The Saint's Devilish Deal (10 page)

No more apologies. Esme took the back stairs into the kitchen. Santiago’s Porsche sat in the employee parking lot. He was home then. She took a deep breath and continued down the hall to the front desk.

Bright sunlight streamed through tall windows, the smell of newly applied base paint assailed her nostrils. She tested the walls. Dry. By the end of the day, this room would be white and in a few days it would welcome new guests into her space.

Santiago sat on a high stool behind the front desk, 10-key device at one elbow and a stack of papers by his side. So engrossed was he in the work that he didn’t hear the click of Esme’s sandals against the hardwood. She tapped his shoulder and his body jerked, spilling papers down the front of the desk and onto the floor.

“I thought you were still sleeping.” His dark-chocolate voice shivered over her spine. Nope, she definitely wasn’t building up any resistance to The Saint. Santiago gathered the papers back into a stack on the desk.

“It’s nearly eight o’clock. You know workaholics like me can’t sleep past the crack of dawn.” Lord, he looked good. Once again he was in casual beach clothes, white tee shirt emphasizing the deep tan of his skin, and tight board shorts framing his powerful legs to perfection. The whole picture reminded her that world champion surfers weren’t bums at all.

She thought again about Constance’s plants. Watering them was such a small thing, but it showed that Santiago had become attached to the villa and maybe, just maybe, showed that he wasn’t a coldhearted Cruz son any longer. Now was the time to put the past into the past and stop berating him over things he couldn’t have expected.

“Speaking of workaholics, shouldn’t you be out hanging ten or something?” Instantly, she regretted the small dig, for that was exactly how he would take her comment. “I’m sorry, that didn’t come out quite right. I just meant—”

He raised a hand, cutting her off. “We have to stop sniping at each other or this will never work. So, air clearing time, friend. I never said you were a workaholic.”

Esme shrugged, relieved when he took the high road she had hoped to be on before that last comment. Both their work habits needed refocusing if the villa were to thrive. Maybe the daily time away would give her a brainstorm or two about excursions or alternative amenities. Besides, women the world over would kill to spend time alone with Santiago Cruz. Why not admit she was one of them?

Bring it back, Esmerelda. Your body might be begging for time with Santiago but your heart may not survive the experience this time around.

The edge of an envelope caught on the lower corner of the desk caught her eye. She bent, snagged it from the floor and handed it back to him. Her index finger briefly contacted the flat of his palm and a sharp zing of pleasure rocketed up her arm and directly to her heart. She focused on the conversation rather than his nearness. “Okay. I’m not a workaholic, but I’m also not the girl you remember. If you aren’t too busy, I thought maybe we could talk. No accusations, no expectations, just talk. The way we used to. You brought up Napa last night…”

Santiago shrugged. “Napa was a long time ago. What happened there doesn’t have anything to do with the job here. I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“I’m not. The vineyard was millions of dollars into the red, and none of Mr. Marinelli’s children were interested in it. Leaving any of them in charge would have been a huge risk. Complete takeover was the best option.” Esme hated the words as much as the realization that she was finally being honest with herself. Santiago didn’t ruin the Napa vineyard. Meanwhile, she’d blamed him and turned herself inside out—for what? A good resume? A lonely apartment and superficial relationships? It was time to actually move on with her life and maybe a fling with Santiago would finally put the past where it belonged.

“When I look at Casa Constance I have no idea if we can save it, and the villa’s debts aren’t nearly as high as those of the vineyard.” Esme stepped around the front desk. Careful, Esme, careful. She licked her lips and took a deep breath. “I was so focused on being mad at you for disappearing, for not even telling me your family was taking over, that I couldn’t admit you gave the vineyard a chance by calling them in. If you hadn’t, some other development firm might have snapped up the land and turned it into another subdivision. At least as part of Cruz Resorts visitors can still see the beauty that I saw every day I went to work there.”

Santiago stared at her for a few long moments before he nodded. “Thank you for that. But I don’t deserve your apology. Tobias took over and before I could snap my fingers the deal was in motion and you and I were shut out. You returned to college and I hid out in the waves for a long time.”

