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‘How much is involved?’
She looked over and rattled off a figure that had him raising his eyebrows. ‘That’s exactly why the lawyers advised that Clemengers be sold. If the banks weren’t interested—where else could we go? And yet the business is profitable—I can show you the figures to back that up. It’s just that the outstanding back tax and penalties have to be paid, and soon.’
She sighed and gave a wan smile. Right now she looked tired. Tired and so vulnerable, not at all the intrepid, risk-taking female who’d pushed her way into his office demanding he listen to her proposal. Her head tilted to one side as she looked up at him.
‘Clemengers has quietly been on the market for two months—why hasn’t Silvers expressed any interest? For a business looking for solutions to its own problems, I would have thought someone might have made an expression of interest, or at least made some enquiries.’
Domenic didn’t know. His Australian finance director had never passed on the information that the boutique hotel business was for sale. And while he may have had good reason to have discounted any opportunities the Clemenger deal might offer, why was there not even a mention of it in the report?
There was one way to find out. ‘I think I’ve heard just about enough.’ He moved to the desk, picked up the phone and dialled the finance director’s number. She watched him from where she still stood, near the window, eyes wide, lips slightly parted, as if she’d been on the verge of saying something, copper flecks in her hair suddenly brought to life. Did she realise how beautiful she looked right now? Was that why she’d chosen that particular spot to stand, with the sunlight washing over her in a golden sheen?
Probably not, he decided while the phone rang at the other end, she seemed to lack the guile of the women he usually associated with.
Evan Hooper answered on the third ring and Domenic dragged his eyes from Opal and focused on the wall, where those peculiar eyes—not quite blue, not quite green—couldn’t distract him. ‘Evan, what can you tell me about the Clemengers sale?’
Opal drew in a deep breath. For a moment, just a moment, she’d thought he was going to call Security and have her thrown out. Instead, she was still in with a chance. And he just had to see the benefits—there was far too much at stake for him not to.
‘And the finances?’ Domenic’s terse questions to the finance director were meeting with very long answers.
‘Then why?’ His voice kicked up a few decibels before, on a muttered curse, he flung the phone down. For a second he stayed where he was, leaning his weight with his hands on the desk, his chest heaving, until he looked up at her and pushed himself upright. He swiped up his jacket.
‘Come on, then, Ms Clemenger. Or may I call you Opal?’
‘Of course, but—where are we going?’
‘Where do you think? You’re going to show me that six-plus-star hotel you’re so proud of.’
She motioned to the desk, the plates of food still untouched. ‘Your lunch…’ she said.
‘Leave it,’ he said, putting a hand under her arm and guiding her towards the door. His face turned to hers and she caught his scent—woody tones over a mantle of male. It suited him. His teeth flashed as his mouth paused to smile. ‘I want to see what you’ve got to offer.’
His touch was warm through her jacket, yet that still didn’t stop the shiver that coursed through her. He meant the hotel, of course. Why would she imagine for a minute that she’d seen something else in the dark, heady gaze he’d turned her way? Sure he might be a playboy, but he was hardly likely to come the playboy with her—she wasn’t the type, which was exactly the way she wanted it.
All she wanted from Domenic Silvagni was an investment, funds to ensure the future of Clemengers and its staff. If it took a playboy to save it, then so be it. Right now she couldn’t afford to be too choosy.
Deirdre Hancock was back at her desk when they left the office. If she was surprised or pleased to see them together, she was the consummate professional again and didn’t show it.
‘I’ll be out for the next couple of hours,’ he said as he surged by. ‘Would you arrange a car to pick us up downstairs?’
‘Certainly, Mr Silvagni. By the way, your father rang again. I told him you were in conference.’
He stopped dead in his tracks, allowing Opal the opportunity to slip from his arm and retrieve her folio from the chair where she’d left it earlier.
‘Did he leave a message?’
‘He wonders if you’re free Thursday evening in Rome. He and your mother have met a charming young woman they’d like to introduce you to.’
A noise like a deep snarl emanated from his throat.
‘Do you have a message for him?’ Deirdre asked.
