Navy Seal To The Rescue. Tawny Weber
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father should easily relate to.
But, instead of understanding—or God, forbid, pride—at her work ethic and business success, her words garnered her a lecture.
Duty. Privilege. Expectations. Failure. Disappointment.
Years of practice helped her keep all of the tension, all of the reaction, in her left hand. Clenching, unclenching, clenching her fist. Over and over. Squeeze the tension, release the stress, she silently chanted.
When he finally wound down, she gave herself a second to make sure her temper was under control before speaking again.
“I have a business to run and commitments that require my time. A concept you should be familiar with. Isn’t that what you always said at every holiday, birthday or potential family occasion?”
So much for control.
“I run a multimillion dollar conglomerate with holdings in twelve countries, producing profits in the billions. You, on the other hand, are playing at running an employment agency for the odd and disenfranchised. Your accrued net earnings for the three years you’ve been in so-called business are a drop in the bucket compared to just the yearly interest on the trust fund you’ve rejected with your little act of faux independence.”
Everything wasn’t about money, Lila wanted to shout. Some things were worth more than dollars and cents. Like independence. Or pride. Or respect. She’d happily walk away from her trust fund if he’d give her any one of those.
But there was no point in telling him any of that. He never listened.
“As I understand it, you’re in Costa Rica to procure a chef for Joe Martin. That’s no longer necessary.”
“What’d you do?” she asked, her words a furious whisper. “What did you do?”
“My secretary will find them five comparable chefs to choose from, freeing you to come home.”
“The Martins are my clients, and it’s my responsibility to fulfill their request,” she snapped.
“That’s inconsequential. I’ve arranged for a helicopter to transport you to the San José airport where a private plane is scheduled to depart in the morning,” he continued, his tone of absolute confidence the only thing Lila had ever wished she’d inherited. “The itinerary is in your email inbox. I expect you to be here in two days.”
While Lila was choking on her stunned fury, he hung up.
She wanted to call him back and scream.
She wanted to throw the phone through the window.
She wanted to cry.
She shoved her hands through her hair, tugging on it until the urge passed.
Then she got up to pace off her fury.
Her entire damned life, he’d done this. Ordered, demanded or manipulated. She’d tried reason, she’d tried threats, she’d even run away from home. She’d tried to cut herself off from the family, even going so far as to use her late mother’s maiden name in her teens. It hadn’t made any difference.
Nothing got through to the man.
All she could do was focus on her life, and her business. Which meant figuring out what he’d done and undo it, Lila told herself. It still took a couple more paces of the room to calm down enough to listen to herself, though.
When she did, she figured she’d better call Joe Martin and ensure she still had a client. Otherwise she was going to have to rewrite her company’s tag line to guarantee 95 percent satisfaction instead of 100.
Lila opened her laptop to pull up his phone number and saw her email notification flashing.
Flight details.
Her jaw set, her finger shaking, Lila deleted the email without replying. And contacted her client, instead.
“Mr. Martin, hello. This is Lila Adrian.”
Thirty minutes later, she’d smoothed over the trouble her father had caused and promised complete satisfaction in the form of Chef Rodriguez. No substitutes, no replacements, just him.
When she hung up, she knew she was tiptoeing a shaky line, making that kind of promise. But years of watching her father had given her plenty of insights into how the rich and influential operated. She’d built her business on those insights. She might not like the man a whole lot, but she couldn’t deny that his business skills were legendary.
Legends weren’t built on empty promises.
But neither were they built on fear, she told herself as she headed back to the Casa de Rico. She couldn’t wait until morning to talk with Rodriguez. Not with a man like Wayne Adrian making travel plans, whether she liked it or not. She wouldn’t put it past her father to send someone to the hotel to ensure she made that flight. She wasn’t going to comply, but it wouldn’t hurt to nail down the details with the chef tonight.
Snatches of noise rolled out of the buildings, the beat of a steel drum and thrum of guitars playing backup to the sound of Lila’s heels tapping down the sidewalk as she wove her way through the partying crowds.
People poured out of bars, gathered around restaurants and a happy couple danced in front of the hardware store. She’d had no idea that Puerto Viejo was such a party town. But safe enough, she supposed as she returned friendly greetings, refused two cleverly worded propositions and sidestepped a would-be pickpocket with an apologetic grin.
She hadn’t quite worked out her pitch, but she knew it’d be smarter to talk with Rodriguez tonight.
Maybe.
Two steps inside the restaurant and she could barely move. It obviously did a better dinner service than lunch, because it had wall-to-wall bodies.
Still, she gave the bartender a friendly look when she finally wiggled her way to the counter.
“Hi, there. Bar or restaurant?” the woman asked, giggling as a passing customer patted her on the butt.
Lila angled her head to peer around the column and check out the crowds. The small bar was three people deep, with the bodies spilling into the restaurant.
“I’d love to chat to Chef Rodriguez instead.” Lila tried a wide-eyed, innocent smile when the woman arched one brow. “I’m working on an article and was in earlier. I had the ceviche. It was great. I was hoping to ask him about a few follow-up questions.”
The woman gave her a narrow-eyed look, but finally shrugged.
“Sure. Go on back.”
Fighting her way through the crowd, Lila took a deep, grateful breath once through the kitchen doors.
A dozen faces turned to stare at her in surprise. But none was the one she was looking for.
“Chef Rodriguez?”
She got a series of shrugs, a couple of scowls and one frown from the dishwasher, who jerked his chin toward a door leading to a narrow hallway.
“Try his office.”
“Thanks.”
Remembering the chef’s earlier reluctance to talk, Lila closed the door behind her. The grumble of voices hit her when she was halfway down the hall. Men. They were speaking Spanish, but it was a dialect she wasn’t familiar with. But the rage in their tone came through loud and clear.
Biting her lip, Lila paused. She took one step back toward the kitchen, then spotted a door leading outside. Probably better to go out the side, she supposed, ignoring the frustration tightening her jaw. She wanted to talk with Rodriguez tonight, to get her offer in first.
The voices rose. She recognized enough to know that one man was pleading, another cursing. She’d just talk with the chef in the morning, as planned, she decided, nervously sidling over to the door.
Before she could turn the knob, there was a whine and