For his mother, Magdalena.
But not giving Esme the chance to say goodbye to her only family wasn’t in his plan. Now he was well and truly stuck here because if they didn’t make this work Eduardo would buy it. He would win, after all these years. Santiago couldn’t let that happen. Not while his mother was still trapped by the man.
He was getting soft. He shouldn’t care about any of this. Not about the mother who chose an abusive man over her children. Not Esme and the Napa fiasco. Certainly not the kindness Constance had shown him since that rogue wave nearly drowned him in Tahiti. He should never have come here to recover, but he had and now he was drowning in guilt just as he’d nearly drowned in the Pacific last year.
He pushed his left shoulder down and toward his ribs, feeling the awkward pull that the doctors assured him would one day simply disappear. Santiago wasn’t so sure of that. Esme was right. He didn’t want to be in Vallarta, didn’t want to be smothered in the pain of the past—but because he’d made one mistake he couldn’t leave.
Santiago reached his baby, a midnight blue Porsche, put the car in gear and roared out of the garage into Puerto Vallarta’s crazy summer traffic. In minutes he was at the marina, his gaze settled on Isla Magdalena. Eduardo’s private estate on the Yelapan peninsula. He could just make out the red tile roof of his mother’s prison.
He left the car to lean against the sturdy wood of the pier, watching the house he’d escaped so often as a child. Was she inside, staring aimlessly outside as she had done then? Or in bed with a migraine, thanks to some careless word from his father? Not that it mattered. Whatever she was doing, Magdalena was a psychological prisoner of Eduardo Cruz. Living in his home, playing the perfect wife. Unable to leave because after years of mental torture she was more afraid of the outside world than the husband who belittled and abused her.
Now, when Santiago was ready to put Puerto Vallarta in his rear view mirror, Esme was here in a buttoned up suit, with her deep brown hair scraped back in a severe twist. With her innocent eyes pleading with him to leave and stay at the same moment. If he left, Eduardo would win. If he stayed he would hurt Esme all over again.
Either way, Santiago lost.
He smiled as he remembered the anger in Esme’s green eyes when she refused to share the villa with him. Dios, but he had missed her fire over the past four years. Eduardo would chew her innocent heart up and serve up a processed Casa Constance as an after dinner aperitif.
He should be angry with her, not just for disbelieving him. Anger wouldn't come. Instead a flicker of excitement licked through his blood. He could shout from Yelapa the truth about his break from the family business and Esme wouldn't believe him, but he could show her. If he played his cards right, maybe he could make up for the sins of his past.
Santiago returned to the Porsche, and turned toward the villa. He could hear Eduardo’s voice in his head, pounding in the lesson that more was always better and never enough. He knew his plans would work. He would win Constance’s little contest.
Maybe that would free Magdalena.
Maybe it would save Esmerelda.
*
Esme topped the slight rise leading up to Casa Constance and stopped short. A gleaming Porsche sat across the paved walk leading to the front door, and her temper flared. The vehicle was a new model of Santiago’s first car. The car he had in Napa. The car that, had there been a backseat, she would have lost her virginity in. But since there was no backseat, she’d instead lost it beneath an arbor filled with grapevines. Her twenty-first birthday. Less than two months later she was out of a job, Santiago had disappeared, and his family had taken over the Napa vineyard.
She wasn’t mad at the Porsche—it was a lovely little thing—it was the assumption that the driver was more important than arriving guests. Her villa’s guests.
She looked inside the beautiful machine, saw the keys still in the ignition, and slid behind the wheel. And sighed. The supple leather seats were wonderfully buttery, holding her body like a lover’s caress. She slid the seat forward, cranked the engine, and pulled the car around to the back parking lot. It looked out of place next to her rental.
Well, that’s because it is out of place, Esme told herself, parking it in direct sunlight rather than beneath the shade of the large Parota tree. Porsche driving surfers don’t belong here. Certainly not as management. She clutched the keys, grabbed her bag, and strode into the villa.
