скачать книгу бесплатно
“Hmm… Yes?”
“No.” She leaned toward him. “We’re trying to attract all the guests we can handle. Bookings equal revenue, remember? As much as you obviously don’t want to admit it, we need Pierre von Shalburg. He could bring us industry buzz and accreditation.”
“He could bring us a giant pain in the—”
“We agreed we were going to give this our best shot.”
Tony hung his head. He’d agreed all right—to the coup sponsored by Francesca and Uncle Joe.
No, that wasn’t true—or fair. Fact was, in addition to being one of the few Galinis in his generation capable of guilt, he’d also been a complete sucker for the hope and resolve that had shone in Francesca’s eyes that fateful day six months ago.
She’d always had so much faith in him—faith that he could get through his English final in high school, faith that he could graduate college, faith that he could resist Tiffani Lambeau’s determined advances even though she claimed her new husband ignored her, and, more recently, faith that he would be the best, most charming resort host on Long Island.
“Has it really been all that bad?” she asked softly.
Startled, he lifted his head. “No, of course not.” And it hadn’t. Watching the resort go from mere drawings on a page to three-dimensional reality, having people listen to his opinion on something besides which was the hip nightclub this month had been great. The responsibility gave him a sense of belonging and acceptance he hadn’t anticipated.
He just kept waiting for the whole thing to fall apart. No one—save Joe and Francesca—expected him to succeed. Not his acquaintances, his parents or his friends. He, in fact, knew they all had a pool going on the precise moment his dismal failure as a businessman would occur.
At least he’d cost that joker Sonny Compton—who’d started the pool—two hundred bucks already.
Francesca slid her hand over his. “You can do this.”
He stared into her sparkling, earnest blue eyes and almost believed her.
She was the only one who knew of his need to prove he wasn’t like his parents, that he could be a success in business—or anything else. He also suspected she knew he was terrified of everything he had to do in order to provide that proof….
He gripped her hand tightly. “I can’t thank you enough—”
“Don’t, Tony. I didn’t do anything, and I should be thanking you. I could never have jumped into the business at this level without you and your connections.”
“The only reason Joe offered to let me into the project was because he knew I’d turn to you for help.”
She shook her head, and tendrils of long, dark hair brushed her cheeks. “That’s not true.”
He thought it was, but he wasn’t particularly interested in examining Joe’s motives at the moment. He’d rather look into Francesca’s eyes. He’d rather stroke his thumb across her palm, feel the warmth of her skin, feel her pulse race in time with his. He’d rather brush her hair away from her cheek.
As if in a dream he did all these things, when he should have kept his hands to himself and his thoughts under control.
As his hand cupped her face, her breath came in short gasps. Her spicy, fruity scent enveloped him. He licked his lips, imaging the taste of her—wine and butter and something that would be hers and hers alone.
He glided his other hand to her waist. He leaned forward.
“What the hell are you doing?”
2
STUNNED, Francesca stared at Tony, at the glazed, desire-filled look in his eyes. She felt as if the world had suddenly starting spinning in a different direction.
He jerked his head and his hands back. “I—I’ve got to run.” He drained his wineglass, then stepped away from the counter.
She acutely felt the loss of his warmth, but since she’d so rudely drawn attention to his touch in the first place, she didn’t see how she could ask him to come back. “Run?”
“Out.” He grabbed her plate and his, then rinsed them both in the sink before putting them in the dishwasher. “To uh—I’m going up to…to the chateau.”
“Fontaine?” she asked, still confused about his odd behavior.
“Yeah. Meeting some friends.” He smiled, holding out his hands. “You know me, unending social life.”
Yeah, she did, and she was getting damn sick of it. She slogged away late into the night, while he took off for fun at least five nights a week. “We have work to do.”
“It’ll keep till morning.”
“What about the invoices?”
“Almost done. I’ll catch up tomorrow.”
“No, Tony—”
“I’ll see you in the morning. Coffee in the lobby?”
Since they’d been doing that for weeks, she nodded.
He leaned forward as if he was going to brush her cheek with his lips as usual, but she felt only a puff of breath against her skin. Giving her an odd look, he jumped back.
