California Royale (3 page)

Shea made a tour of her large, white-and-tan office, plumping the hand-woven cushions on the visitors’ chairs, brushing a speck of dust off the white bookcases. “I just want to be focused and relaxed for the meeting.”

She shut the office door, smoothed a wrinkle in her turquoise jumpsuit, made sure that the clasp on her pearl necklace hadn’t slipped around to the front and that the silver-and-pearl belt wasn’t crooked, then sat down at her desk. To sidetrack her nervousness she picked up a guest list and began checking yesterday’s staff notes.

Shea smiled. Chip Greeson, the game-show host, had been intercepted in the kitchen after lunch yesterday. He said he only wanted to take a peek at the facilities, but the staff suspected that he’d swiped a broiled pheasant for a snack. Angela Michaels, president of a Fortune 500 company called Angel Face Cosmetics, had offered one of the male fitness instructors much more than a makeover. He had tactfully declined.

Shea felt a twinge of guilt. After her encounter with the outrageous rascal last night, she could empathize with the instructor. Her face flushed as she recalled her traitorous inclination to be reckless. After the meeting her first order of business was to find out Duke’s last name. The intercom buzzed on her phone.

“Mr. Araiza is here,” Jennie told her.

Shea took a deep breath. Alejandro Araiza, the estate’s new owner. “Thank you,” she answered. “I’ll be right out.”

Shea leaped to her feet and went to the door, pulled it open, and stepped into the reception area wearing a welcoming smile. Alejandro Araiza held out one large, blunt hand as she came to a shocked stop.

“Call me Duke,” he said warmly, and smiled.

Shea was dimly aware of extending her hand, more aware that he grasped it in the same sensual, slow way he’d grasped her leg last night. He wore sleek black loafers, khaki trousers, a light-blue golf shirt, and a beige sport jacket with a fine black line in the weave. Gone was the darkly exotic
hombre;
in his place was a darkly exotic businessman. But his eyes were exactly the same as they appraised her—intense, gentle,
very
interested.

“Duke?” she repeated numbly.

He nodded. “Alejandro by birth certificate. Duke by nickname.” His forefinger stroked the tender center of her palm, reassuring her. “Sorry. I like to play games. And last night I figured that you’d stiffen up even more if I told you who I was.” His smile was utterly teasing and yet not the least bit arrogant. “I wouldn’t have wanted anything else to cramp.”

Shea glanced at Jennie, a redhead whose big eyes looked even bigger at the moment. Shea realized that Jennie was studying the handshake that had lingered far too long. Shea realized that she was squeezing
Alejandro “Duke” Araiza’s hand much too intimately. She removed her hand and stepped back.

“Mr. Araiza,” she said blankly, still absorbing his announcement.

“Duke,” he corrected cheerfully.

“Of Solo Verde Farms. The man who owns Thoroughbred race horses.”

He nodded. “I think that’s me.”

“The man who owns Spanish Outlaw.”

“Winner of last year’s Triple Crown. Yep.” He tilted his head toward her office. “Let’s go sit a spell and talk.”

Sit a spell
. Shea had the feeling that despite the change in clothes, Duke Araiza was as much homespun rancher as sophisticated businessman. Homespun, an
hombre
. That black hair, dark as the underside of night, shagged forward, an unruly and entirely intriguing contrast to his otherwise neat appearance.

“Yes,” she managed to say as she led him into her office. Shea nearly jumped when he swung the door closed with a jaunty shove of one hand. “Please, sit down,” she muttered. “Can I get you something?” She paused just long enough to smile grimly as she analyzed what he might say in return—knowing him—and hurried on. “Mineral water, herbal tea, fruit juice …”

“How about a cup of strong coffee with extra cream and sugar?”

Shea covered her chagrin with a neutral expression, then punched the intercom button. “Jennie, please have the kitchen send Mr. Araiza a cup of strong coffee with cream and extra honey.”

“Uh,
sure
.” Shea could hear the surprise in Jennie’s voice. Coffee was verboten for the estate’s guests and therefore in short supply.

“I’m sorry,” Shea told him. “We don’t keep sugar on the premises. Honey’s the best we can do.”

He had settled into a chair across from her gilded French desk, and now he crossed his legs and shrugged happily. “Sugar’s not important right now.” The way he looked at her made Shea feel that they both knew exactly what was important right now, and it had to do with the energy between them.

