Текст книги "Compromising Her Position"
Автор книги: Samanthe Beck
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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 14 страниц)
Chapter Eighteen
Chelsea watched Rafe’s plane lift off the runway, and tried to tell herself the sight didn’t put the hollow ache in her stomach. She shouldn’t have skipped breakfast. Of course she’d skipped breakfast because the thought of saying good-bye to Rafe this morning had killed her appetite. Then she’d cried all over him, which only succeeded in making him so uncomfortable he’d resorted to platitudes they both knew weren’t true. Dismaying behavior, considering she was supposed to be evolving into the kind of woman who didn’t crave promises. She was guarding her heart, damn it, and letting Rafe slip past her newly erected defenses would be an exercise in self-sabotage. She’d already sabotaged herself enough for one lifetime.
The buzz of her phone interrupted her moment of self-discovery and personal growth, and she fished it out of her purse while ignoring the thirteen-year-old girl in her head who squealed, OMG! He really is calling.
She hit the talk button, and mentally braced herself for the sound of his voice. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you this soon.”
“I’ll bet you weren’t. Listen to you, so sweet and innocent. Save it. I know what you really are.”
The cold, hard¸ undeniably female voice definitely did not belong to Rafe. But she recognized the icy tone. “Cindy?”
“You walk around with your guileless smile and nauseating, how-may-I-help-you attitude, but underneath the nice girl exterior, you’re a vindictive, home-wrecking bitch.”
If voices could cut, she’d be bleeding out right now. Even long distance, Cindy’s words brimmed with enough venom to have her hands shaking. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“A lying, home-wrecking bitch. I know you’re after Paul, trying to win him back. I’m not about to let that happen. I don’t pretend to be a passive little good girl. You come after what’s mine, you’ll have a war on your hands.”
Mustering up her calmest voice, the one she used with unhappy guests or frustrated staff, she replied, “Cindy, I’m sorry you’re upset…”
Shit, Chelsea, you did not just apologize to the woman. Don’t default to customer service mode. Stick up for yourself! She certainly didn’t owe Cindy any apologies, or explanations, for that matter, but self-respect forbade her from meekly accepting accusations and threats. She’d taken the high road, for God’s sake.
“Perhaps nobody shared this with you, but I relocated to Maui last year. I haven’t seen or spoken with Paul since the holiday party, and I don’t wish to. I’ve moved on.”
The truth of the words settled on her as soon as they left her lips. Maybe she could still use some practice guarding her heart, but the wounds Paul had inflicted? Gone, and, in retrospect, completely superficial. Unfortunately, Cindy wasn’t so easily reassured.
“I don’t care where the hell you are. I know you’ve been communicating with him. He mentions you constantly. I’ve seen your number on his phone. If I see it again, or an email, a fucking text, you’re going to wish—”
She hung up. Silence swelled in the interior of the limo, broken only by the sound of her shaky exhale. What a nightmare. Laurie had warned her—
Her phone hummed again. Uh-uh. I’m not playing this game. She thumbed the screen, intending to hit disconnect, when she noticed the name on the display. Larry Sizemore, one of the attorneys representing Tradewinds in the deal. Right. She had a job to do, and when someone who charged five hundred dollars an hour called, the job involved taking the call. Time to pull up her big-girl panties—had she been wearing any—and put her head on business.
“Hello?”
“We have a huge problem.”
Larry’s Kermit-the-Frog voice assailed her from the other end of the line. “I’m staring at a contract between Tradewinds and the Maui Indigenous Landowner’s Consortium. Are you familiar with the document I’m referring to?”
She’d reviewed a ton of documents over the last week, but did her best to pull the terms of the one in question into focus. “I think so. I don’t have it in front of me at the moment, but I don’t understand the problem. It grants Tradewinds some sort of an easement, correct?” Between the cumbersome legalese and anachronistic land rights, easement was about all she’d gotten from the contract.
“Here’s the problem. Tradewinds doesn’t own the strip of land providing the beach access for the resort. A critical piece of land, I think you’ll agree, because a resort in Maui with no beach access is like a Vegas hotel with no casino.”
