Dream Nights With the CEO (2 page)

But that wouldn’t happen if she didn’t get her brain and body in gear. So she picked up her phone, steeled her spine, and checked her e-mail. No emergencies from the hotels already in Mr. Monroe’s growing chain of B&Bs. Or at least no new instructions had come from the CEO in the middle of the night. She had no idea when the man slept; she’d gotten e-mails from him at all hours.

Sadly, while her boss had slept, her mother had been wide awake. Megan had no fewer than seventeen e-mails from the woman. Most were dramatic
Danger to Your Life!!
health scare spam, plus a few funny cartoons and political diatribes. Megan deleted those without even looking at them. The problem came from the two remaining e-mails, long ones about Megan’s middle brother’s newest girlfriend (apparently a bitch of the first order) and the other about her mother’s health.

Megan knew her mother was just longing for attention. The woman’s chest pains, swollen ankles, and even the lump just above her knee were probably nothing, but it was hard to tell. Everything was written in the most dramatic tones, and Megan struggled not to scream as she scanned them. Nothing life threatening—she hoped—and so she closed her phone and headed for the shower.

Sadly, her mother’s last lines haunted her despite her attempts to forget.
I know you’re focused on your career, honey, but the best years of my life were with my husband and children. Don’t rush to make a million dollars only to have no one to share it with.

Ugh! Like Megan needed the reminder that her biological clock was ticking? But there just wasn’t time in her life for more than her job. Working as personal assistant to the CEO of a rapidly growing hotel chain was a 24/7 kind of job. Wyatt Monroe absorbed all her attention, all the time. And she liked it that way. So biological clock or not, Megan was 100% dedicated to Mr. Monroe.

Rushing through her morning routine, Megan pulled on her MBA-clone wardrobe. Dark gray business suit, crisp black pumps, and barely there makeup. Then she added her one concession to her wild side: a beaded necklace she’d made herself. She didn’t have an MBA, of course. It had been a stretch to get her college degree. But she knew how to dress the part, and so she grabbed her leather padfolio, tucked two pens and a tiny credit card holder in her inside pocket, then headed out the door. Her heels made precise clicks on the wood floor.

She didn’t descend the stairs but glanced down them, listening closely. She didn’t hear Mr. Monroe’s voice, so she was on time. She looked in the opposite direction to the room next to hers. She’d be waiting when he emerged: a handsome man dressed in some version of gray. Those were the constants. What changed were the words that would come spilling out of his mouth—she never knew from one second to the next what he would say or do. It didn’t matter. It was her job to stand beside him with pen and pad in hand recording every piece of chatter, no matter how irrelevant.

She readied herself, schooling her features to a polite, professional smile. She loved her job, loved the constant variety, loved watching her genius boss at work. He had steadily, carefully built eleven other B&Bs to unique and extremely profitable businesses. And Megan had been right here watching it happen.

But most of all, she loved watching her boss. It wasn’t just his looks, which were He-man gorgeous. Rough cut, broad, and strong. His mind was even more fascinating. Years ago she’d fantasized about a different kind of relationship with him. He was everything she’d ever wanted in a man: smart, brilliant, and gorgeous. But that was before he’d offered her this job. Before he’d given her a chance to become successful in her own right, working at a job she loved.

Her mother might have found fulfillment in her family, but Megan was not going to sacrifice her career for her mother’s dream. At least not yet. And not when she got to stand right beside Mr. Monroe and help him build an empire.

She grinned. She couldn’t wait for her day to begin.

…

Good morning, Mr. Monroe. Weather forecasts rain today. Temperature in the mid-fifties.

Wyatt Monroe cursed as he set aside his phone. Then he fell back into bed with a groan, his body throbbing in a way it hadn’t since he was an adolescent. He flung a thick forearm over his eyes. It was bad enough that he’d nearly released on the pristine hotel sheets, but to have a wet dream about his own assistant was well beyond the bounds of decency.