‘No. I’ll deal with it later.’ Then he turned to Opal and held out his hand towards the lift and she fell into step alongside him. She glanced back over her shoulder and caught an uncharacteristic thumbs-up Deirdre sent her way. Thank you, she mouthed back.
He followed her into the lift, his size dwarfing hers in the reflection from the highly polished mirrors lining the interior. She turned to face the door, expecting Domenic to do the same, but he continued to face the back of the lift—and her—as the car hummed downwards. Her eyes sought anywhere to look but at him, and they sought refuge by studying the recession of numbers, which was altogether too slow for her liking.
But even avoiding his face, there was no escaping the raw heat of his proximity, the frank assessment of his gaze. Her body could feel it and responded, her skin tingling, her breasts firming, even as her eyes attempted to deny it. Even his scent, masculine and woody, seemed to taunt her. Try to ignore me, it mocked.
There was no ignoring him. But she could still show how unimpressed she was. Another time maybe she might have been intrigued, might have been attracted by the intense magnetism this man projected.
Another time and another man. But not now, not with Domenic Silvagni. Never with a playboy.
‘How old are you?’ he finally asked.
Her eyes snapped back to his. So that was what all the close inspection had been about. He’d been studying her for age lines. Given the adolescents he was used to dating, he was no doubt none too familiar with those.
‘Is that relevant?’
‘Twenty-four? Twenty-five?’
She straightened her spine, kicked up her chin. ‘How old are you?’
‘Thirty-two.’
‘Oh.’ Her indignation evaporated in the realisation she’d been churlish. He was only asking her age after all. It wasn’t exactly privileged information. ‘I was twenty-six in June.’
He arched one eyebrow high. ‘And neither married nor engaged. Why is that?’
Self-consciously she covered one hand with the other, even though it was patently already too late.
‘Maybe I have a boyfriend.’
‘And do you? I wouldn’t be surprised. You are a disarmingly beautiful woman.’
She felt the heat rise to her face and stared at the numbers—twenty-eight, twenty-seven—willing them to speed up before her cheeks were as red as the lights flashing their progress. ‘Disarmingly beautiful’—what kind of a backhanded compliment was that? But there was no way she was going to ask.
Instead she said, ‘I can’t see what that has to do with the sale of Clemengers.’
He spun back against the wall of the lift, head raised to the ceiling. ‘You’re right. This isn’t your problem.’
For a moment she was confused. Then realisation sank in. ‘The phone call,’ she said.
He nodded. ‘The phone call. My father thinks I should be married. My mother makes it her career to interview every finishing-school graduate or European princess she comes across.’
Opal was reminded of the women photographed with Domenic. Clearly neither finishing-school graduates nor princesses. So what did he expect? His parents were no doubt concerned he’d end up hitched to one of those photo opportunists. In spite of herself, she felt a smile flirt around the corners of her mouth. ‘I can see how that might be a problem—for someone like you.’
Her words snagged into him, their ragged edges scratching barbs across his consciousness. But if she expected that to put him on the defensive, she was very much mistaken. Notwithstanding his family connections, he hadn’t got to where he was by rolling with the punches. That was something Ms Clemenger was going to have to learn.
He swung around and took a step closer, cramping her up against the back of the lift before dropping an arm each side of her to the brass handrail. She was trapped.
He saw the fright flicker in her widening eyes, the spark of alarm that glowed red in their greenish-blue depths, and was glad. ‘Someone like me? That sounds very much like some kind of put-down, Ms Clemenger.’
But even as he waited for her response, something else happened in her eyes. The momentary flare cooled, a sheen of varnish turning them hard and cold and unreadable.
‘Opal,’ she said, only a touch shakily around the edges even though he could see the tightening white-knuckled grip on her folio, held up as a barrier between them. ‘I said you could call me Opal.’
In spite of himself, he liked the way she said her name. Liked the way her mouth opened and then pouted to form the ‘p’, widening once more until her pink tongue brushed her top teeth over the ‘l’. There was something very sexy about the way her lips made that word. Come to think of it, there was something very sexy about her lips, period.
If only her eyes gave the same message.