“But we have the easement, from the Maui Indigenous Landowner’s Consortium.”
“Tradewinds has the easement. The right is non-transferable, and, in fact, automatically revoked upon conveyance of at least fifty percent of the hotel, measured in terms of property or ownership shares, to another person or entity.”
Chelsea’s gut knotted as understanding dawned. “So, the minute St. Sebastian buys, Tradewinds’ beach access vanishes?”
“Exactly. Someone from Tradewinds needs to get over to MILC right away with a big fat checkbook, because those fellows have us over a barrel. If Tradewinds can’t negotiate a transfer of the easement to St. Sebastian, this deal is dead in the water.”
“St. Sebastian knows about this issue?”
“Their attorneys discovered it today.”
Great. The problem would be waiting for Rafe as soon as he stepped off his plane in L.A. He’d call her all right, to pull the plug on the purchase before it cost him the chairmanship. In her mind’s eye, her bonus circled the drain. Would he give them time to try and finesse a rights transfer?
The rest of the day whirled by in a series of calls—with the Templetons, the lawyers, a joint call with everyone. She walked out into the late Friday afternoon sunshine shouldering one additional responsibility: contact the MILC representatives first thing next week and negotiate an easement transfer.
On the way to her car, her phone rang. Nerves coiled in her stomach. Hanging up on Cindy earlier hadn’t discouraged the woman one bit. She’d sent two email rants. Chelsea battled an unheroic urge to put her phone on silent until Monday morning, because between Cindy coming unhinged and the deal unraveling before her eyes, she really couldn’t handle any more, but the caller ID read Babycakes. Her conscience forced her to take the call. Laurie had a stake in the deal, and she deserved to know things looked grim. Forcing enthusiasm into her voice, she answered. “Hey.”
“Uh-oh. What’s wrong?”
So much for her Academy Award. “What isn’t wrong would take less time.”
“I’ve got nothing but time, Chels.”
She sighed, opened her car door and sagged into the driver’s seat. “We’ve hit a snag with the sale. This problem puts my bonus at risk. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have anything to be sorry about. I adore you for trying to ride to my rescue, but you can’t take on responsibility for the success or failure of this deal. That’s on the Templetons and Rafe. You’re there as a facilitator.”
“I’m still trying, and everything might work out, but I have to be realistic. The problem the attorneys uncovered is serious.” Briefly, she summarized the complication for Laurie.
“Oops. Little oversight on the Templetons’ part.”
“They honestly didn’t remember the restrictions on the right of way. They secured the easement a long time ago, when they first built the resort, and in all those years they never gave any serious thought to selling, so the issue never came up.”
“Till now.”
“Right.” Chelsea closed her door, started the car, and switched her phone to hands-free mode. “Until now.”
“What does Rafe say about the situation?”
“Um, actually…” She craned her neck to look behind her as she backed up. “I’m not sure he’s aware yet. He flew back to L.A. today, so he probably just landed.”
“Ah. Well.” Laurie gave a long, envious exhale. “If the deal doesn’t go through, at least you got a week of good, not-so-clean fun with the talented Mr. St. Sebastian.”
“Yeah.” Chelsea braked at a stoplight and winced at the flatness of her own voice.
“Uh-oh, again. Don’t tell me Rafe…how shall I say…fell short of expectations? That’s damn disappointing after all the fireworks in the supply closet.”
“No, no. He was…” What word accurately described the last several days? “Perfect.”
“Perfect? Nobody’s perfect. You sound really low.” Concern sharpened Laurie’s voice. “Oh, no. You’re not missing him, are you?”
Maybe. “Of course not.” She made a left onto the road to Kihei and stared down the lonely single-lane highway. “We had our fun. Great while it lasted, but now we’re done.” She infused the statements with a breeziness she was far from feeling. “I’m just stressed about the deal.”
“I hate to add to your stress, but I called to give you a heads up.”
A heads up from Montenido? That couldn’t be good. “What happened?”