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t dream about kissing Megan in the dark confines of a superhero cape. He couldn’t bring her into his adolescent fantasies of rescuing a sexy damsel in distress. Except, of course, evidence suggested that he absolutely
could
do that. He could dream about wrapping his arms around her curvaceous body and thrusting his tongue down her throat while she made hot, mewling sounds of need.

His dick jerked at the thought and he cursed again. She was his administrative assistant, for God’s sake. His employee and his friend. He couldn’t want her. Not like this. And he sure as hell couldn’t be lingering in bed remembering the feel of her hands gripping him.

He closed his eyes and sighed. He should have known this was coming—no pun intended. From the moment he’d seen the petite brunette, he’d wanted to bed her. She’d still been in college then, working in housekeeping at the first B&B he’d ever purchased. Uninterested in wearing the optional maid’s uniform, she’d shown up every day in tattered jeans and any of a dozen different tie-dyed tanks. Since the B&B had a sixties vibe, he hadn’t minded. Truthfully, he’d adored seeing her arrive every day, her rippling swimmer’s body a splash of dynamic color in his very gray, workaholic life.

It had taken him two weeks to see past her gorgeous looks to realize that she got twice as much work done in half the time. Another week was spent analyzing exactly how she did it. Then it had been ten minutes before he’d offered her a job as his assistant, and he’d never once regretted it.

Well, his brain had never regretted it. His little brain, even now bobbing for attention, had always hated him for that decision. He couldn’t sleep with an employee, no matter how many times he’d woken up with a boner throbbing for her.

Sadly, tonight’s dream had taken his lust to a whole new level. Not just a sex dream, but one where he was a caped crusader to boot. He glanced to the night table where he’d set the stack of DC comics he’d been reading before bed. Well that explained the superhero costume in his dream. No more fun reading before sleep.

Memories of the dream consumed him for ten more minutes, but then the thought of seeing her in her prim business suit got him moving out of bed. He was halfway through his cold shower before he could manage to think of something other than hot kisses, dark engine rooms, and pressing Megan up against a really big joystick.

Fortunately, the financial news diverted him for a few minutes, though the fog in this poorly ventilated bathroom made it nearly impossible to read, even on his iPad. He was still reading as he pulled on his shirt, then his suit pants before padding barefoot to his laptop. A few keystrokes later and he had an exact figure for how much he could spend on the next B&B in the WM Enterprises Hotel Empire. Sadly, he didn’t think this place would qualify.

Sure, he could probably get it cheap, but the repair costs alone would be exorbitant. Sagging roof, water damage on a couple walls, and abysmal decor had him cringing. Certainly this Cherry Moon area north of St. Louis had its charm, but that could only go so far, especially if the roof were about to collapse.

He pulled on his glasses—a funky designer pair his sister said gave him style—then headed for the door, barely remembering to grab a tie as he went. A moment later, he hauled open his hotel door, then stopped short at the sight of a ripple on the hallway wall opposite. The morning light slanted across it at the perfect angle to make it stand out. He finished adjusting his tie, then popped off his glasses as he went nose to nose with the wall. Definitely a flaw of some kind. He ran his hand along it, following it down until he was kneeling on the floor, half his body wedged underneath a hall table. Was this an indication of a major structural flaw? Or just a bad wallpapering job? He couldn’t tell without ripping off the paper, so he rocked back on his heels, peering into the shadow beneath the table.

“Well, that’s annoying,” he said.

“What is?” Megan asked as she stepped up beside him. From his position on the floor, he got a good look at her sweet legs revealed so beautifully beneath her pencil skirt. And that, of course, brought back his dream with a vengeance.

He shoved it away with equal vehemence, but his voice still came out rough as he gestured irritably at the wall. “That irregularity.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t…” She stepped toward the wall to touch it. She had to stretch up on her toes to reach across the hall table, and he couldn’t resist watching the way her calves rippled and tightened as she moved. So damned beautiful. “I can feel it. Right here,” she said. “But it’s so subtle.”