She was immediately swamped with nostalgia. The gleaming mahogany floors still smelled slightly of lemon cleaning solution, the walls painted a burnished red and the seating areas still filled with carved wooden benches and comfortable chairs. With the wisdom—or maybe hubris—of a teenager she’d informed Constance that white walls and white furniture made the villa look like a hospital ward. So Constance had redecorated, with Esme’s help, that first year after Esme’s parents died.
“Two o’clock, no later,” came a voice from the office, followed by the sound of a phone hanging up.
Tears rose in her throat, anger at the Porsche—or the Porsche driver, she couldn’t remember—all but forgotten. Constance loved this place. Esme found solace here. She’d turned her back on this beautiful, wonderful place for business experience? She sniffed but refused to let the tears fall. If she started crying now, she might never stop and she had work to do.
A business to save.
Santiago exited Constance’s office and Esme swallowed back the memories. Focused on the envelopes in his hand, he didn’t notice her until she stood before him across the antique front desk, a rescue from an eighteen-hundreds mission.
“Pequeña, I see you made it home.” He grinned and winked. “I wasn’t sure you would remember the way.”
Another stab to the heart. Had he meant that as an insult? From his expression, she assumed it was a joke. More of The Saint’s charm. Didn’t matter, she was over the charm factor.
“I’ll never forget my way home, Santiago. Speaking of, this isn’t your home, not yet anyway. Employees park in the rear.” She dropped the Porsche keys on the desk between them and waited. He said nothing, only looked at the key ring. “The front spaces are reserved for incoming taxis and arriving guests.”
His smile turned grim. “We have no guests, at least not today.” He snagged the keys and dropped them into his pocket. “But I’ll remember your tip about parking. I am too used to being a guest here, I suppose. Speaking of guests, I had Marquez take your things to Con’s suite.”
Esme was off balance. Constance’s suite? Why not her familiar room? “Have him move them back, please, I would prefer my own room.”
“That is going to be interesting.”
Dread shivered down her spine. “Interesting? It’s a room with a bed, Santiago.”
“A bed I’ve been sleeping in since Con took me in.” He leaned his strong, tanned forearms against the desk, his hands so close she could feel his radiant body heat. His rich brown gaze fastened on her and she couldn’t move. Her breath came in little gasps and her throat tightened. But she held herself upright, refusing to sway further into his orbit. “I’ve been sleeping in your bed, Esmerelda, and here you want to join me after only a few hours. Think of the scandal.” He winked again, and his next words all but kissed her skin. “You’ll probably be more comfortable in Con’s suite, but my rooms are always open.”
Her heart fluttered in her chest. She remembered being in his bed all too well. Four years hadn't dimmed those memories and neither had her fling with Jason the Jerk. Her knees went wobbly as he leaned another inch across the desk, his mouth inches from hers, so close she could feel his breath against her skin.
Where was her bravado when she really needed it? Gone. Evaporated with a single scorching look from Santiago Cruz. She wasn't ready for this. For him. And she had to be. Constance and the villa depended on her keeping her wits about her. Keeping him at a distance. She swallowed hard as she backed up to the stairs. “Nevermind, I’ll stay in the suite.”
Not r
unning, she assured herself.
“You are fighting the inevitable, pequeña.”
“Its called unpacking, Saint.” He raised that irritating eyebrow again, a half-smiled on his luscious lips. Esme fled before he could say more.
After a long bath, and a sandwich that she snuck into the kitchen to make, Esme pushed back from Constance’s desk in the private suite still thinking about Santiago in her room.
Santiago winking at her. Winking. Sanctimonious jerk.
Only it wasn’t the wink heating her skin just now. It was the memory of that almost-kiss at the front desk. He hadn’t even touched her and already she couldn’t think straight. Couldn’t concentrate. She had thought she was well and truly over The Saint’s touch and the next few months working with him would be cake. What an idiot she had been. Her mind might realize he was poison to her but her heart didn’t quite believe it.