“I ran into Paul at the market today. The jerk snuck up on me in the produce section and started pumping me for information. How are you? Do you want your old job back? Do you miss him? I told him you were doing great and you’d outgrown everything about your old life, including him, but I think he’s going to need to hear it from you.”
“Perfect. Cindy already called and accused me of trying to break them up.”
“That must have been special.”
“Fairly horrifying, actually. I didn’t handle it correctly.”
“Please tell me the words, ‘I’m sorry,’ didn’t pass your lips.”
She winced. “Well, she was upset—”
“Chels, we’ve talked about this.”
“I know. I know. I’m still trying to get a muzzle on my nice girl. But I also hung up on her, if that redeems me at all.”
“Wow. That’s a first. She must have been spitting fire.”
“She was. If Paul does contact me again, and she finds out, his chances of fathering another child are over.”
“His risk,” Laurie said. “I’m more concerned about you. You don’t want your old job back, do you? Or your old life?”
“No.” She blew out a breath. “I miss Montenido. I miss my family and friends. I even miss Las Ventanas. I’d jump at the chance to come home, given the right opportunity. But I’m not interested in being an assistant manager again, and I’m definitely not interested in repeating mistakes with Paul.”
“Good. I’m relieved to hear you say so. Tell the slimy, two-timing scumbag the same thing. Be brutal. No catering. And no apologizing, or he’ll think he has the upper hand, and he won’t listen to a word you say. The next time he contacts you, you need to own the conversation right off the bat.”
“He won’t call.”
“Funny thing about men, Chels. The ones you want to call rarely do, and the ones you never want to speak to again won’t leave you alone.”
Chapter Nineteen
Rafe stood on his deck with his phone tucked to his ear, and threw a pretzel to the sandpipers skittering in and out of the surf below. He’d share the snack, but not his drink. The scotch he needed to get through the call with his father.
“A beachfront hotel with no passage to the beach? This is a joke, no?”
“No.” He tossed another pretzel, and briefly outlined the problem with the easement. No need to go deep into the weeds. His father would have gotten exhaustive details from the attorneys. This conversation was a test of how well Rafe grasped the issue, and what he planned to do about it. When he finished his summary, his father waited a moment before responding. The man appreciated drama.
“Walk away. The easement holders will use this as an opportunity to extort millions. The board approved a firm purchase price. Asking them to now approve additional funds for a feature we assumed to be part of the original deal wastes everyone’s time.”
“I understand that. I’ve already notified the Templetons this problem is theirs to solve, and we would not be assuming any portion of any costs associated with the solution. They’re going to negotiate with MILC and see what they can work out.”
“Fine. Resume talks if and when they work things out. In the meantime, go to plan B. Approach the next target. There’s still time to get a deal done before the end of the quarter.”
Probably good advice. Too bad he couldn’t follow it. He knew the hazards of putting all his eggs in one basket, but the lack of trustworthy management at Las Ventanas had foreclosed his ability to spend another week away, scoping out another property. There was no plan B.
“I’m not ready to walk away. As I said, I’ve already spoken to the Templetons. They’re sending their deal liaison to meet with the easement holders and reach an agreement. I’m confident in her ability.”
“She?”
“Yes.”
“You know her well? On what are you basing this confidence?”
This conversation was getting off track. “I just spent a week with her at Tradewinds. The negotiation is in good hands.”
“This is business. Never trust your future to someone else. I don’t care how good her hands are.”
Definitely off track. “Good-bye Luc.”
“Au revoir. I must call your mother and ask if you are my biological son.”
An old joke. Rafe rolled his eyes and disconnected. With the sun sinking below the horizon, he sacrificed the last of his pretzels to the birds and debated calling Chelsea.
The debate took a whole two seconds. He dialed. He wanted to hear her voice.
She picked up on the second ring. “I’m sorry,” were the first words out of her mouth. She sounded tired and stressed. He could relate.
“About the easement? It’s not your fault.”
“You wasted a week here at Tradewinds, spent money on attorneys to draw up contracts and conduct due diligence.”
“Finding these types of issues is the purpose of spending money on attorneys and conducting due diligence. Nothing’s wasted so far.” Even if the deal fell through, he’d never consider those six days with her a waste.