“This is incredible,” she said softly as she sat down at her desk.

“What? That you don’t keep sugar around? You can fix that. Don’t worry.”

Duke watched her clasp her hands on top of the ridiculously ornate desk and knew that she was still in shock. Even in shock, she looked fantastic. She had swept her blond hair up in one of those curly styles that defied gravity, and the color of the jumpsuit accented her eyes. With her pearl necklace and small pearl earrings she radiated elegance. Duke remembered the witty, spontaneous way she’d dealt with him last night and wondered if the elegance was a front for a delightfully earthy nature. He intended to find out.

“I don’t mean to look dumbfounded,” she said carefully. “It’s just that I had no idea what to expect about the new owner. I wasn’t told much. Sir Nigel has owned the estate for the past fifteen years and in the eight years I’ve been here, he hasn’t stayed in close contact other than visiting a couple of times a year.” She struggled for tactful words. “You’ve acquired the resort for … investment purposes?”

“Nope. I won it in a poker game.”

Shea sat back slowly, drawing her hands into her lap, feeling the blood drain from her face. “A poker game?”

He smiled at her stunned reaction. “Nigel and I are horse-racing cronies. He bought a few colts from me, he comes to visit my ranch occasionally, and we play poker. A month ago, in a … well … a sort of hell
raising mood, he tossed this place into the pot. And I had a straight flush.”

Shea had enough poker savvy to know why Duke Araiza looked so proud of that hand. “So you … you just
won
the resort? You didn’t even want it?”

He shrugged again, his eyes roaming over her in a distracted way. “I want it more, now that I’m here.” He gave her just enough time to ponder the insinuation in that remark, then went on. “Tell me about yourself. You’ve been here eight years?”

“Since I graduated from college. Well, actually, before that. I came up here during college to work summers as an instructor. The former manager offered me a full-time job after I got my degrees.”

“Degrees?” he repeated curiously.

“One in nutrition. One in physical education.”

“P.E. You’re a jock!”

She couldn’t help smiling. “I guess so.” The smile faded. “Could you tell me what plans you have for the estate?”

“Don’t know.” He raised both hands in a nonchalant gesture, then let them fall into his lap. “I just wanted to see what a fat farm was all about, first.”

Shea felt the anxiety beginning to build. “It’s a health and fitness resort, Mr. Araiza.…”

“Duke.”

“Duke. Uhmmm, what would you like to know? We show a profit every year—not a large one, but then, Sir Nigel never looked on the estate as a money-making—”

“Ah, I don’t care about that stuff. I want to know more about you. When did you become head honcho?”

“Four years ago, when the former manager retired.”

“And you live in that little place over at the edge of the oak grove, that place with all the rose bushes?”

“Yes. That’s the manager’s cottage.”

“Suits you. Roses suit you. Now”—he rubbed his hands together enthusiastically—“about that rule that says staff and guests can’t fraternize? I don’t think that applies to you and me. As the owner, I hereby decree that it doesn’t. How about going to dinner with me tonight?”

Shea took a deep breath and tried to control her anger. She rose and walked to a window, then stood staring out at the estate’s golf course, an emerald carpet that stretched into the distance. “Does my job depend on the answer?” she asked grimly.

Suddenly, it felt as if the room’s air had cooled to arctic levels. “No,” came his slow, husky reply. “
Querida
, you’re a little too defensive.”

She turned quickly, her hands clasped rigidly behind her back. “I apologize. But I don’t know what to make of all this. I want to cooperate with the new owner, but I don’t think the new owner gives a damn about this place.” Shea took a deep breath. “I don’t think you like it, or understand it, or want to preserve it.”

He rose to his feet, a towering, masculine presence in her rose-scented, delicate office. Shea wasn’t accustomed to feeling short—not at five-seven—but now she felt tiny.

“You’re right. I don’t understand this place,” he confirmed in an annoyed voice. “I’m no Scrooge—God knows I enjoy spending money—but I’ve never seen anything like this playground for the Perrier-and-Rolls-Royce crowd. I’m not sure I like it, and I haven’t decided yet whether it’s worth preserving. Give me a little time.”

Shea exhaled slowly. She held out both hands and realized abruptly that they were trembling. Duke Araiza had too much power over her.