A cool breeze carried the salty tang of surf into the room and, for a moment, she closed her eyes, allowing herself to be taken back in time. She was nine, darting in and out of the waves along Las Caletas Beach as the tide came in, watching the fishing boats return to port down the shore, and feeling so incredibly grown up because Aunt Constance wasn’t watching her every move, dissecting the strength of the current compared to the strength of her small legs. Then she opened her eyes and she was back. In this room where her pile of problems wouldn’t be taken away by the incoming tide.
Where, if she were brutally honest, she wanted Aunt Con’s cut-to-the-quick dissection to show her which direction to go.
She should feel confident here. She really should. Constance welcomed her into the suite often enough when she was a small child, afraid of bumps in the night, summer storms, and strange noises. Then, the sheer white curtains had allowed cool breezes into the room, but never monsters, and the pale yellow walls seemed to hold on to sunlight long after dark. But now, rather than comfort, she felt claustrophobic. As if she were suffocating in the sumptuous surroundings. Instead of snuggling into the large brass bed, she felt smothered by the blue-and-white striped comforter. As if she was drowning in the waters of the freshly painted, pale blue walls.
She could run the resort; it was larger than the B&B in Bristol Bay but small inns like these worked basically the same. She knew the staff. But she had no idea how Santiago fit into the scheme of things. A tiny piece of her heart wanted to believe him when he said he wasn't in league with his family. And, if she were totally honest, she had no idea if she could resist him for the next six months. She felt the brush of his words against her cheek again and smiled.
Esme slammed the lid of her computer shut on those thoughts. She could fix everything by saving the villa. Forget about the past with Santiago. Fix the villa, fix Constance. Show she was good enough for this job.
She would do what it took to bring this place back to the way it used to be, starting with avoiding any of his toe-curling kisses. Esme left a short message on Aunt Con’s voicemail, pacing the room, wondering how she was supposed to run an inn for an absentee owner who hadn’t left so much as a To Do list.
She wasn’t angry at Constance’s silence. Annoyed, maybe. Frustrated, definitely. Not angry. She couldn’t be angry with Constance. Esme wanted to crawl under the covers in her childhood room and hide from the uncertainty that Constance’s disappearance put into her life.
Only Santiago was currently occupying said childhood room and the two rooms adjoining it. Esme knew winding up in his bed would definitely not be on Constance’s list of things to do while running the villa. He shouldn’t be on Esme’s To Do list, either.
She crossed from the desk under the eaves to the French doors leading to a rooftop terrace. The best view for miles around, at least to Esme. Focused on the Bay of Banderas, Esme took five slow breaths, breathing in the comfort of the salty sea air for two counts before exhaling the claustrophobia of the closed off room for two counts. It’s a vacation villa, E, not rocket science. She felt the weight of Constance’s absence leave her shoulders for the first time since her plane touched down.
She pushed the niggling feelings of doubt from her mind. No, Constance hadn’t left her instructions. No, it wouldn’t be easy to watch Santiago run her beloved villa for the next three months. Yes, she could beat him at whatever game he was playing.
Mind made up, Esme grabbed a notebook and settled into a chaise lounge on the terrace to make notes. Chewing on the pen tip as she thought over her options, Esme gazed at the clear, blue water. A windsurfer on the bay canted left and splashed down into the calm water. She wouldn’t fall, not this time.
Chapter Two
The next morning Santiago slammed down the phone at the front desk and stalked into the office. Two more cancellations. He wasn’t sure which was more debilitating: his failure at a job which should be second nature or the thought Esme might do a better job once she was in charge. He needed to get control of the situation long before then, so it was time to up the ante.
He ran his fingers over the massive oak desk Constance rescued from an old mission, restoring it on the lawn the summer he turned ten. It would stay. The piece added texture to the open floor plan. Esme had been seven then, tagging along after him when all he wanted was to play on the beach with his friends. The matching Louis XIV wing-backed chairs before the fireplace came from an estate auction in San Diego and Constance designed the low table between them the winter he turned twelve. The year his life went sideways. Beautiful things or not, they had to go.
