The Saint's Devilish Deal (16 page)

Three hours into the shoot, he called a stop and surveyed the beach. A litter of surfing pals and anonymous models on one side, a tent filled with stylists, photographer, and assistants on the other. He sighed. This should have been a fun morning. A way for Esmerelda to see that working was done on beaches as well as offices, and here she was hiding away. He should just go up and drag her down her, but it was more important that she come to him. 

Santiago shook off that thought. This wasn’t about her on the job training. It wasn’t about Esmerelda following him around like a lost puppy dog. Face it, he wanted her opinion on the shots. He glanced through the last ten frames, every single one featuring his face. Paddling through rolling waves, lying on his back in the sun, pushing the surfboard below the surface so just the crown peeked out of the water. Women all over the world would love them and men would want to get their girls on the hot sand of the private Casa Constance beach. Personally, he would rather one of his buddies be featured but he was the most recognizable of the people gathered on the beach, having been in the public eye since he was a child.

If it was his face that would bring more guests and increase the going rate, he’d damn well use it.

“Over here, Saint. I want you coming out of the water and we’ll have Teena positioned so that she’s half in and half out of the surf. You’re going to walk toward her like she is the only thing you see.”

Santiago’s vision for the advertising campaign was less high-profile and more centered on the villa, but without his partner around, he had to go with his gut.

Sex sold and they had a limited amount of time to impress whoever Constance had lined up to make the final decision. Why not appeal to the baser feelings of the wealthy public to fill a few rooms? A few rooms for which those trust fund babies would pay dearly.

“Sex sells. . . and it sells so well,” Teena said, running her hands over his pecs and growling low in her throat. In another lifetime, a pre-Esme lifetime, Santiago would have taken Teena’s advances and run with them. A nice dinner, a nice time in bed, and a quick kiss off to get her out of his hair. But nothing about Teena’s spray-tanned skin, blondest-of-blondes hair, skinny legs, or nonexistent breasts appealed to him. It was all Esme’s fault. “Leo what if, as I’m lying in the sand, Santiago straddles me. Like the conquering hero.” She winked at Santiago suggestively, making it clear he could conquer her anytime he wanted—on camera or off. Great, another groupie.

Just then he heard the gasp. Esmerelda. This was not the time for her to grace the photo shoot with her presence. She was three hours too late to object to. . . Maldito! She had every right to object, just as he could have objected if he really wanted Casa Constance to be a long-term vacation destination and not some hot spot that would soon fade from the public eye.

But of course he didn’t want Casa to exist for a long time, not the way Esme did. He wanted to keep it away from his father and short-term, high-paying guests were the best way to achieve that goal. To keep the resort for a few more months and then. . .

What? Convince Magdalena to leave? He would have as much luck convincing the sun to rise in the West. No, he needed to focus on keeping Casa out of Eduardo's slimy hands.

Santiago shut down his thoughts, looked into Esme’s blazing gaze, and took his place in the waves, determined to finish the shoot. Esmerelda could have melted him on the spot with the anger shooting from her emerald gaze. If she wanted to win, she would have been down here in the sand with the rest of them. She might not agree with the shoot, but then she had ignored it most of the morning. He focused on the model at his feet.

“You’re turning Casa Constance into a. . . a. . . I don’t even know what to call this.” She flung her hand out to encompass the beach, the tent filled with workers and the scantily clad model at Santiago’s feet.

“We’ve been shooting for three hours-“

“So that photographer has three hours of sex footage for our ‘different’ advertising campaign? What are we going for here, Saint? A footloose resort for sexual experimentation?”

“Good grief, it’s just an ad campaign,” said Teena from her position on the sand. “This isn’t rocket science. We dropped everything to get to Puerto Vallarta for Santiago. Sex sells. Sex makes people take impulse vacations and great sex helps them remember your name after they’re back home. Get over yourself, Martha, and get with the program.”

Santiago waved his hand to stop Teena. Her words were only making things worse. Esme crossed her arms over her chest and set her jaw mutinously. Time to calm her down.