Long fingers, soft pink nail polish, so elegant on the cream-colored wall. Wyatt swallowed as he watched her stroke up and down, his lust kicking into overdrive. If only she’d touch him that way.

He forced his mind back to the matter at hand: the possible wall crack. He pushed up onto his feet and Megan quickly stepped out of his way. Too bad. One part of his anatomy had hoped he’d be able to slip up behind her, just like in his dream. But she was quick, moving away with athletic—and very professional—ease. So he stretched out to touch the exact same place her hand had been.

Yup. Small, infinitesimal crack, more like a ripple in the plaster. “Huh.”

“I’ll make a note of it,” she said. Then she abruptly grinned. “Maybe it was done by the ghost.”

He barely refrained from rolling his eyes. “What ghost?” he asked, though he really didn’t care. He knew Megan was a devotee of all things horror. If the movie went bump in the night, she’d seen it at least twice. But lately, he’d caught her reading “real life” ghost stories. “According to some sources,” she said, “this is a nexus of ghostly—”

“What sources?” he interrupted.

She sighed. “Internet sources.”

“Because they’re so reliable,” he drawled.

She shot him a look, then immediately caught herself. In her world view, an assistant never expressed annoyance with her boss. It was a belief he very much encouraged. So she smoothed her expression, even as her straight gaze dared him to criticize her. “I was looking at the history of the area, learning about its character. It’s not supposed to be factual. It’s supposed to be colorful.”

He winced, knowing she was right. Regional flavor was exactly the type of information he needed when evaluating a hotel. In truth, he valued what she’d discovered; he just wished she didn’t embrace it so readily. “I’m sorry, Megan. Please, tell me about the ghost.”

She nodded, starting to speak in a factual tone, but quickly warming to her topic as it clearly caught her imagination. “Being so close to the Kincaid mounds, there are the usual Native American tales, but this house in particular has ghost stories all its own. Typical stuff mostly. An escaped slave murdered on his way north, a TB patient gone crazy, even a pulp fiction writer who lived here for decades before dying alone and unloved. But the most enduring tale is about the sea captain who built this house for his bride in the late 1800s. A doomed love story, apparently, so the ghost tries to bring couples together from the afterlife.”

Does she believe this bunk?
he wondered. Her tone said “no,” but the sparkle in her eyes said “yes.” She wanted to believe and he counted that as a romantic aberration in her otherwise very organized mind.

“Interesting,” he lied. Then he glanced at the wall. “But I don’t see how it tells me if that’s a ripple in the wallpaper or a structural flaw.”

“It doesn’t. It just makes this place more interesting, that’s all.”

Maybe to her. He wanted to know about construction defects. But he didn’t say that aloud, instead turning toward the smell wafting up from the main floor. “I need coffee.”

Megan straightened, all trace of ghostly wishful thinking gone. “Black coffee? Or would you like to try their espresso?”

He grinned, momentarily diverted. “Give me the espresso. Something complicated. We’ll see if they can do it right. Then give me a surprise for breakfast.”

“Of course,” she said with a grin. “I’ll get it ordered while you put on your shoes.”

He blinked then abruptly felt the cold wood floor on his bare feet. Had he seriously forgotten his socks and shoes?

Lord, this was going to be a very off-kilter day.

Chapter Two

As Wyatt walked down to breakfast, he was struck by the potential in this place if only someone managed to create a unified decor. His bedroom had been Chinese in design, the hallway had been more French Country. Downstairs reception felt like a New Orleans boudoir and now the breakfast area was a ship’s galley. Sunlit and airy, but with nets and fishes around the walls. The plates even had romanticized galleons on them.

Dropping into his seat across from Megan, he sniffed appreciatively. Coffee. Eggs. Blueberry muffins. Wonderful scents for the—he glanced around, counting—seven people in the room.

His eyes narrowed. There couldn’t possibly be that many people staying at the B&B. Not even one of the customers had the look of a vacationer or the occasional business traveler. No, these people looked like locals come for breakfast.

