“I asked where you were because you locked me out of my own office. It wasn’t intended as a lecture. I have a right to come and go as I please. You may be in charge, but I still have rights, Santiago. I need access to Constance’s office. Unrestricted access.”
“And, what, the key in your hand limits your access?” He held his hands, palms up, at elbow level and cocked his head to the side. “Have you not had your fifteenth cup of morning coffee yet?”
She ignored the gibe to her coffee consumption. “The point is that I shouldn’t have to go looking for a key to my own office—”
“I thought the office and the villa belonged to Constance?”
“To go over files or accounts,” she said, talking over him and hating herself for it. He had a point. Actually, he was one-hundred percent right. She was acting like a spoiled child, had been for the last few days. A locked office door was a ridiculous reason to start yet another fight about absolutely nothing. So far fighting with Santiago had only increased the tension between them.
He’d walked out on her and the Marinelli Vineyard in Napa. Yes, he’d disappeared into the ether. But four years was a long time to hold that grudge. He wanted Casa, so did she. Treating him like a pariah would only result in him leaving yet again, and if that happened before the six months were up she would forfeit the villa. Bickering would only keep things tempestuous. What this situation called for was ice. Esme straightened her already-straight suit jacket and rolled her shoulders. “I’m sorry. Look, could we start this over?”
“Sounds like a good plan to me, pequeña.”
For the first time the endearment didn’t set her teeth on edge. No, this time the reaction was much worse. Coupled with that kiss, her body seemed on permanent point. Her stomach topsy-turvy, her hand begging to be touched. Her lips desperate for another taste of him. She really had to do something to shut off her reaction to The Saint’s charm.
Business, Esmerelda, focus on the plan.
Except she wasn't ready for a full truce.
“Do you want coffee?” Without waiting for him to agree, she led the way into the villa’s kitchen. The room, filled with stainless steel appliances, a sub-zero fridge, and six-burner cooktop with a griddle, was quiet. It felt strange to enter the normally bustling room only to find the granite counters empty of cutting boards, the stainless steel sink gleaming and perfectly dry, and no pots on the stovetop.
This is what the room, the entire villa, would feel like if she failed Constance, Esme realized. Empty. Dead. She couldn’t let that happen.
She reached for two mugs and Santiago immediately replaced one. While she poured hot coffee, he filled his glass with iced tea and paper-thin lemon slices. Oh, that looked refreshing. Stop it, E, you are not going to turn into an iced-tea-drinking surfer-boy fan. She took a sip of coffee, nearly scalding herself, to run the point home. They sat at the oak table in the center of the room.
“Before you ask, I did not invite Tobias here. What else do you want to know?” Santiago said after several quiet moments had passed.
Maybe the truth, or at the very least a bit of gratitude, would suffice?
“When I saw him in the lobby, my first thought was that you were having some clandestine meeting.”
He sighed. “I can keep insisting I don’t work for Tobias or my father. I can give you my bank statements which have been empty of Cruz Resorts paychecks for the past four years. None of that will matter if you can’t put a little faith in me.”
“I know. And I’m sorry. Thank you for helping me with Tobias.” He shrugged off her thanks. She reached out, taking his hand in hers. “It isn’t nothing,” she said, interpreting his movement as his typical “no worries” reaction. “You didn’t have to step in when you did. You could have stayed out of it. He was leaving anyhow, and I was doing quite well on my own. But you stepped in and helped me create a united front. Thank you, Santiago.”
“Tobias should have known better than to come here. My father tried it often enough and with the same reaction when we were children. He has tried to buy or extort this place from Constance a hundred times since my mother sold it to her. The last thing I want is for him to get it now.” He shrugged again as if standing up for her, the niece of a woman who used to clean rooms at Isla Magdalena, was an everyday occurrence.
