The Spanish Tycoon's Takeover. Michelle Douglas
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room, where guests can help themselves to a buffet breakfast.’
‘That would be lovely.’ Her eyes said otherwise. ‘But we don’t have the equipment or the staff.’
‘Yet.’
That perked her up.
He let her savour it. By the end of the day, when she’d had a taste of the wholesale changes he meant to make, he fully expected her unqualified resignation.
‘The motel does not serve lunch or dinner?’
‘No.’
Good. That meant he would have her full attention for the rest of the day. He started to rise.
‘Well...’ She grimaced. ‘Not as a general rule.’
He sat again. ‘Explain.’
‘We get a lot of repeat business at Aggie’s Retreat.’
‘Yes?’
‘That means we get to know our guests as...as individuals.’
She uttered that sentence as if it explained everything.
He stared at her. ‘And?’
‘So, for example, I know that Sandra Clark from up Cairns way would walk across hot coals for a halfway decent salmon cake, and that the favourite dish of Godfrey Trent from Sydney is crumbed cutlets.’
He gaped at her. ‘You cook their favourite meals?’
‘I charge through the nose for it.’
‘How much?’
She told him and he shook his head. ‘That’s nothing compared to the majority of hotel restaurant rates.’
‘But it’s far more expensive than the Thai restaurant down the road or the tavern on the corner. I make a seventy per cent profit and the motel gets its guests’ undying gratitude and loyalty. That sounds like a win-win, if you ask me.’
It made sound financial sense—except this wasn’t the way the Ramos Corporation ran its hotels! ‘What are you running here—a guesthouse? Because it certainly isn’t a hotel.’
She suddenly smiled—one of those smiles. ‘That’s the perfect description. We’re a home away from home. It’s why our guests keep coming back.’ Her smile widened. ‘That and the fact that our rooms are so clean.’
‘Which is just as well, as your rooms don’t have anything else to recommend them.’
‘Ouch. That’s a little harsh. She’s getting a little tired around the edges, I’ll admit, but Aggie’s Retreat still has charm.’
‘She’s shabby. And the charm is wearing thin.’ He stabbed a finger to the table. ‘I want a tour of the entire building. Now.’
‘Rooms Three, Eight and Twelve won’t be vacated until after ten, but the rest of the motel is at your disposal.’
He did his best to run her ragged for the next two hours, but she kept perfect pace with him. In any other circumstances he’d have been impressed, but not here. In fact the more time he spent in her company the more he realised she would have to go.
He couldn’t fire her—he wouldn’t stoop to that—but he’d be more than happy to accept her resignation once she handed it in. And he knew exactly how to achieve that.
He turned to her, cutting her off in mid-sentence as she told him some unpalatable truth or other about the building’s ancient plumbing system. ‘Wynne, I think it is time you learned the real reason I have bought Aggie’s Retreat.’
‘Excellent!’ She rubbed her hands together. ‘I’ve been wondering how long it would take you to put me out of my misery.’
His lips tightened. ‘You do not look as if you are in any state of misery.’ It looked as if misery were completely alien to this woman’s existence. Unlike Lorenzo’s. And unlike Xavier’s own.
He pushed that last thought aside. He had no intention of descending into self-pity. Camilla might have proved as false as any woman could, but he had Luis. He would never regret his son. He’d come here to lay the ghosts of the past to rest—his grandfather’s past and perhaps his own too. He would create a hotel that would do his grandfather proud. Maybe then both of them would have earned some peace.
Wynne tossed her head, and all her glorious hair bounced about her shoulders. Her smile only grew wider.
Dios, that smile!
‘Allay my curiosity then.’
For no reason at all, his heart started to pound.
Those clear green eyes surveyed him, alive with curiosity and energy. ‘After all, Aggie’s Retreat isn’t the kind of property the Ramos chain generally shows interest in.’
‘That’s because my interest in this establishment is personal.’
Her eyebrows lifted. ‘Personal?’
She rubbed her hands together again, and for a moment all he could imagine was the feel of those hands on his bare flesh. Heat flooded him with a speed that had him sucking in a breath. He couldn’t recall the last time thoughts of a woman, desire for a woman, had interfered with his work.
‘Ooh, it sounds like there’s a story here! I’m on the edge of my seat.’
No! He refused to want this woman.
He made his voice sharp. ‘This story...it is not for your personal edification. I have no desire whatsoever to provide you with entertainment or amusement!’
The light in those lovely green eyes snapped off. ‘No, of course not. I’m sorry.’
But even though she’d apologised, he had a feeling she’d prefer to stab him through the heart with something sharp and deadly. He could hardly blame her. She’d done nothing to deserve his rebuke. Her natural effervescence, however—her sense of fun, her attempts to be generous and pleasant—chafed at him. He didn’t want her to be so congenial...so willing to approve of him...so attractive.
He didn’t want to like her!
‘The “story” as you so quaintly put it, is sordid and unpleasant, and it does your grandmother no credit!’
His teeth ground together. He had no right to tar Wynne with the same brush. If he were honest, he had no desire to hurt her either. He just wanted her...gone.
‘This has something to do with Aggie?’
Her overly polite tone made him clench his teeth harder. He had no one to blame for that but himself.
Tell her the story, tell her what you mean to do, and then accept her resignation. Wish her well and then you’ll never have to see her again.
Before he could start, however, she broke in. ‘It might be better to take this back to the conference room, don’t you think?’
He grew aware, then, of the rattling of the housekeeping cart in the hallway, and the fact that he and Wynne were wedged in the bathroom of the smallest room Aggie’s Retreat had to offer. It was a room Wynne didn’t currently use, due to an issue with the plumbing—the explanation of which he’d cut short.
He gestured for her to precede him out of the room. When they reached the conference room she stood aside to let him enter first. She didn’t take a seat until he ordered her to sit. Her sudden deference had him grinding his back molars so hard he’d need dental work by the time he returned to Spain.
Her face, when she turned to him, was smooth and opaque and so formally courteous he had to bite back another rebuke. What reprimand could he utter? She was simply behaving in the manner that he wanted her to—that he’d ordered her to. The fact that he hated it was not her fault.
Aggie’s past sins were not Wynne’s fault either. Even if she had unknowingly profited