“These customers. Are they…”

Megan nodded. “Locals. Here for breakfast. We were the only overnight guests.” Then she lifted her coffee cup to her lips and sipped the dark brew. It must have been good because she closed her eyes and released a small purr of contentment. It wasn’t loud enough for him to hear, but his imagination had no trouble supplying the sound straight from his dream.

“Good?” he asked, his voice strangled by lust.

“Mmm-hmmm. Try yours. I got you a half caf caramel mocha latte.”

He blinked at her. “Trying to send me into sugar shock?”

“To balance out the poached egg on dry toast you’re having for breakfast.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m having the fresh baked muffins and fruit salad. You can mix and match however you like.”

He looked at her, impressed. She’d ordered a variety of dishes for each demographic. Everything from the health-conscious octogenarian to the mom looking for fresh fruit to the kids who’d want sugar. In one meal they’d get an idea of how the cook handled everything.

“I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t order me thin oatmeal.”

“I considered it,” she said, “but really, how hard is it to make oatmeal?”

“You’d be surprised,” he joked. His own mother had been singularly unable to make the stuff even with a microwave and written instructions.

Megan flashed him a smile, and he was momentarily blinded by her. So beautiful. It wasn’t in any one particular feature. Her eyes were a mesmerizing dark brown, her skin was peachy clear, and her lips were nicely formed. Individually she was fine. All together she was still quite lovely. What kicked her into beautiful was the purity of her. Clean, clear purpose, as if for that brief second, every part of her smiled—her eyes, her face, her clothing, her whole presence. She
smiled
. At him. And the wonder of it struck him silent.

Then it was over. She twisted and tapped her iPad. “Here’s our schedule for the day. As you can see, it’s relatively open. We’ve got reservations for tonight at that B&B in Effingham, but that’s only a few hours away. We can take as much time here as you like. Really explore the possibilities of the hotel and the town.”

He lifted his latte and sipped as he studied her carefully. Then he had to blink as the taste hit him. Sweet, but also…very good. Strong coffee, right temperature without scorching the milk. A robust flavor and a very welcome jolt of caffeine.

“Surprised?” she asked, her eyes sparkling.

“A little,” he said slowly. “You like this place?”

“Wait until you taste a muffin. They’re to die for. The owner came strolling by with sample bits right before you came down. Whatever else might be wrong here, let me tell you: they know their muffins.”

“Now
there’s
a reason to buy.”

She glanced significantly around. Every customer had his or her own muffin. Some had three. “For the muffins? Might be.” Then she really did surprise him. “I like this place. It has personality and a really good cook. Isn’t that the hallmark of a WM hotel?”

He huffed out a breath, willing to admit that the breakfast food was first rate. But cooks could be hired away. By others or possibly even by him for one of his other hotels. Meanwhile, his gaze traveled the room—looking inside and out, taking in a zillion tiny details. And as he looked, his words started spilling out. Fortunately, he knew Megan would catch them.

“Damp. Lots of possible problems from that. Needs a decorator and
one
theme. Army green is a terrible color. Ceiling tiles too randomized. Two windows look out on dead businesses. Is that a shoe store? Flowering bush might be nice to block the view. How far to the St. Louis arch? Shopping? And what’s a Karma Kafe?” He pointed to a shop down the street next to a hair salon, both of which had seen better days. “Carpet was a bad idea here. Clashes with the nautical nonsense.” He babbled on, detail after detail piling up in his head and onto her tablet.

Then their food arrived. The smell reached him first—heavenly. And the presentation was perfection. Naturally, those thoughts flowed right out of his mouth too.

“Need to look into the cook. She deserves a better environment than this.”

“
He
is quite happy exactly where he is,” snapped their waitress.

