” she began slowly, just barely meeting my gaze. Her face was turning pink. This really was torture for her.

  “Okay. And?” I prompted her gently.

  “Well, they all looked… like the kind of guy you’d expect the bank to send. You know what I mean?” she explained awkwardly. I shook my head, frowning a little.

  “Uh, no. I think you’re going to have to be a little more descriptive than that,” I remarked. She heaved a sigh, her shoulders going slack as she stared up at the ceiling.

  “They were all dressed nice. You know, slacks and business-y jackets. Suits and ties. And they all looked very serious. One of them didn’t even smile back at me,” she added, clearly a little offended. Despite my panic, I almost smiled. Poor Kat.

  “Did they all come in together? As a group?” I asked. I was confused.

  “No, no. One by one. But that’s what I’m saying-- I couldn’t tell you for sure which one of them was sent by the bank and which ones were just regular guests,” she admitted.

  “Okay,” I said, crestfallen. This wasn’t making anything any easier. Then I perked up. “Oh! Which rooms did they check into?” I asked suddenly.

  Kat turned around in her swivel chair to look at the keys missing from the antique hooks on the wall behind her. She pointed out three of the hooks, mumbling to herself. Then she turned back and said, “Room 16, room 12, and the Presidential suite. You know, the one next to yours.”

  I could feel my cheeks going pink as my stomach turned. “My parents’ old suite,” I murmured. It was rare to find someone willing to pay for that suite these days. There were five other Presidential suites apart from mine and the one my parents used to live in, and those five were considerably cheaper, to encourage people to stay in them instead. It was bizarre that someone would choose that particular suite when the others were available. Unless the guest was another one of those tacky ghost hunter guys who was dumb enough to think he could summon my dad’s ghost by staying in his old quarters or something.

  “He didn’t seem like… that type,” Kat added hastily. Obviously she sensed what I was thinking. I gave her a soft smile.

&nbs
p; “Thanks. I hope not,” I said.

  “Usually those guys have a bunch of camera equipment and stuff. This guy just had a suitcase and he was really, really tall,” she informed me. Her face lit up as she remembered more details about our mystery guy.

  “Okay. Good. That’s helpful,” I acknowledged. I thought for a moment about what my next move should be. “Well, I can’t exactly follow the guy up to his room and wait for him to come out so I can interrogate him. But what I can do is go on a leisurely stroll around the resort and just see if I happen to run into him,” I mused aloud.

  “Yeah! You can!” Kat agreed. She beamed at me, evidently relieved to have helped a little. I reached across the desk to pat her arm gratefully.

  “Thank you. I’ll just start on that stroll now,” I told her.

  “Good luck,” she whispered after me as I walked away. My mind was racing, my heart pounding. Somewhere in this building, this place I called home, there was a snake in the grass. Waiting, watching, anticipating the right opportunity to strike and rip the Peppertree right out of my hands. I wracked my brain trying to imagine what Mr. Big Money would look like. I couldn’t help but picture some middle-aged, smarmy guy with a pot belly, a pervy mustache, and an undersized suit from his glory days. He would look like some rude, obnoxious villain from an eighties movie or something, I was sure.

  I walked up and down the hallways, pretending to just be on a casual tour of the building, but I had my eyes peeled and ready. I was determined to stumble across my enemy, and somehow I was just absolutely certain that I would immediately recognize him as the bad guy in my story. The villain who wanted to tear down the Peppertree and build some tacky mega-mansion in its place. Or sell the land and turn it into yet another boring, nondescript ski lodge that looked just like all the other ones. I loved the Peppertree not only for its sentimental value, but for the fact that it was unusual-looking. My dad had modeled it after this gorgeous lodge he visited in Switzerland with my mom. It was the place where he knelt down and proposed marriage to her, so it was a nostalgic sort of design on his part. Maybe I was a little biased, but I believed the Peppertree to be the prettiest and most interesting property in the whole region. And that was saying something, since our area of Colorado was home to all kinds of luxury resorts and ski lodges.