“I beg to differ. Due diligence means more than showing up after the deal is signed, playing Santa Claus.”
A gull screeched overhead and a bead of sweat trickled down the center of his back. Was he being baited? His father frequently demonstrated extraordinary access to information, but, as far as he knew, the man wasn’t psychic. He couldn’t possibly have discovered what had happened in a supply closet while he’d “played” Santa. “I had a legitimate business reason for dressing up as Santa.”
“This, I realize. A small gesture to inspire employee goodwill. Very smart. But delegating the job of scrutinizing a deal to lawyers and accountants? Not smart. You will never find the real problems in the books. You find them by spending time at the property, talking to people, listening, digging deeper—”
“If I spend too much time at a hotel we don’t own, it tips people off that we’re looking to buy it, and then I have a bunch of competing offers to fend off.”
“Be creative. Devise a cover story, and work with someone trustworthy on the inside to get a detailed look at the operation. Any owner serious about selling, and confident in the value of the property, will agree to facilitate this request. Had you followed this protocol with Las Ventanas—”
“I don’t need a Monday morning quarterback on this deal, Luc. Relax.” A breeze cooled his face. He inhaled the salty air and tried to take his own advice. “Everything is under control. We have an employee communication ready to go first thing this morning concerning the assistant manager’s departure. Our corporate recruiter has already started a quiet search for a new assistant manager.”
“And a new general manager,” his father added. “Ultimately a new human resources person, too, because a triangle collapses when one corner falls away.”
“Yes,” Rafe conceded.
“Is there anybody left, or shall we make Las Ventanas our first self-service resort?”
There it was, the patented Luc St. Sebastian sarcasm. Heat having nothing to do with the weather or his run climbed up his neck. “I told you I’m handling it.”
“Priority to the general manager. He or she can fix the rest. I don’t want this Barrington hiring anyone. I don’t like his character.”
Rafe slowed as his house came into view, and headed to the water’s edge to cool down, adjusting the sweat-drenched waist of his workout shorts as he went. The thin, winter marine layer was already burning off. Sunshine warmed his bare shoulders. He flexed them, working tension out of the muscles. “Are you the pot or the kettle now?” Fidelity rated low on the list of St. Sebastian family core values, and his parents’ personal lives reflected as much.
“Neither. I don’t care who he fucks, but I do care about him putting his pleasure ahead of the business. This man has not acted strategically. His behavior weakened his organization, now my organization, which makes him a liability. A liability you purchased using the St. Sebastian checkbook.”
Right. Had he expected a verbal pat on the back for closing the deal on time and within budget? Or maybe a word of appreciation for adding two hundred and fifty new rooms in a coveted location to the company’s portfolio? Not from Luc. His father specialized in pointing out where Rafe fucked up. He squinted at the horizon, and found himself wondering what Chelsea was doing this morning. Thinking of her all bed-warmed and drowsy had him making other adjustments to his shorts. “I’m handling the liability.”
“Be sure you do. And understand this, someone seeking to take over as chairman of St. Sebastian Enterprises needs to know how to detect such liabilities ahead of time, and neutralize them. This is your mess to clean up.”
Chapter Six
Dec. 31
11:43 p.m.
Chelsea,
Two guests decided to get a jump on their New Year’s Eve celebration, and each other, in elevator 2. They stopped between floors, (multiple times), and now it’s stuck. Can you text me the reset code?
Thx.
Lynette
Chelsea texted her assistant the reset code, stuffed her phone into her black satin evening bag, and surveyed the Grand Ballroom. Tradewinds Maui pulled out all the stops for New Year’s Eve. Lights pulsed. Crystal glinted. Champagne flowed. A band performed on a raised stage at one end of the ballroom. The cute, tattoo-adorned singer channeled Adam Levine and howled out the opening lines of “Animals.” The room bristled with energy, excitement, and, in Chelsea’s opinion, a particular blend of anticipation unique to New Year’s Eve.
A bank of glass doors leading to the hotel’s poetically named Heaven’s Gate Terrace drew her attention. Beyond, the moon hung over the ocean, pristine and round. Its pale reflection danced on the water like a blurry dream, or a memory of past mistakes—faded and insubstantial.
Bring on the clean slate. Her mistakes were behind her, and she was ready for this new phase of her life. Tradewinds suited her perfectly. Granted she’d only been here three weeks, but she appreciated the beauty of the island, the vitality of the resort, and she enjoyed working for the Templetons. Yes, she missed home, but it was a speed dial away.
Three hours ago Laurie had called from her annual Montenido New Year’s Eve bash, and they’d done the California countdown together. Listening to everyone cheering in the background had made her feel every single one of the miles separating Maui and Montenido.
She was lucky to have friends like Laurie who would hold fast no matter what distance separated them, and luckier still to have this opportunity at Tradewinds, but lucky or not, the music suddenly seemed too loud, and the blinking lights too bright. She moved toward the terrace, hoping some air and a quiet moment might help, but stopped halfway through the door when she saw a couple standing in the moonlight, kissing passionately. She looked left, then right. And sighed. Heaven’s Gate Terrace earned its name tonight. Amorous couples occupied every corner.
People, we have over four hundred rooms. Please get one.
“Chelsea Wayne, you’re a hard woman to track down.”
The deep voice flowed over her. She squeezed her eyes shut. The last time she’d heard that voice she’d been coming so hard she still felt the aftershocks every so often—like now. Pulse hammering, she opened her eyes, stared at one particularly bright star and prayed she’d just suffered some kind of weird audio hallucination, because the alternative was too awful to contemplate. But when an arm reached around her and a strong, male hand took the weight of the door she knew one of the biggest mistakes of her year stood directly behind her.
Slowly she turned, and there he was, Rafe St. Sebastian, smiling down at her like a sinful ghost of Christmas past. Her thoughts had detoured to him far too often during the last few weeks, but after leaving Las Ventanas, he was about the last person she’d expected to see again. Ever.
He definitely did not need a Santa costume to command attention. A comparatively generic tuxedo worked fine, though his probably cost more than she earned in a pay period, so maybe generic didn’t fit. But the tux certainly did. The jacket stretched across his broad shoulders, and skimmed the rest of him well enough to hint at a toned chest and a hard, flat stomach. She realized she wasn’t the only one who noticed. Rafe drew almost as many admiring stares as the view.