He blinked, looking up to a woman who stood there radiating fury. Wyatt blinked, assessing her in three quick seconds. She was a lovely young woman beneath the too-tight bun of brown hair and the washed out, slightly freckled skin. But she was dressed as a homely grandmother, her make-up much too brash, and somehow her shoes made no sense at all. They were tight, laced up Victorian heels as if she had a secret steam-punk obsession that came out in her footwear. All in all, she was a woman who reflected the mish-mash feel of the hotel—scattered bits of this and that, as if she had no idea who she was or what she wanted.

“Miranda, I presume?” Wyatt drawled.

“Miranda was my aunt. I’m Bethany Clark.”

“Owner?”

“Yes. And I’ll thank you to keep away from my cook.”

He glanced at Megan, who was wincing slightly in dismay. Clearly she hadn’t wanted his first meeting with the proprietor to go badly, but why? Why was she so enchanted with this disorganized mess of a hotel?

Meanwhile, he had an angry waitress/owner to deal with. He smiled urbanely and gave her a nod. “Fair enough. You’ve found a treasure in your cook and you’re feeling protective of him. I can respect that. And I promise not to speak with your chef outside of your presence. Okay?”

The woman swallowed, visibly getting her temper under control. In the end, she gave him a curt nod as she went about setting plates of food down before them.

“I looked you up on the Internet,” she said, her voice quieter than he’d expected given her temper. “Are you here to buy my hotel?”

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Are you selling?”

“No.”

Across the table, Megan released a soft sigh of disappointment. He tried not to let that affect him. This was business after all, and he was the boss. A good boss did not let his assistant’s emotions cloud his judgment.

“Why not?” he asked, keeping his tone nonchalant. “I’m guessing that you’re under water financially. Our research says you have no experience in running a hotel. Some of the pieces are here, to be sure, but you’re advertising to the wrong demographic and in the wrong places. Your walls have seen better days and the roof needs repairs. Plumbing seemed good—”

“And the beds,” inserted Megan. “Mine was divine.”

He nodded. “Beds and sheets work. Chef works. Decor doesn’t. And I heard something very strange last night in the walls. Something like rats, but not really—”

Bethany rolled her eyes, though the gesture seemed forced. “That’s our ghost,” she said. Then she turned to speak louder so that everyone in the room could hear her. “The Captain scares people he doesn’t like. That’s what you heard last night, Mr. Monroe.”

Megan gave him a look as if to say,
I told you so.
“I sincerely doubt my bedroom is haunted,” he said.

An elderly lady from the table nearest them spun around in her chair, her expression gleeful. “Oh, the whole house is haunted,” she said. “It’s the Captain. He’s quite famous in Cherry Moon.”

“Really?” asked Megan, clearly encouraging the woman.

“Oh yes. A pirate came up from New Orleans with his abducted princess bride.”

Wyatt nearly choked on his bite of a really excellent muffin. Megan passed over his coffee cup as he cleared his throat. Meanwhile, other customers were picking up the tale.

“A Chinese princess. Straight from Shanghai.”

“Bought her along with a shipment of opium. She hated him of course—”

“She wasn’t a princess. That’s just romantic nonsense. More likely a concubine or a prostitute.”

“Don’t be crass!”

“She had mystical jewels! Only a princess could have—”

“He bought those for her. He was in love with her. They were running from her father—”

The patter went on and on. The details didn’t matter. Wyatt would be surprised if even a tenth of what he heard had any basis in fact. But what impressed him was the way the tale was debated so hotly. Everyone in the room—except for the still angry Bethany—had a portion of the tale that was a cherished favorite. Whether concubine or escaped princess, pirate captive or prostitute, the story of the Captain’s woman was on everyone’s lips.

“And he’s the ghost here? What about the woman?”

“Died before they arrived. Of the pox.”

“She did not! They had three children and twelve grandchildren. Why, I would bet we’re related to them.”

“Don’t be silly. He built this house for her, but she ran away. He never heard from her again.”

“Though he searched for decades with a broken heart.”