Leaning against the desk he critically eyed the dull red walls, the dark floorboards, and cracked pottery. Everything had to go if he were to win. Esme would hate that. So would Con. The thought made his chest twinge but he called a storage company and ordered a crew to come in anyway. Rehab started today, he decided, studying a crock filled with lilies and a stack of magazines inviting guests to sit and relax. Esmerelda’s touch. He’d seen her early this morning with flower cuttings in an oversized wicker basket, doing her utmost to look innocent and hard working. It was time for a meeting of the minds. Since she avoided him and the front desk area like the plague, he texted her, ordering her into the office.
He turned up the sleeves of his Oxford shirt, blowing out a breath. Santiago looked around the office and made his decision. He wouldn’t ask for her permission to save this place from Eduardo. Santiago picked up the phone and dialed another number from memory.
“Charlie, I need an advertising crew,” he said without identifying himself.
“Thank God you’ve come to your senses, Saint,” Charlie Bascombe, Santiago’s former agent, said. “It’s about time you came out from under that Puerto Vallartan rock. I can get you a meeting with the best guys in New York, just give me a few minutes. I’ll call you right back.”
“No, I can’t come to them. They need to come to me. And I need them here yesterday. A creative type and a photographer, tell them I’ll supply the props.” He crossed to Constance’s office and booted up her computer.
“This isn’t about going back on the circuit, is it?” Censure rang out in Charlie’s voice as his gum popped across the line. He still didn’t get it, not that it mattered to Santiago. His reasons for ending his surfing career didn’t have to be understood by anyone.
“Charlie, you’re a great agent, and you’ve made me a lot of money. You can’t change what happened in the water. Just get the crew here, money is no object.”
At twenty-nine, he had more money than he could spend in three lifetimes. Santiago could pay the villa debts and not even feel the loss in his bank account. Whom was he going to pass all of that on to? He had zero intention of starting a family of his own. With Eduardo Cruz as his main parental role model, Santiago had no business going into the business of parenthood.
There were ways to bring more guests into the villa. To fill it to capacity for the next six months. Those ways cost money and needed promotion. He’d been used by advertisers for years and now he would use them.
He had already transf
erred enough money to zero out the first and second mortgages and made an appointment with Constance’s banker to finalize the transactions. With a few computer keystrokes several thousand more dollars landed in the villa’s accounts—enough to pay for advertising and start upgrading the rooms. Esme might hate him for it later, but they were now one step back into the black. He was one step closer to winning. His iPhone bleeped.
“Figured you were busy. Crew arrives Wednesday. Gave them villa address, call when you return to sanity.”
Santiago smiled. He was fully sane and in control. He logged off the villa computer and pushed away from the desk. He’d promised to help Jack replace the pool filter. Time to get out of the suit and back into normal clothes.
“You summoned, Mr. Cruz,” Esme said from the doorway, raising one eyebrow and pointing her finger to the antique clock in the corner. “Just a tip: A good manager doesn’t just arrange and rearrange paperwork until quitting time. He doesn’t summon guests via text—” she waved her cell at him “—and he certainly doesn’t dress as if there was a sale at the beach-side Good Will store.” And with that his promise not to annoy Esme further disintegrated.
He pretended to inspect his Hugo Boss shirt and tie. “I wasn’t aware Hugo ever visited Good Will, but you reminded me—I’m on surfer hours today,” he replied, resting his left hip on one desk corner. “You just can’t beat the water when the temperature soars. You used to know that. Why don’t you grab a very small bikini and join me?”
Esme clenched her jaw but not before he saw a flash of heat light her gaze. So what if that flash barely lasted a moment?
“Because you have a business to run, for the next three months at least. Or are you giving up already?”
The Saint's Devilish Deal Page 2