‘Opal,’ he said, his lips curling but a few centimetres from hers. ‘You wouldn’t try to put down the man who was thinking about saving your business?’
This time her eyes met his savagely. ‘And here was I thinking I was offering a solution for yours.’
He smiled. Those lips were so close he could just about reach over and sample them. ‘That’s not how it sounded to me.’
Now he had her nervous, her eyes darting from side to side, searching for escape almost as if she could read his mind. Her tongue flicked out, moistened her lips before darting back in.
‘So maybe you weren’t listening,’ she said, her eyes fixed on the wall to his left.
‘Oh, I’ve been listening,’ he crooned, ‘and watching, and wondering.’
Without Opal turning her head, her eyes found his before fleeing to fix on the wall once more.
‘Wondering what?’
He dropped his head even closer. ‘Whether that mouth tastes as good as it looks.’
He dipped his head, banishing the remaining few centimetres between them. His lips brushed hers, catching her sharp intake of air, and tasted warmth, life and just a hint of sweetness, before the lift doors behind him dinged, heralding their arrival at the ground floor and then opening with a whoosh.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, sounding a little bit breathless as she ducked her face, pushing past his arm and out to the freedom of the richly decorated marble foyer beyond. ‘I think this is where I get off.’
He watched her shapely rear view as she fled for the safety of the foyer. She was some surprise package all right. He’d set out to intimidate her, not kiss her, but that didn’t stop him thinking about the possibilities of a second chance.
‘Lady,’ he muttered under his breath as he followed her, ‘this ride has only just begun.’
CHAPTER THREE
SHE was a fool. Opal poured herself a cup of Earl Grey tea from the silver pot, watching a flurry of tiny leaves swirl and tumble through the amber liquid. She didn’t need to be a fortune-teller to know they were telling her the selfsame thing.
It was at least two hours since Domenic had pressed her against the back of the lift, had brushed her lips with his own and frozen her to the spot, and still she couldn’t think about anything else.
He would be back to finish his coffee any moment, after excusing himself to take a private call on his mobile phone, and here she was, still thinking about what might have happened if those lift doors had not opened when they had, when she should be thinking about how to convince him to invest in the business.
By all accounts he had been impressed with the luxury and sheer class of Clemengers, from the moment Sebastian, the doorman, had greeted their entry with a formal nod to them both, his top hat and tails setting the tone for the tour to follow. He’d appreciated the generous size and furnishings of the suites, the bold antique tones that decorated each room, their sumptuous furnishings spelling wealth, luxury and prestige, with not a bland pastel water-colour print in sight.
He hadn’t even balked when she’d shown him the figures, just studied them, nodding where he was clear, asking pertinent questions exactly where she’d expect anyone with the analytical ability to know when to drill down for further details.
Even the meal they’d just shared in The Pearl, Clemengers’ award-winning restaurant, had been beyond reproach. Thai chilli king prawns, followed by the most tender fillet of steak, served on fried sweet-potato wedges and topped with lobster medallions in a white-wine sauce. Domenic had made a point of meeting the chefs before coffee, to compliment them personally and discuss their attitudes, their philosophies and their aspirations.
He would be doing none of this if he weren’t seriously considering the idea of investing in Clemengers.
So it would be logical at this stage for her to be thinking about how she should close the deal. That would make sense. Close the deal and ensure Clemengers wasn’t about to be gutted or razed and turned into so many more flats. Close the deal and ensure Clemengers could continue operating into the future. Close the deal…
Which didn’t help explain one bit why she kept thinking about what had happened in the lift instead. Why was it so hard to forget about the gentle brush of his lips against hers, the heat of his breath next to her cheek, and the way his touch made her senses unfurl and open, like palm fronds given birth, stretching out into the humidity of a warm tropical morning?
He’d kissed her.
And she hadn’t even attempted to stop him. From the moment she’d sensed his lips descending, she’d forgotten entirely why she was there. Even more damning, she’d forgotten what he was. He was a playboy. The lowest kind of man.