Good God, these people were obsessed! Everything said had the feel of a long-debated topic. Wyatt listened to them carefully, but what he looked at was Bethany’s face. She’d relaxed a bit at the chatter, as one might when listening to a favorite family tale, something that grew with each telling. And a wistful kind of happiness settled on her features.

That was why she stayed when she was clearly out of her depth. If he had to guess, it was an ache for family long gone. Pulling out his phone, he tapped a quick question to Megan. Her pad dinged. He watched her eyes widen in surprise and then she tapped back an answer, which he read as discreetly as possible.

Bethany Clark, orphan. Former estate lawyer. Inherited hotel three years ago from her aunt Miranda. No other relatives as far as I could find.

He nodded. Exactly what he’d thought. Meanwhile, the conversation was winding down. Taking one last look around, he made his decision.

“I wish you luck with this place, Bethany. You have something here,” he said in complete honesty. “But it’s not something I can afford to buy.”

The woman started. “So…so you weren’t here looking to buy me out?”

“Oh, we most certainly were. But there’s too much to work on. I don’t have the time or the money to do it effectively.”

“Oh,” she said. “Good.”

He smiled. She didn’t sound all that confident in her position. Then, on impulse, he pulled out his business card and set it on the table. “I’m not interested in buying,” he said firmly. “But there are other possibilities. If you ever want to talk about them, just give me a call.”

The woman frowned at the pristine card, then looked back at him. Eventually her eyes slid to Megan, holding there for a long moment. And right on cue, his assistant settled into their typical negotiating pattern. Wyatt played the jerk, the hard-nosed ass who wouldn’t give an inch. Megan’s job was to soften the blow, making it palatable to the listener. He didn’t care if Miss Clark thought him the devil incarnate, so long as she realized her problem and was open to real negotiations.

“He’s an honest man,” Megan said. “But he’s also a shrewd businessman. Whatever possibilities he comes up with will be clever, have a great deal of potential, and will require a ton of hard work.”

“I’ve never had a problem with hard work,” the woman answered.

Wyatt felt his lips lift in something that stopped just short of a smirk. “That’s what everyone says. Until they actually have to work.”

Bethany bristled. “That’s not who I am!”

Fortunately, Megan was there, touching the woman’s arm in a soothing motion. “He’s not talking about you.” Then she picked up the business card and pressed it into the woman’s hand. “As he said: you’re under water here. Or nearly there. What would it hurt you to listen?”

Wyatt abruptly straightened, his body tightening into alarm. “Listen? No.”

Both women—and the entire room of customers—turned to stare at him. He cursed inwardly, silently considering his options. He could coddle the woman, soft pedal her problems, and walk away. But that would only give her a false sense of security. She’d end up sinking her last dime into this place, only facing the truth when it was too late for him to help. He’d learned the hard way that the best choice was to hit people with the brutal truth. Better to be blunt and without emotion; it was the quickest way through her resistance.

“I’m not handing out free restructuring advice. That takes too much time to plan out. You want a partner? You call me. You won’t like the terms of the deal, but there’s enough here that I’m willing to think about it. To give you a chance of making this place
work
. But I’m not putting my time into this without a deal in place. There are too many other, better properties.”

Bethany glared at him, as he knew she would. “That’s not how a partnership works, Mr. Monroe.”

“It’s exactly how a partnership works, Miss Clark. You’re confusing it with a friendship, which is usually some version of a fifty/fifty exchange. You’re under water. I’m not. If you want rescue, you’re going to have to pay for it. Rather painfully, I’m afraid.”

“You’re a jerk,” Bethany shot back.

He shrugged, not denying it. In truth, he’d been accused of much worse.

Meanwhile, Megan was proving herself invaluable again. She gave the woman an apologetic smile. “He’s brutally honest. It’s irritating as hell, but it’s usually exactly what you need to hear.”

Miss Clark’s eyes narrowed and her gaze hopped between the two of them. Then she lifted her chin and looked hard at Megan. “What brutally honest, asshole thing did he say to you? It had to be good to get you to defend him like this.”