And, before she could even fully register the fact that he was leaving, he’d scooted across the room.
She watched him—specifically his great butt—as he disappeared around the corner.
Prince Galini has left the building.
She sighed. How could she be annoyed with him and still desire him? The transition to working every day had been hard for him, she knew, but his lack of commitment was getting old.
What did you expect, girl? That twenty-eight years of hedonism and indulgence were going to disappear overnight?
It was probably better he was gone. With him also went his disturbing effect on her.
She knew one thing for sure—The One had better hurry his late ass into her life soon, or she was going to burn up from the inside out.
With effort, she focused her brain on a safer topic. Pierre von Shalburg would do nicely. As much as Tony complained—a trait inherited from his spoiled parents, which Tony had, she was thankful, only a touch of—she was ready to jump up and down with the coup of having the influential critic attend their opening weekend. She wasn’t worried about his eccentricities or demands. Par for the course in the hotel business. The challenge of impressing the critic and getting Bella Luna on his Top Picks far outweighed the fear of a possible poor review.
Spurred into action by the opportunity, she cast a quick good-night over her shoulder to Kerry and headed upstairs to her office. She went online and searched for articles and reviews written by von Shalburg, cross-referencing them for commonly mentioned ingredients, favored presentation of dishes and service comments. She learned he liked all kinds of seafood—convenient, since Francesca had found a fabulous fish supplier. Shalburg was also a respected sommelier and could spot a weak wine with one sniff. He favored delicate and savory as opposed to overly spicy food, and he liked his service unobtrusive and as silent as possible—no surprise, given Tony’s “pompous jerk” assessment.
She rubbed her hands together. Now, what recipe could she come up with to wow him?
The phone rang before she’d managed to consider even one entrée.
When she answered, a familiar voice asked, “How’s my angel?”
“Hi, Dad,” Francesca returned, smiling as she leaned back in her chair. “How’s Palm Springs?”
Her father had owned a bakery while she was growing up, but he’d sold the business a few years ago, and he and her mother had spent much of that time traveling. Francesca was glad to see them relax and enjoy retirement. While they’d never lacked for anything during her childhood, they’d never had anything close to the financial freedom of Tony’s family or many of the other families whose children had attended her school. They’d put every spare penny into buying a house in a mostly posh area so she could get a great education, and the longer she spent in the “real world,” the more she appreciated their sacrifice.
“Great. Weather’s primo. I beat your mother today at golf.”
“She let you, you know.”
He sighed. “I know, but she loves me enough to let me win occasionally.”
“Just remember, Dad, she can’t even make a decent PB and J.”
“Why would anybody put jelly on first and try to spread peanut butter on top of that?”
Francesca laughed at the memory. “Got me.”
She caught her father up on the busy week and assured him she couldn’t wait for their visit on the second weekend after the resort opened. With the critic’s visit imminent, Francesca was glad she hadn’t insisted on having her parents for the grand opening and had instead taken her dad’s advice that she didn’t need the added pressure of family underfoot.
“Dad, thanks for giving me a great business sense,” she said after the update.
“And how is Tony?”
“I wasn’t comparing myself to Tony.”
“Oh, yes, you were.”
“No, I—”
“Tony has his own strengths, angel. He has a great sense of what people need.”
What they need? Oh, God, if he sensed what she really needed from him—to satisfy a gnawing itch of desire that had taken up residence in her body and refused to leave—she’d die of embarrassment.
“…that charm of his is legendary,” her father continued. “He could charm your mother into letting him win every golf match.”
It didn’t help her case against Tony that her father had always favored him. He’d always hoped she’d turn her interest to Tony and “bring him around.” Like a wary stallion, she assumed.
“I’m sure he could, Dad,” she said.
“I know you’re busy. I’ll let you go.”
She pushed aside her worry about Tony, the business and everything else. She missed her dad. Missed his guidance and clear head. “I’m never too busy for you.”
They talked a bit longer, and as she finished the phone call, she was smiling, but the smile faded as her father’s words came back to her—his charm is legendary. She needed to remember that whenever she got weak. Whenever she was tempted to fantasize about Tony’s butt. Or his smile. Or the charming way he always managed to be the center of attention.