“Oh. I assumed you were calling to tell me St. Sebastian intends to back out.”
“No. Not when a quick negotiation might put everything back on track.” What was she wearing? He let his imagination roam while he spoke. “If MILC won’t agree to transfer the easement, then the deal won’t work. However, I understand the Templetons are sending a captivating representative to meet with them and work out a transfer. In fact, I hear she’s irresistible.”
Chelsea laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. “She’s in over her head. You’ve got a lot at stake here, personally, so I think it’s only fair to tell you I’ve never met these people, I don’t have the first clue what they want, and I don’t have much to offer. John and Evelyn can’t afford to throw money at them. Improvements to the Tahiti resort are driving this divestiture. If the Templetons can’t walk away with the originally anticipated profit from the sale, they can’t do the deal.”
Shit. He could feel her anxiety through the phone. He’d taken the wrong tact with his “irresistible” comment, and piled on the pressure. “Look”—he broke off to cough, and then took a sip of his scotch to ease his dry throat. “I recognize who’s got the bargaining power. MILC has nothing to lose by refusing, and, by all accounts, very little to gain by agreeing. But if they’re open to granting a transfer of the easement, under reasonable terms, I know you’ll get it done. You’re a good listener and a born fixer. On the other hand, if they’re not, they’re not, and nothing you, me, or anybody else says will change their minds.”
Silence met his statements. Finally, he heard her tenuous reply. “Wish me luck on Wednesday.”
“How about I go with you?” The offer flew out of his mouth before his brain vetted it. He couldn’t afford the time away. Not now, with the Las Ventanas re-launch looming and the resort in the hands of a general manager incapable of overseeing a simple staff meeting, much less a full-blown re-launch. But Chelsea needed someone. “I can personally assure the MILC representatives that St. Sebastian will protect and care for their stretch of land as diligently as the Templetons did.” Another cough scratched at his throat until he was forced to let it out. “I’ll fly over Tuesday.” He’d make it happen, somehow.
“Rafe, you just got home. You’ve got responsibilities at Las Ventanas, and you sound like you’re coming down with something. You can’t fly to Maui to hold my hand. I can convey your assurances.”
“I’m not coming down with anything, and I’m not coming to hold your hand. I’m coming to…take notes.”
“Ha. You wouldn’t have the first clue how to take notes. You talk and everyone around you takes notes.”
“Shows what you know. I’m an exceptional note-taker. It’s one of my underappreciated talents. See you Tuesday.”
“Rafe.”
“Chelsea,” he said, giving her name the exact same inflection she’d given his.
She sighed. “See you Tuesday.”
He smiled, and raised his glass to his lips before he remembered he’d already emptied it. “Oh, and Chelsea?”
“What?”
“Told you I’d call.”
As much as he enjoyed proving her wrong, as soon as he hung up his smile disappeared. The deal wasn’t the reason he’d called. It was merely a justification. He’d wanted to talk to her. As soon as he had, he’d wanted to be with her. He could tell himself she needed him there, but that was just another justification. He wanted to be there, dammit. He wanted to be the man who came through for her.
The timing sucked, but he’d make it work. Hell, he’d fly commercial if necessary.
Fucking commercial flights.
Rafe covered the receiver to avoid coughing into the phone. That’s what he got for squeezing onto an over-sold red-eye from Los Angeles to Honolulu.
“My chest hurts just listening to you,” Arden offered from the other end of the phone. “Why don’t you ask the concierge to call a doctor out for you?”
“I don’t need a doctor. And you didn’t call to check on my health. What’s up?”
“Dad’s in L.A. tomorrow. He wants to take me to lunch and then stop by Las Ventanas and see how the re-branding is going. From a design perspective, everything’s going great, but I didn’t know how you’d feel about me showing him around when you’re not here.”
“I don’t love the idea, but I’m not sure how you’d talk him out of it.”
“That would be my next question. I could fake food poisoning or something.”
