The Spanish Tycoon's Takeover. Michelle Douglas

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      A wall came down in her eyes then, though nothing else in her expression changed, and he bit back something rude. He’d meant his words to come out as sign of appreciation for the refreshments she’d organised, not as a command.

      He glanced around, resisting the urge to roll his shoulders. ‘Where is your bellboy or a porter?’

      Her laugh feathered across his skin. ‘Ah, that would be me.’

      Before he could say anything she took one of the suitcases that Reyes had placed on the floor and started up the stairs.

      ‘Your rooms are right this way. I’ve made sure you have the very best rooms Aggie’s Retreat has to offer.’ A twinkle lit her eyes as she glanced back over her shoulder to Xavier. ‘I fear, however, that it’ll be a little more rustic than you’re used to.’

      In two strides he was at her side and had relieved her of the suitcase. It was all he could do not to scowl at her. ‘You think I will find fault with my quarters?’

      ‘Absolutely not.’ There was a hint of mischief in her eyes. ‘I expect the motel to charm your socks off!’

      A quaint expression, perhaps, but her optimism was misplaced. He kept silent on that point, however.

      She led them to the very end of the first floor corridor, and he refused to notice the provocative sway of her hips. Had she deliberately placed them in the rooms furthest from reception?

      She flung open a door to her right. ‘This is the Windsor Suite. Our best room, and yours for the duration, Xavier.’

      He’d seen pictures of all the rooms, of course. But this wasn’t a suite. There were no separate bedroom and living quarters. The sleeping area was merely separated from the living area by a step, and the most ludicrous wooden railing that stretched from one side of the room to the other. A sliding glass door gave on to a balcony overlooking the rear of the motel. It was decorated with what he suspected were fake wrought-iron railings and fretwork. Still, it would do for now.

      ‘Opposite we have Luis and Paula’s room—the Westminster Suite—for when they arrive.’

      She opened the door for his inspection. It was large, like his, and contained two double beds. Rather than a balcony it had a sunroom that overlooked the front of the motel. Reyes’s room—the Cambridge Suite—was next to it.

      ‘I hope you’ll be very comfortable. I’ll send up refreshments shortly. If there’s anything you need, just ring down to Reception.’

      ‘Thank you.’ He nodded. ‘Today we will settle in. Tomorrow we will get to work.’

      By the time he was through there wouldn’t be a trace of the black-hearted Aggie Stephens left in this godforsaken motor inn. He couldn’t wait to get started. He would turn Aggie’s Retreat into a haven of such beauty and opulence that his grandfather’s name would be linked with innovation and luxury forever.

      He would do his grandfather’s memory proud. He would turn this into a place that Lorenzo would have loved—an establishment worthy of him. Once that was done maybe the scalding ache that had taken up residence in his chest since Lorenzo’s death would finally go away.

CHAPTER TWO

      XAVIER SET A deliberately ruthless pace the following morning. He wanted to gauge Wynne’s measure before he set about incorporating the changes that would turn this two-bit motor inn into one of the most extravagantly luxurious hotels in the Ramos Corporation’s portfolio.

      His grandfather deserved the best.

      In his final days Lorenzo had confided in Xavier—had confessed that for the past fifty-five years this was where his heart had dwelled. He’d smiled at Xavier with such sadness it had been all Xavier could do not to throw his head back and howl.

      Don’t make the same mistakes I made.

      He’d made his grandson promise. Xavier had pressed his hand to his heart and had sworn he wouldn’t. That promise had brought his grandfather a measure of peace. For himself, Xavier had sworn to find a way to pay fitting tribute to the only person who had truly loved him.

      No expense would be spared.

      Nor would recalcitrant employees.

      Xavier had ordered Wynne to dance attendance on him at eight a.m., but she’d cheerfully informed him that that was impossible—she had breakfasts to take care of. The earliest she’d be free would be nine o’clock, once Tina’s shift started.

      To her credit, she’d arrived in the motel’s conference room—located next to his suite—at nine on the dot. As he’d demanded his own breakfast at six-thirty he knew she must have been up for at least three and a half hours, but she’d tripped in as fresh and perky as if she’d only just started her day. He wasn’t quite sure why, but it had annoyed him.

      ‘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.’

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