“We have plenty of shots, your precious villa won’t be scandalized, but we need a full campaign, Esme. Pictures for ads, pictures to go in high-end vacation magazines, pictures for the new website, for the travel planning sites. We need more than three shots of empty beaches and guest rooms.”

Maldito, he hated sounding like a boss—like his father—and she was pushing him straight into Eduardo’s shoes. She should have been here all morning, but no. Paperwork—busy work, if he was asked—always came first for Esmerelda Quinn. “If you’d been here you could have voiced your opinion, but since you’ve avoided the beach for the last three hours, you really don’t have a say at this point. Why don’t you scamper back up the hill and finish whatever mindless report you’ve been working on?”

“I thought you were better than this, Saint, especially after yesterday.” With that she threw her fiery hair over her shoulder and stalked away.

“If we’re done with the dramatics?” Leo pointed to the water. “You walking out of the water. Teena is resting in the water. Come on, people, positions!”

Teena flashed him a come-and-get-me glance, which Santiago ignored. He watched Esme for a long time, hoping she would turn back and knowing she wouldn’t allow that kind of weakness. Once she was hidden from view Santiago turned reluctantly to the water. Surf God Plunders Fan, he thought to himself, imagining the image as a newspaper headline. Didn’t matter. His reputation could take it and if a little annoyance like this photo shoot would help save Casa Constance, he’d suck it up and get the job done. This campaign would pull in the last guests the villa would ever see.

Squinting, Santiago focused on the photographer. As soon as his finger clicked down, Santiago stood with his hands on his hips.

“We’ve done adventure, relaxation, and sex. We need to add in some family-friendly and romance-heavy shots. What about the wedding dress?”

“I’m ready to get married,” Teena chimed in from her position on the sand. Santiago ignored her.

Leo twisted his mouth and then called to one of the surfers and another female model to change from beach gear into formal wear. Santiago sighed. Good, the shoot was getting back on track. He glanced up the hill. No sign of Esme. Another sigh escaped. She would expect an apology, but Dios, he wasn’t offering one up.

“Saint! While the bride and groom are finishing up, I wanted to pass a few other shots by you.” Leo stood just outside the tent housing playback machines, video equipment, and computer screens. Santiago trudged through the sand and into the tent. “You know how the morning shoot went, but I actually arrived last night hoping for a few sunset shots. I think you’ll like what I have.”

Santiago clicked through one, two, five shots before he said anything. “Madre de Dios,” he whispered as he looked at the images on the screen.

“Nice, huh? Your romance shot ideas? These are perfect. You and that hot desk assistant by the pool, standing on the third floor terrace, feeding one another in the kitchen. I thought you’d seen me at least three times but just in case I kept quiet. She won’t object to being part of the feature, will she?”

Santiago swallowed hard and ordered his nether regions to behave. The image of him feeding a grape to Esme, clad in a bikini top and sarong, left way too little to the imagination. By the time they’d made it to the kitchen the scent of eucalyptus that surrounded her was gone. She had smelled like him. He clicked back, focusing on the picture of Esme standing on the terrace, her slim body bracketed by his arms as they looked out to sea. Her eyes were soft, her body pressed into his. Leo captured a devastating moment with the click of his camera. Combined with the image of them sitting on one of the poolside cabanas reading, these pictures would light up the phone lines. If only she would let them use it. This was the kind of sex he’d hoped to portray in the ad campaign. Seductive sensuality. The pictures held so much more punch than anything they’d shot on the beach that morning.

Or maybe that was only because the pictures let him imagine Esmerelda loved him. He looked closely at his face in the cabana shot. He looked like stupid Mark Darcy reading Bridget’s diary in that film. In love. Love? Could he be in love with Esme? No, he wasn’t. A little obsessed, perhaps, but not in love. Santiago Cruz did not fall in love, he reminded himself. He liked, seriously liked, but he did not love.

“I’ll take your stunned silence as a ‘Leo, you’re amazing’ and hold them in the keeper file. We’ll need a release from the girl, but you can handle that later. Chase!” Leo called through the tent flap as the other surfer walked onto the sand in his tux. “Listen, Saint, we don’t need you for a few more minutes. Why don’t you go convince the hot receptionist to join us so we can finish by lunch?”