They looked around the room for a few minutes before standing, as if neither could stomach spending more than a few minutes in the quiet kitchen. Santiago’s foot tapped against the ceramic tile floor, the first sign since she had arrived home that he wasn’t completely at ease. And she didn’t think it was just the kitchen. Could he be truly worried about the villa? Or was it something else? Before she could ask and get herself in even deeper with Santiago, Esme grabbed her coffee. Santiago picked up his glass of tea and sipped, the only indication that something was on his mind the tap-tapping of his left foot.
He sipped again and his foot stilled. “I’ve missed you, pequeña.”
“We should have this conversation in the privacy of the office,” she said before turning to the kitchen door and retreating to the front desk as quickly as she’d exited the area just a few minutes before.
“I like the way you think,” he said, his voice sultry in the cool foyer. “Privacy may be needed for this conversation.”
Her toes curled at the innuendo in his voice. Oh, how she would love to throw caution to the wind and her body at the boy down the hall. Only this boy’s burn was still raw after four years. Business, this had to be only about business or she wouldn’t survive.
“I wanted to check the accounts receivable,” she said, steering the conversation back to the villa and their purpose here. “We can use the information there to remarket a stay from some of our most faithful guests over the next few months.”
Santiago, close on her heels, maneuvered around her to reach the office door first. “A new advertising campaign. That’s why you came downstairs to slum with the itinerate manager?”
He unlocked the door, and led her into Constance’s office. A quiet room that was meant to be quiet. The summer they redecorated, this was the only room Constance wouldn’t allow to be made over. It still smelled of lemon dusting spray and pipe tobacco. She looked into the corner at the dish of Constance’s special potpourri concoction. Dried lilac and rose petals laced with tobacco; it was home. A fern decorated the top of the cherry filing cabinets and a potted orchid stood on the desk. She should water the plants—that wasn’t a job a man would remember.
Santiago took the seat behind the desk, Constance’s favorite antique desk chair creaking as he rolled it into place. Esme took a breath. It was just an office, she told herself, a place Constance worked. She’d sat here often enough in her childhood. She’d done her homework in that corner and cried to Constance about not getting a scholarship in the overstuffed chair on the opposite side. She celebrated being accepted into Cornell’s business school with her first taste of champagne, standing side-by-side with Constance at the French doors leading to a covered terrace. This was one more place she should feel comfortable but instead felt out of her depth.
Rather than sitting in the chair she occupied as a child she wandered the room, checking the plants. The soil in the pots was moist. Santiago watered her aunt’s plants?
“Well?” Santiago’s voice and the scratching of his pencil as he made notes on the back of an envelope brought her back to the present. Well, what? Why were they here? Oh, yes, the files she supposedly wanted to see.
Esme bit her lip and sat. The plants, a voice in her head reminded. Santiago would only care for Constance’s plants for one reason: so they would be there when she returned. Why water the plants, fix the pool filter, and struggle against his family if he expected Constance to sell or be evicted as soon as she returned?
“What, exactly, did you mean when you said we could work as a team for the next six months?”
Curiosity deepened the line between his brows. He clicked the pen in his hand several times befo
re answering. “What does teamwork usually mean?”
“I know the definition, Saint. I meant, how do you see a team effort working between us?”
“We decide on promotions, advertising, menus as a team. When Constance returns, she will make her decision.”
“Fifty-fifty doesn’t work. There needs to be a boss at some point, otherwise where do the employees look for inspiration and guidance?”
*
She was falling perfectly in step with his plans, Santiago thought, biting back a smile. What Esme wanted, she would get. It would keep her from noticing Constance’s bills were now paid and there was a nice sum in the bank for repairs, redecorating, and ad campaigns. He needed to keep Esme occupied and focused on the rehab for a few weeks and then he could give Magdalena a quiet place, a safe place to heal from the years living with Eduardo. Maybe then he could get on with his life. Away from Puerto Vallarta at last.