Professionally, she wanted a successful resort. Personally, she didn’t want an affair. She wanted a life partner, a love for a lifetime. And Tony, Mr. New-Blonde-Every-Saturday-Night, didn’t come close to qualifying.
Closing her eyes against her troubles, she leaned her head back against her office chair. And—for some reason—a vision of Tony’s hands drifted through her mind.
She couldn’t explain it, to herself or anyone else, but his hands turned her on. She was fascinated with them.
Being a man of six feet tall, his hands were large, his fingers long. A bit of dark hair touched his knuckles. His sporty silver watch was perpetually wrapped around his wrist, highlighting his tanned skin.
Nothing unusual really.
Yet, she couldn’t stop thinking about the strength—and the pleasure—those hands could surely induce. Tony was never at a loss for female companionship. What ecstasy could those practiced hands bring? Would his touch be sure and relentless? Or soft and tentative? Or…both?
She forced her eyes open. Work, that’s what she needed. More and more work. These wild feelings for Tony would pass. They’d never been this intense before, had they? She’d always been able to talk herself out of an attraction to him. And she would again.
She hoped.
She had to.
“THANKS, PAUL. I appreciate the lift home.”
Paul saluted and bounced the keys to Tony’s Mercedes in his palm. “No problem, Mr. Galini. I’m glad to drive your baby anytime.”
Tony cast a longing look at his car idling in the driveway. He’d been at Chateau Fontaine, drinking and socializing. In truth, he’d had little to drink, but he’d let time get away from him—as usual—and had stayed later than he planned. With the long work hours, he was plain exhausted, and he hadn’t wanted to drive himself back to Bella Luna, even over the mere mile separating the two properties.
He was dead on his feet, and his last, semi-conscious concern was for his car.
“Take care of her, Paul. I’ll call you and arrange a time to retrieve her tomorrow.” He slid a folded fifty-dollar bill into the valet’s palm. “Remind me to tell your boss about your invaluable service.”
“You bet, Mr. G.” Paul saluted again, walking backwards towards the car. “That redhead wanted you, man. I’m tellin’ ya. I can get her room number if you want it.”
Tony yawned. This working for a living was hell on his social life. “Um-hmm. Maybe tomorrow.”
Paul and the Mercedes slid out of the horseshoe-shaped drive as Tony unlocked the front door and entered the lobby. Normally, he paused to gaze into the starlit sky, of which the glass dome over the lobby afforded him an unrestricted view, but tonight he shuffled his feet across the cream-tiled floor and headed straight for the elevator.
He’d share coffee with Francesca in the morning and enjoy the sunlight instead.
Francesca.
He leaned his forehead against the elevator wall, reliving the surprised, almost horrified look on her face when he’d nearly kissed her in the kitchen earlier.
What in the world was wrong with him?
Thankfully, the elevator doors opened, saving him from reliving that exciting, wonderful, awful moment. Again.
Eyes half closed, he stumbled down the third-floor hall, only to curse softly when he reached into his pocket to find it keyless.
He leaned back against his door. Maybe he could just sleep in the hallway. He gazed blearily down at the Cabernet-colored carpet beneath his tasseled loafers. He really needed his cushiony-soft down-feathered pillow, but he didn’t want to wake anybody up, least of all Francesca, though she was in the room right next door. The sight of her mussed and sleepy-eyed, clad in whatever big, baggy T-shirt she wore to bed would overload his already weak system.
But then some part of his still-functioning brain—and where was that part earlier when he’d been gazing at his best friend as though she was a steak and he a vegetarian who’d fallen off the wagon?—reminded him about the key code. They’d had electronic, numeric key pads installed at each door, so guests could set their own codes and enter their rooms without keys.
His idea. And, if he must say, a brilliant one.
He opened one eye long enough to input his code—the day he and Francesca had met in the fourth grade—then opened the door with a sigh of relief.
In the dark, he kicked off his shoes, then stripped off his clothes. Naked, he crawled into bed. He was asleep before his head sank fully into his plush feather pillow.