Leo clapped Santiago on the shoulder and hurried onto the sand to direct the bridal shots, leaving Santiago to stare at the images of Esme on the screen.

Dios, he would have to apologize now. She would run screaming into the Mexican afternoon before letting him use these pictures in an advertisement, but use them he would. He would simply charm her into agreeing with his position. There were no two ways around it. The charming had to start with an apology.

*

Esme angrily stuffed another file into the proper place in Constance’s antique mahogany filing cabinet, berating herself for looking out the office window just one more time. Of course Santiago was going along with whatever that ridiculous photographer and crew told him. He was in the middle of a huge ego-stroke which he’d obviously been missing since he left the surfing circuit. Having twenty people fawn all over him was probably part and parcel of his life. The part she obviously didn’t belong in.

She grabbed another file as two swift taps sounded at the door. Santiago. No one else would knock at an open door.

No one else, save Gloriana, was in the villa. They were all planning the spoils of their Sex On The Beach campaign. She steeled her spine, grabbed a few more files, and turned.

God, he looked gorgeous leaning against the doorjamb with his left foot crossed over the right. The morning hours in the sun had kissed his shoulders and chest half a shade darker. Meanwhile she was covered with freckles from their week-long excursions. His hair still dripped with salt water and he hadn’t bothered to grab a shirt before he left that ridiculous tent filled with ridiculous people.

“Good morning, Santiago,” she said, proud that her voice didn’t wobble even a little bit. She ignored the fact that the sting she intended to put in the words didn’t quite make it past her lips.

“It is nearly noon, Esmerelda,” he said, drawing out her name the way he did when he wanted something. What? Her approval? He didn’t need that. For the next three months he could do whatever he pleased with the villa and she was powerless to stop it, agreement scratched on a napkin or not.

“I think you got the wrong idea down on the beach,” he continued. “We’ve been shooting a lot more than just sexy pictures and I think if you came down you’d see that.”

Esme rolled her eyes. “I’ve seen enough from up here, Saint. I don’t need a front row seat to know that you threw out the playbook for our upscale, trendy photo shoot when the models showed up this morning.”

“I didn’t throw out the playbook, I called an audible—and stop making me talk in sports terms. And what do you mean you’ve seen enough from up here? Were you spying on us from your almighty office?” A small tick began at the corner of his right eye and his fists clenched. “Rather than coming down, doing your part as the owner of the villa, you chose to spy on the workers and then undermine everyone’s confidence with your—”

“Oh, please, no one cared about my opinion. You are the media darling, after all.”

“Don’t start that with me again. It isn’t my fault I was born into a successful family or that I fell backwards into a career that put my face on the cover of magazines. We did a damn good job on the ad photos this morning which you’d know—” he stalked over to the window “—if you’d bothered to do more than watch us from a distance.” He turned, puzzled. “You can barely see the beach from here.”

Esme flushed. “I saw plenty.” Plenty of Santiago’s skin flush against that gorgeous model.

“With what? Binoculars?”

The flush deepened and Esme whirled around to put more files in the drawers.

“You were watching us work, through binoculars, like some kind of. . . what, police officer? You were staking us out? Dios, Esmerelda, you’re supposed to run this villa in six months’ time. That means taking part in decisions, not watching from on high and then handing down a sentence your workers don’t deserve.”

He would never understand, Esme knew, so she didn’t try to explain that as soon as the models and surfers appeared this morning she felt out of her depth. These people played in the world while she picked up their dirty dishes and made up their beds. Worse, she knew the second they saw her they would see how head over heels in love she was and pity her. So she’d grabbed her most professional suit, spent an hour making up her face so that no trace of anything but professional distance shown through and avoided their presence as long as possible.

“I wasn’t watching from on high and I wasn’t staking you out. I was working. We talked about this,” she said and desperately grabbed on to the conditions she added to their deal. “I like morning office hours to catch up on paperwork.”

“What paperwork? The ad crew downstairs are the only guests in more than a month. You’ve filed Constance’s hospital bills and the mortgage payment cards, and created some kind of weird alphabetical system for deliveries—”