Michelle Douglas - The Spanish Tycoon's Takeover

‘Tell me the deal with your breakfasts,’ he ordered now, without preamble.

She gestured to a chair. ‘May I sit?’ Her eyes danced. ‘Or am I to stand in front of the headmaster as I’m grilled to within an inch of my life?’

He blinked.

She didn’t wait for his invitation, but took the seat opposite. She crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap. ‘Good morning, Xavier. I hope you had a good night’s sleep.’

She didn’t exactly slouch, but she didn’t sit straight up to attention like most of his employees did either. He couldn’t say why, but that irritated him too.

As if she’d sensed his mood, she let a frown crease the smooth skin of her forehead. ‘Jet lag?’

‘Absolutely not.’ He lifted his chin and stared down his nose. ‘I spent two nights in Sydney before travelling north. That is more than enough time for a body to adjust to a new time zone.’

She pursed her lips and paused before speaking again. ‘You didn’t work your way up from the bottom of the industry, did you?’

He wasn’t sure what she was implying, but the criticism implicit in her words made his eyes narrow. ‘You might want to be very careful what you say next, Miss Stephens.’

Instead of seeing her pale and straighten, he could’ve sworn the corners of her lips twitched.

‘Would it help if I told you my middle name is Antonia?’

What on earth was she babbling about?

‘You see, whenever I was in trouble my grandmother would call me Wynne Antonia Stephens.’ She uttered her full name in deep, ominous tones. ‘It occurs to me that you have the same aplomb to carry that off. Mind you, your “Miss Stephens” was suitably crushing. Though I should probably tell you that I prefer Ms.’

He leant towards her and the faint scent of coffee, bacon...and jasmine drifted across to him. ‘What nonsense—you aren’t the slightest bit crushed.’

She opened her eyes wide. ‘Believe me, on the inside I’m utterly pulverised.’

It was all he could do to catch the smile that tried to slip free. She bit back a smile of her own and he suddenly found that his former irritation had drained away.

She clapped her hands together lightly. ‘Now, you wanted to know about breakfasts...’

He listened as she told him that guests who wanted breakfast needed to place their order and put it into the box on the reception desk by seven p.m. of the day before. Guests could choose to eat in the motel’s drawing room or have room service. The menu was limited, but adequate. And it appeared that Wynne herself was the cook.

He made a note to inform Reyes of the system—if they wanted breakfast they would have to place their orders in a timely fashion.

‘You have help.’

It wasn’t a question. Someone had brought his tray up to his room this morning, and it hadn’t been Wynne.

‘I have a girl who comes in for three or four hours in the mornings when I need her.’

‘What qualifications does she have?’

She blinked and very slowly straightened. ‘What qualifications does she need? She delivers trays to the rooms and washes dishes.’

Her legs remained crossed, her hands remained folded in her lap, but Wynne Antonia Stephens was no longer relaxed.

He thought of the way she’d almost made him laugh a minute ago. If Lorenzo were to be believed, Aggie Stephens’s charm had been lethal. Her granddaughter had obviously inherited it. However, while Lorenzo might have proved a pushover, his grandson was a very different proposition.

‘She’s hardworking, reliable and honest. In my eyes that makes her a model employee.’

‘And are you?’

‘A model employee?’ She sat back. ‘Hard to tell. I’ve been running this place for the last seven years. I’ve been the Chief rather than an Indian.’

Her eyes danced, but he refused to be beguiled by them again.

‘I have no doubts whatsoever, though, that I’ve been a model boss.’

He didn’t so much as crack a smile. ‘I meant are you hardworking, reliable and honest?’

He watched the merriment fade from her eyes. He hadn’t noticed how green they were till now, but perhaps it was simply a trick of the over-abundance of light pouring in at the windows.

‘Are you impugning my character, Mr Ramos? Now that is something I’ll take exception to.’

The Mr Ramos stung. He retaliated with, ‘I did not appreciate being manipulated into employing you.’

‘Ah...’

The martial light in her eyes faded. It was an unusual green—not emerald or sage. It shone with a softer and truer light—like jade.

‘So that’s why you’re itching for a fight?’

The unadorned truth of her words found their target. Being here—finally—in this ludicrous second-rate motel, with its ridiculous charm, had torn the scabs off the anger and outrage that had been simmering since his grandfather’s death. Now that he was here he wanted to smash something...or someone!

But Wynne—though she was that woman’s granddaughter—hadn’t even been born when Aggie had broken Lorenzo’s heart, when she’d manipulated him and made him suffer. Xavier’s heart might burn with the injustice and heartbreak Lorenzo had suffered, but in all likelihood Wynne had no idea what had happened fifty-five years ago. He couldn’t blame her for it, or hold her responsible. And it would be outrageous to punish her for it.

He straightened too, resisting the softening that coursed through him. Wynne needed to understand that he was in charge now. And the sooner he made that clear the better.

‘I’m planning to make changes here.’

‘Of course you are. It’s not like the place doesn’t need it.’

‘I have no intention of fighting you every step of the way or pandering to your sentimentality. You either do the job I’ve employed you to do or you hand your resignation in now.’

Her chin shot up, but it wasn’t the sudden frost in her eyes that Xavier noticed so much as the luscious curve of her bottom lip. He gazed at it, and the longer he stared the harder and sharper the hunger that sliced through him. If he kissed her, would that ice melt in the heat?

Her sharp, ‘Yes, sir!’ hauled him back.

The flush on her cheeks and the way she avoided eye contact told him he’d been staring...and that it had made her uncomfortable.

He didn’t want Wynne comfortable—he wanted her poised to carry out his every demand with flattering speed. He suspected if he gave the woman an inch she’d take a mile. But this was business, and he didn’t want her feeling uncomfortable on a personal level.

‘Do you have any other questions about how we run breakfast?’

‘I’d like to create a breakfast 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.’