“We indulge in some frivolous things here, I know,” she admitted. “I won’t try to defend classes like Zen for
Hiking. I won’t defend the silly luxuries like our individually wrapped tooth brushes with the tooth paste already applied. Those things aren’t important. What’s important is that people leave here feeling happier and healthier than when they came. This place has a very special aura.”

“For folks who can afford it,” he said in a somber tone. Without warning, he crossed the short space between them and grasped her hands. “Relax,” he told her. “Show me around and I’ll try to act pampered.” His expression softened, and a coy smile crooked one corner of a mouth that was strong and generous. “And cancel my coffee order. You make my adrenaline run too high as it is.”

Shea laughed, realizing that he was much more open-minded than she’d thought. “It’s mutual. You’ve rattled me.”

As she watched with hypnotized fascination, he drew her hands to his mouth and kissed the back of each one, his dark gaze never leaving hers. His mouth was warm and pliant on her skin.

“Because you love this fancy gold mine and you think I’m about as out of place here as a mustang at a steeplechase,” he prodded.

Shea nodded blankly. The man demanded truthfulness. “But maybe we need a little excitement around here.”

“Maybe
you
need a little excitement.”

“I like peace and quiet.”

“I’m peaceful. I’m quiet.”

“You’re impossibly aggressive.”

“I know a good thing when I see it.” He let go of her hands and stepped back. “So take me on a tour, good thing.”

Shea felt as if she were a horse that Duke Araiza was slyly attempting to gentle. She smiled thinly. He didn’t
know that under her tame facade she was as much a mustang as he was.

“This is one of the pools.”

“Shea, how many pools do I own?”

“One Olympic-sized outdoor pool and two indoor pools, including this one.”

“Don’t forget the pool in my room.”

“There are small pools in all the cottages.”

“It’s not big enough to swim in and not small enough to be a bathtub. What do people do in them?”

“Float,” she answered lightly. “One of our guests, Prince Shalukan, brings an armada of toy battleships whenever he comes here, so that he can stage mock battles.”

“Sounds like a tough guy. What country is he prince of?”

“Teresan. It’s a little oil-rich island about the size of Vermont, located somewhere in the South China Sea. No threat to foreign military powers, that’s for sure.”

“What a relief,” Duke noted drolly.

Shea watched as he put both brawny hands on his hips and gazed at the glistening indoor pool. A huge skylight filtered streaks of sunshine down onto the speckled blue tiles surrounding it. The pool was the central feature of a two-story atrium at the heart of the main building. A gallery of guest rooms circled it, fronted by a white balustrade. Ferns and flowering plants hung from brass arms on the gallery posts. Giant ficus trees in white, Romanesque pots sat around the pool.

“Smells like a jungle around here,” he offered. “But I guess that’s just because I’m not used to so many plants.”

A dark-haired woman wearing a tiny pink bikini was asleep in a lounge chair by the water’s edge.

“Who’s the babe?” he asked. “Anybody I should ask for an autograph?”

Shea’s mouth quirked in involuntary humor. Duke Araiza was the kind of man who couldn’t care less about someone’s status. He would ask for an autograph simply to flirt. “A Russian ballet star who defected. Now she directs one of the big New York dance companies.”

“Oh, well, brunets aren’t my style, anyway.” He gave her a sincere, if rakish, appraisal. “I like muddy blondes.”

“Indeed.” Her mouth set in an unyielding line, warm reactions churning inside her, she led the way outdoors. “To your left,” she told him, pointing to a sleek, stone building in the distance, “are the estate’s stables. We have a fully staffed riding facility, and some guests have their own mounts flown in during their stays.”

“Good Lord,” he muttered. “I love my horses, but I don’t take them on vacation with me.”

“Would you like to see the Japanese garden next?”

“Sure. And then I’d like to see the replica of the Eiffel Tower, the Alamo, and—”

“Enough,” she warned in mild reproach. He laughed deeply and shortened his long, powerful stride to match hers.

They walked down a neat walkway bordered by willow trees and carefully manicured shrubs. Shea spent the next few minutes describing the estate in detail.

“How many acres?” he asked finally.

“About five hundred.”

“What a ranch this would make!”

Shea chewed her lower lip and said nothing. Her beautiful resort, a ranch? “Everything in the world doesn’t have to be practical to be worthwhile,” she muttered.