Are you sure that’s what you want, Saint? No, he wasn’t sure, he admitted. He definitely wanted to win and getting Esme back in his bed was a nice side benefit. If things hadn’t gone sideways in Napa would she be the girl he remembered instead of the coffee-drinking, suit-wearing, too-tightly-wound woman sitting before him? And if she was, could he even contemplate taking away this place that meant so much to her?
He couldn’t answer the question.
“…and so I think we both need detailed positions within our team. So that no one is confused by the dueling bosses in the building. Don’t you agree?”
“Constance ran a tight ship. She trained her employees well. If we are to save the villa we need to appeal to a wealthier client base not a detailed listing of job requirements. The guests we need to attract don’t want kitsch or homey. They want streamlined, opulent. Renovation is our first step.”
Esme swallowed and pinched the bridge of her nose. Finally she nodded but didn’t speak. Santiago watched a flurry of emotions cross Esme’s face. She was off balance, unsure what he wanted. Good. The more off-balance she was the more she would insist to herself that she was in full control. And that was when he would take over.
“We need a plan for guest arrivals and—”
“Fine. On the subject of guests, a few people I know from the surfing circuit arrive next week. Wednesday at eight o’clock, a bit earlier than our usual check-in hours but as we have no other guests, I see no problem with that. You?”
“You’re just telling me this now? On Friday morning? How are we going to renovate a villa in less than a week? Do we even have a full staff to come in?”
“No, I’m a complete moron, Esmerelda.” Santiago rolled his eyes. “The maid staff will arrive Monday evening to prepare rooms in the East wing and Gloriana has agreed to come in beginning with lunch that day. They confirmed their reservation this morning. The five of them will be in-house through the weekend at a rate of fifteen-hundred per night.” He smiled at her dropped jaw. No time like the present to tell her about the ad campaign. “A photographer from an ad agency will also be in-house during that time, to get some shots for a new campaign I threw together last night.”
Esmerelda’s pretty mouth snapped closed. “Ad campaign? What ad campaign? We’re talking about co-managing here and you’ve already come up with an advertising campaign?”
“You forget yourself, Esmerelda. You’re talking about making this simple for the staff, that doesn’t mean I need to come to you for every new guest registration or idea I have. Besides, we need this campaign.” Santiago waved his hand. “We need more guests of a certain means to make the villa stand out. Families are great, but they won’t make Casa Constance a go-to destination. These people will. So, we use my friends as features in a new campaign for the high-end travel magazines. A few shots in the tabloids wouldn’t hurt, either.”
“You weren’t even going to discuss this with me?”
“I’m telling you now. While we’re on the subject—” he tossed a few magazines from his desktop onto her lap “—what do you see in these pictures?”
Esme sent him a killing glance and then flipped through the pages. “Boring. Bland. Not home.”
“Exactly. This isn’t a home, or it shouldn’t be a home first. If you want Casa Constance to succeed you need to treat it like a business. So, make-over, what do you like?”
She tossed the magazines back onto the desktop. “Our guests love the color and textures of Old Mexico. They say so all the time.”
“Your guests haven’t been in residence, at least not actively, in more than a year. We aren’t appealing to anyone right now and we need to. So, makeover starts this afternoon and your new training begins in the morning.”
“I know what I need to know about running a vacation resort.”
His phone bleeped, interrupting her. Santiago hit ignore and tossed it into a desk drawer.
“That could be someone important.”
It was someone important. He flexed his hand against the drawer pull. The most important person in his life. But talking to her. . .would have to wait.
“Where is your business etiquette now? Interrupting a meeting to take a call?” She shrugged and he continued. “We were talking about your qualifications, yes? You need to experience a vacation to sell it. We need day-trips, we need amenities. I’ll bet you’ve never gone para-sailing or sky diving, much less enjoyed a couple’s massage.” Her cheeks pinked at the last suggestion and Santiago smiled. “Celebrities visiting Casa, playing on our private beach, being featured in an advertising campaign—with a few pictures leaked to the tabloids to get the word out even sooner. Casa needs this.”