She squeezed his hand. “I’d say being ranked the top surfer in the world two years running requires a little more effort than hiding out in the waves. Besides, whatever you did then, when Constance asked you stepped back into the fray to help.”

“Mmmm.” He gave a short nod, dropped her hand, and began tapping on the 10-key again. The zero key depressed over and over as he stared at the opposite wall. She waited several moments but he didn’t look at her.

“Why did you do it, Santiago?”

“Ask Tobias for a loan? Because until I turned twenty-five I couldn’t do more than use a family credit card. I couldn’t buy the vineyard or invest even ten dollars without my father’s approval. I thought, by going to Tobias, we might still have a chance. He had access to his accounts, and I thought he might loan me the money until my birthday. Turned out that I was wrong about my brother.” The deep sadness in the words made Esme reach out but his shoulders had gone stiff, his fingers poised above the office machine but not moving. Esme wanted to reach out but knew he wouldn’t welcome her touch so she withdrew her hand before he noticed it.

“Not the loan, Santiago. Why did you go surfing for the last four years? You turned twenty-five less than a year later. Why not take your money and—”

Anger flashed in his black eyes and Santiago snarled, “Because that money belonged to Eduardo, not me. I paid for every last penny, Esmerelda, paid for with my own blood and sweat. With the cries of my mother. I learned the hard way, when I asked for Tobias’s help, that the money would always belong to Eduardo Cruz. Taking it then would have meant that I approve of his business practices. I don’t. I didn’t then and I don’t now.”

O-o-okay. Not the time to bring up family money. Esme stepped back from the front desk. “So the surfing…?”

Santiago carefully stacked the envelopes, put them in a desk drawer and placed the 10-key under the desk before he answered.

“A means to an end. It was something I was good at, that I could earn money doing, and that my father had absolutely no control over. I escaped Napa with a competition in Hermosa Beach and then dropped out of grad school for a competition in Hawaii. Before I knew it I was surfing my way through Australia and Thailand. I found that, for the twenty or so seconds I rode each wave, I could just be me. Not Eduardo Cruz’s son. Not the guy who ruined Marinelli Vineyards. Nobody but Santiago Cruz. I’d never had that experience before.” He reached across the desk, but stopped short of taking her hands in his. The scant inch between their fingers seemed to pulse with electricity and Esme had trouble concentrating.

“When you’re on the water, Esme, it’s a whole new world.” Finally, he took her hand and her pulse rate shot up. “Everything gets quiet as you ride up the slope and then, at the crest, you have two choices: stand up and surf or lie down and swim.” He motioned to the room. “No grey walls, no time to wonder what would happen if. You stand up or you lie down. I stood up as often as I could and took some good crashes because of it, but after a while those crashes weren’t as bad and I stood up more than I lay down.” His grin, completely happy for the first time since she’d come home, made Esme catch her breath. Their gazes met and she wondered what it would be like to only have two clear-cut choices instead of a hundreds of options leading to thousands more questions. Santiago caressed her thumb with his forefinger.

“Was it easy to leave surfing behind when Constance asked?”

“I knew surfing wouldn’t last forever, at least competitively. I started looking into property development a few years ago, figuring that it was a business I knew a little about. I’ve bought, developed, and sold property all over the world, so when Constance offered me a way back into normal life I grabbed it.” His gaze shuttered and she realized he’d told her more than he wanted to. “And none of this can be news to you so why don’t we get to the real conversation.”

She swallowed. “R-real conversation?”

He nodded. “What do you want from me, Esme?”

Oh, no, that was so not the question she was ready to ask. But there was another. Before she could lose her nerve she asked, “Would you teach me? During one of my enforced mini-vacations from the office, I mean? I know you think I need to relax, but if you make me lie out in the sun for hours and hours day after day my workaholic side might just explode. Since we’re stuck together anyhow it might be a fun way to pass a few hours.”

“You can’t wear a suit on a surfboard, Esmerelda.”

Esme stepped back, grabbed a fistful of material in each hand and did a short curtsy. “Does this look like a suit to you?”

As he studied the sundress, his pupils darkened and her face flamed even hotter. “Dios, no. But you are still way overdressed for a surfboard.”