Sure he might end up investing in the hotel. For the sake of Clemengers, she’d have to look past the man’s personal life. But she herself must never forget what he was. She should only think of her mother’s sad and empty life to remind her what that would cost.
Absently she stirred a half-teaspoon of sugar into her tea. It was quiet in the restaurant. People spoke in hushed tones. The waiting staff were efficient and non-invasive, with no clatter or rattle of flatware and cutlery, and it was as if the traffic outside in the busy Rocks area didn’t exist. But that didn’t stop the prickle of awareness steadily creeping up her neck, then needling down her arms.
She was imagining it. All this thinking of the episode in the lift—she was not thinking rationally, and she was in danger of making a fool of herself. Obviously Domenic would have forgotten about it already. No doubt such incidents meant absolutely nothing to a man who had trouble committing to just one woman. She took a deep breath and focused on placing the spoon on the saucer, gently tinkling silver against porcelain.
She shivered, the creepy feeling persisting in spite of all her logical explanations. On pure impulse she looked across to her right and instantly her eyes snagged at the sight of him, Domenic, standing stock still and…and watching her.
For a second the space in the room evaporated in the arc between their eyes. Nothing happened, yet something happened between them in that infinitesimal moment that Opal could only wonder at. She felt hot, cold, shivering and flushed, all in the same amazing second his unreadable gaze washed over her. And then, just when she thought she couldn’t look at him for a moment longer, he smiled and warmth filled her senses. Instinctively she knew the smile was for her and in spite of all her reservations, in spite of all the reasons why it shouldn’t, the warmth inside her bloomed to a slow burn.
Annoyed at her burning cheeks, she battled to drag her eyes away as he moved between the tables towards her, slipping his mobile telephone into the top pocket of his fine cotton shirt as he did so.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, resuming his seat. ‘My father would not be denied any longer. I’m afraid that no matter how important any business, family must come first.’
‘You don’t need to apologise,’ she said. ‘The twins—my two sisters—and I are very close, although I don’t see them now as often as I’d like.’
He took a sip of his long black and nodded approvingly. Even Clemengers’ own special blend of coffee seemed to find favour with him. ‘Tell me about them,’ he said.
She put down her cup, thankful for the opportunity to talk about her sisters, to think about someone else. ‘Well, they’re twenty-two. Sapphy—that’s Sapphire—is the eldest by ten minutes. She’s working in fashion design in Milan right now. She’s making quite a name for herself by all accounts while she works with one of the big fashion houses. One day she wants to have her own label. And the way she’s going, I believe she’ll get it.
‘Ruby lives in Broome while she gets first-hand knowledge of the pearl industry. Jewellery design is her first love. She’s done some fabulous pieces.’
‘And all of you are named after precious stones.’
She gave a small laugh. ‘That was my mother’s idea. She was the original Pearl. This restaurant,’ she made a sweeping gesture with her hand, ‘is named for her. She said we were all uniquely beautiful and inherently precious, and she wanted to give us names to reflect that.’
She paused, memories of her mother flooding back on a bitter-sweet tide. Her tender, sad-eyed mother, who had died alone when Opal was just nine, her spirit broken and her will to live erased. Her beautiful, gentle mother, whose only crime had been to love too much.
And everyone had thought she led the perfect life. A wealthy lifestyle, three beautiful little girls and even a plush restaurant named after her. No one else had seen the empty bed, the shame of her husband’s constant infidelities and the broken-down shell of her marriage.
No one but Opal. Old enough to feel her mother’s pain but far too young to be able to do anything about it, except swear that one day, some day, she would do something to help women who were trapped in marriages they couldn’t escape.
‘I approve of her philosophy.’
His words permeated her consciousness, dragging her from her reflections of her mother’s wasted life. ‘Do you?’ She gave a brief laugh. ‘I don’t know if Dad would have though, if she’d given him a son. Somehow I can’t imagine him tolerating a son called “Garnet”.’
His lips pulled into a grimace. ‘Perhaps not. How long ago did your father die?’
‘Two years.’ She frowned—that couldn’t be right. ‘No, more like two and a half now. A massive heart attack, apparently.’