Esme took a few breaths and then settled back into her chair. “I can’t afford to pay the salary of a New York advertising crew. Seriously, Santiago, you have to cancel.”
“My three months, remember? It won’t cost you a thing. The photographer owes me a favor. The only cost will be the campaign copy, which will be negligible. I do know what I’m doing, Esmerelda.”
“Okay, mail.” Esme changed the subject fast, shaking her head as if clearing thoughts of the upcoming ad campaign. “Marquez usually separates bills from letters—”
“As the mail will be delivered to the front desk, I’m happy to see to it. And let’s cut to the chase.” He leaned back in the chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “I don’t want to be tied down to a vacation villa for the rest of my life. But if you really want this, there is something you have to do for me. First.”
Esme swallowed, crossed and re-crossed her legs before clasping her hands in her lap. “What do you want? A payoff? You’ve seen the books, you know there isn’t much money. But if it’s money you want, I’ll agree to your price. I just need time to come up with the capital.”
She really didn’t know him at all. He shouldn’t be surprised, but he was. Surprised and a bit disappointed. “I need your money like I need another surfing championship,” he said, sitting up straight. “No, what I want from you is a bit more. . . ephemeral. I want your time. For three hours each day, you belong to me. No villa work. No guest handholding.” He walked around the desk to rest his hip against one corner. “No conferences with staff. No following the maids on their routine cleanings and no visits to the kitchen to give Gloriana instructions. For three hours each day, your time is my time.”
“You can’t be serious. That. . . that’s just. . .” She trailed off when his index finger traced the line of her jaw. He lowered his voice.
“No work. No phones. No villa. You do what I say, what I want.”
Her head rested against his hand for a split second before she realized what she was doing and jerked away from him. She pushed back her chair and paced the room.
“This is ridiculous. You’re being ridiculous. Not work for three hours every day? That surfing accident must have addled your brain.”
“Para-sailing, hang-gliding, the list goes on. You need to sell this vacation destination and you can’t do that wearing a suit, sitting behind a desk.” Santiago shrugged. “Three hour
s out of twenty-four each day. And at the end of these six months you’ll be perfectly prepared to run a high-end, adventure seeker’s paradise.” He swallowed hard. She would think he meant qualified to run Casa Constance. No matter, he would make sure she landed a prime position somewhere far away from Puerto Vallarta. Thank God she could no longer read him as easily as he could read her.
“But I can’t leave the villa unattended for three hours each day. There will be guests, staff who need direction.”
“We have a staff, we’ll use it. Now, about your deal. Three hours with me and twenty-one doing. . . whatever you please. What do you say?”
Her mouth opened and closed several times before she snapped it shut. Her hands clenched into fists.
“Come on, Esmerelda,” he said, drawing the e’s in her name out and rolling the r as he did when they were children. She shivered. “What is three hours of your time to save the day for Constance? Three hours. It seems like a fair trade to me.”
“And if I don’t agree to spend three hours each day at your beck and call, neglecting my business? My employees?”
“Then we don’t have a deal at all.”
Chapter Four
How could she still be attracted to a man as ruthless as he? He didn’t want the villa—he only wanted her to pass the time he was tethered to Puerto Vallarta. And here she was actually considering his plans. Not because he would help her save the villa, but because she still wanted him.
God, you’re a fool, Esmerelda.
Esme turned, looking up at the villa from the beach. Two minutes ago she listened to him politely infer that he wanted her back in his bed for as long as they were here and she wanted to smack that smug I-Know-You-Want-Me-Too look off his face. Now, as she walked the beach trying to come up with a way to tell him no, she realized she didn’t really want to. Sure, he lied. Taking her away from Casa wasn’t to teach her sports like para-sailing; he wanted to play. Just like always. Work a little, play a lot.
The Saint's Devilish Deal Page 4