“What am I dressed for, then?” she asked breathlessly. He stepped around the front desk, freed her hands from the sides of her dress and threaded their fingers together. She tilted her head to look up at him and very nearly swooned. His look said everything but his next words still took her breath away.

“Today, you are dressed for sin, pequeña.” He released one hand to trace the spaghetti strap over her shoulder and down her chest to the deep V of the dress. His finger grazed the smooth slope of her breast, pushing the heat in her belly to inferno level. “Where are your oh-so-professional suits today?”

“I- it’s Saturday. Saturdays and sundresses and—”

“Sinning?” he asked, tracing back up the other side of her chest. Esme’s eyes closed and she tried to breathe but the air in the room was suddenly too hot to inhale. “Esme?”

“Yes?”

“Why are you wearing this dress?”

Because it was their day off. Because even in the midst of her grey, buttoned-up, suit wearing life, she’d known this dress was made for her. Because she wanted to see his pupils dilate, just as they had last night when he saw her in the amethyst gown.

Because she wanted him.

She couldn’t put her thoughts into words and instead, reached up on her toes to kiss him.

Chapter Seven

Santiago’s lips were warm against hers, his hair soft in her hands, and she took a step forward to press her body against his. Oh, but he felt good. Better than he’d felt against her four years ago. As a twenty-four year old man, he’d been thinner, more wiry. As a twenty-eight year old ex-surfer his muscles were thicker, more developed. He’d used his time in the water to create a chiseled physique that made women go weak in the knees. She was no exception and for the first time since she returned home, admitted the full truth to herself.

She still wanted Santiago Cruz.

Rather than feeling as if a bucket of cold water had crashed over her head, the admission was freeing. She wanted Santiago. He obviously wanted her. There was no war between them, no reason to doubt that he would help her save the villa. For four years he’d been estranged from his family. It was time to stop reading double meanings into everything he said just because her feelings for this man made her nervous. They had the entire villa to themselves for the rest of the day so why not indulge in a little fantasy?

 Her teeth bumped against his as their tongues tangled together. His hands splayed across the small of her back, and with each scrape of his fingers against the soft silk of her dress a bite of electricity raced up her spine. This is what she’d been missing, this was the feeling she had tried to suppress under boring suits and in sensible shoes. God, how could she have been so stupid?

Santiago pulled away. “Exactly where is this heading, Esmerelda?”

She desperately wanted his words to mean what future she wanted, but she knew better. Santiago might be on her side against his family, but he was still a globetrotting playboy who would leave Vallarta when the feeling struck. He had a global property development firm now so even though it wouldn’t be a surfing competition pulling him away he would still go. He would leave her behind because she wasn’t leaving, but this time her eyes were opened. Vallarta, Casa, Esmerelda herself weren’t enough to hold Santiago. This time around, she wouldn’t allow herself to care that he would leave. Instead, Esme would take what he offered and be grateful for the memories once he left.

“I was kind of hoping it would lead upstairs,” she said, “but the terrace and the pool are so much closer than either of our beds.” She locked her eyes on his, the smoldering brown of his irises almost overpowered by the black depths of his pupils.

“There will be no turning back, Esmerelda. Once we take this step, we can’t go back to only being business associates. We can’t be just friends.”

She nodded. “We were never just business associates or friends, Saint. Not since I tagged along after you and your friends when I was small. Not after I helped you put frogs into Sister Immaculada’s bed or helped convince her Father Sanchez was making eyes at her from the baptismal font. Not after giving you my virginity in Napa or when I tried to hate you for leaving. I know that sleeping together doesn’t mean we’ve dealt with our shared past, but I don’t care. Santiago, I want you and I’m tired of pretending that I don’t.”

“Dios, pequeña,” he said and grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the terrace doors.

Esmerelda was desperate. She wanted Santiago naked and she wanted him clothed all at once. She wanted to taste his lips for five years without coming up for air and she wanted this, this interlude to be over. Over and done with because the overwhelming need to be with him had to lessen once they’d made love. Didn’t it? And once the wanting lessened maybe they, no she, maybe she could focus again.