‘That’s unfortunate,’ he said. ‘The stress of running hotels can be enormous, and I’ve found is often underrated by those outside the business.’
Opal looked out the window, feigning interest in the passing foot traffic, tourists visiting the various galleries and shops, red-faced businessmen returning to their offices after long liquid lunches.
Certainly people outside the industry had little or no idea of the stresses and strains of the business. Especially when coupled with the stresses and strains of trying to impress a nineteen-year-old pole dancer who was eager to prove herself very worthy of the position of the next Mrs Clemenger. Just maybe, if he’d spent more time stressing about their tax position, he would still be alive and the business wouldn’t be in this mess now.
‘And that left you in charge. Without even your sisters to help?’
It was her turn to shrug. There was no point in thinking about maybes. She couldn’t change what had happened; though at times that knowledge didn’t make the truth any easier to deal with. For if it hadn’t been that particular girl his father had died in the arms of, it could have easily been any of a raft of others, lining up to be taken care of by a rich man old enough to be their grandfather. It was a miracle he’d never taken that final step of marrying one of them. Obviously he was a man who liked to pick and choose, and at least it had saved the business that complication.
‘That’s just the way things turn out. And both Sapphy and Ruby have such artistic flair—it would be unfair to make them work in the hotel business when they have a calling in another field. Whereas I’ve had a passion for Clemengers ever since I can remember, always wanting to help, always wanting to be involved. I can’t imagine doing anything else.’
His eyebrows peaked. ‘Which is where I come in, I take it. It would be understandably hard to let go.’
His words bristled. For want of something to do she pushed aside her now empty teacup and saucer.
‘There’s more to saving Clemengers than what I want. For a start, there are more than two hundred staff who depend on this hotel chain continuing to operate for their own and for their families’ livelihoods.
‘And,’ she continued, ‘there’s a tradition. No one else provides the type and scale and class of accommodation as Clemengers. That has to be worth saving.’
He held up a hand. ‘And you say this McQuade is likely to win the tender? How can you know that in advance?’
Her lips tightened as she nodded, the name sticking into her as effectively as a knife. ‘I was due for an appointment with the broker and I was just paying the taxi driver when I overheard two office juniors discussing the bids over a cigarette outside the building.’
‘But you’re sure?’
‘No doubt at all. I was so shocked I confronted the broker and he eventually confirmed it. I can be pretty persuasive when I want to be, you know.’
The corners of his mouth turned up and his eyes gleamed. ‘I had noticed something of the sort.’
She looked up at him sharply, not entirely certain he wasn’t laughing at her.
‘So you need a bidder who will outbid McQuade.’
‘Yes,’ she said, recovering some composure. ‘The bids close tomorrow at five o’clock, so there’s not much time.’
‘I see. And assuming I win the tender, I assume control of Clemengers and its three hotels and everything that goes with it.’
‘Well, sort of.’ She licked her lips. ‘I was thinking maybe more of a share of the business.’
‘What do you mean, a share of the business? If my offer is the highest, I win the business lock, stock and barrel.’
‘In a way, but I thought that maybe if I continued to manage the operation, and run it as a separate entity within the Silvers hotel chain, then you might accept a smaller share.’
‘How much of a smaller share?’
‘I was thinking, maybe forty-nine per cent?’
‘Now you are joking.’ His voice went up a number of decibels. ‘You expect me to outbid every other offer in the market, each of which is for ownership of Clemengers outright, I assume…’ he took her silence as assent before continuing ‘…and yet I will own and control only forty-nine per cent. That is not a deal worth making. That is not a deal at all.’
‘I assure you it’s no joke. You get a large share of the business and you get continuity in management—good management. I will stay on, working with Clemengers and with Silvers Hotels, where required. And within a year you’ll be reaping the rewards of a positive cash flow and you’ll be able to use the techniques you find in Clemengers in Silvers’ own operations. There have to be huge spin-offs for your other hotels. So even with less than complete ownership, you’re still getting a great deal.’
It had to sound convincing. It was the only way she was going to be able to keep Pearl’s Place—the refuge she’d established in a run-down inner-city terraced house four years ago—open for business.