“I appreciate you risking a trip to the ER just to keep Luc from a fault-finding mission while I’m not there to defend my decisions, but don’t bother. As long as the re-launch happens as scheduled—and it will—I’m fine.” He sipped the drink he’d poured upon arriving at the villa and dropped down onto the sofa. Immediately, images of the last time he’d used the sofa swam in his mind. With a low groan, he rubbed a hand over his eyes.
“Oh yeah, you sound fine. So tell me, do you envision a big, showy funeral, or something small and private, just for family?”
“You’re funny.” His head ached. His throat ached. His whole body ached. Why wasn’t he on the way to a doctor’s office instead of sitting here, nursing a bad cold with good whiskey?
Easy answer. Chelsea had agreed to bring her MILC notes by tonight. She’d offered to email the information, but he’d wanted to see her, so he’d told her his laptop crashed, fabricating a reason to bring her to his doorstep. His gritty eyes traveled to the computer bag sitting under the table in the entryway, containing his perfectly functional laptop. Whatever plague he’d contracted courtesy of one of his fellow passengers constituted karmic payback for the lie. Another round of rib-cracking coughs validated the notion.
“Want to reconsider the doctor, or should I just call the coroner?”
He smiled, despite his misery. “I would never make it that easy on you—” A knock at the door cut him off. “I’ve got to go. Love you.”
“Love you, too. Get some rest.”
Not likely. He fought back another cough and hauled himself up to answer the door.
And there she stood, glowing with vitality, and even more beautiful than he remembered. Her sleeveless white dress highlighted her figure, set off her golden skin and the warm tones in her long, sable waves. Her cheeks flushed pink, either from the walk to the villa or the pleasure of seeing him. He chose to think pleasure. Her deep brown eyes conducted their own slow survey, finally arriving at his face.
“Miss Wayne,” he said, and then turned away and fell victim to another coughing fit.
Her eyes filled with concern, not exactly the sentiment he wanted to see reflected there.
“Sorry,” he finally managed. “Somewhere between L.A. and Maui, I caught a cold.” As much as he wanted to see her, talk with her, ideally talk her into bed, he forced himself to do the honorable thing. “I don’t want to get you sick. Why don’t you give me the notes and I’ll call you if I have any suggestions?”
She ignored him and stepped closer, the look of concern deepening as her eyes moved over his face. Before he could stop her, she placed her palm on his forehead. “I knew you were coming down with something when we talked. Why didn’t you cancel your trip? You can’t blame the flight, but dry airplane air sure as heck didn’t do you any favors.”
So much for the honorable thing. Belatedly, he pulled away. “I’m fine.”
“You’re burning up. Have you seen a doctor?” Brushing past him, she took his hand and pulled him into the living room. Once there, she dropped her notes on the coffee table and sat him down on the sofa.
He reached for his glass and downed the rest of his drink. “I’m self-medicating.” The heat from the liquor burned a trail down his sore throat and spread across his chest. “Care to join me?” Could be he was starting to feel it a little.
She took the glass and sniffed, raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think even one out of five doctors recommends whiskey for treating a fever. Have you taken any actual medication?”
“I took a couple Advil right before you arrived.” Slightly dizzy, he rested his head against the back of the sofa and stared up at her.
She frowned. “Okay, we’ll give them time to work. Did you have dinner?”
He gestured to the empty glass.
Her look spoke volumes, but another bout of coughs prevented her from commenting. When his coughing subsided, she said, “I’m going to make you something to eat.” She started toward the kitchen and he silently appreciated the rear view of her in the dress.
Halfway to the kitchen she turned. “Why don’t you go change out of your suit? Put on something comfortable?”
Now she was talking. “Yes, Miss Wayne,” he said, but couldn’t quite muster the energy to stand.
“Need help?”
Tempting. But since her expression held more hospice administrator than sexy nursemaid, he figured he could handle a change of clothes on his own. “No.” Forcing himself to his feet, he added, “I’ll be right back.”
Once in his bedroom, however, he noticed his bed looked damn comfortable. Giving in to the impulse to lie down for just a second, he settled his pounding head on the pillow and closed his eyes. Five minutes…
