Dream Trilogy Read online

  He didn’t sigh. It wouldn’t have made any difference. “Is your Italian good enough to wade through this?”

  She frowned at the papers he offered. “It’s a contract of sale on my flat.” Emotions whirled up inside her, regret warring with relief. “You work fast,” she murmured.

  “It’s a very decent offer.” He tucked her hair behind her ear. “Are you sure it’s what you want?”

  “It’s the way it is. Reality doesn’t always chew well, but I’m trying to acquire a taste.” She closed her eyes and leaned her head on his shoulder. “Just let me feel sorry for myself a minute.”

  “You’re entitled.”

  “Self-pity’s a bad habit of mine. It’s hard to shake. Damn it, Josh, I loved that place. Sometimes I’d just stand on the terrace and think: Look where you are, Margo. Look who you are.”

  “Well, now you’re someplace else.” It wasn’t sympathy she needed, he decided, but a good boot in the butt. “And you look the same to me.”

  “It’s not the same. It’s never going to be the same again.”

  “Toughen up, Margo. You’re starting to wallow in it.”

  She jerked up. “Easy for you to say. Joshua Conway Templeton, the bright star of the Templeton empire. You never lost anything. You never groped your way sweating to get a grip on something everyone told you you couldn’t have. No one ever told you you couldn’t have anything and everything you wanted.”

  “That’s the breaks, isn’t it?” he said easily. “You played, duchess, and you lost. Whining about it isn’t going to change a thing, and it’s very unattractive.”

  “Thanks so much for your support.” Fuming, she snatched the contract out of his hand. “When do I get the money?”

  “There’s time, and there’s Italian time. If you’re lucky, you may have it settled in sixty days. The bottom line’s on the next page.”

  He watched her flip it over. Her eyes were hot as they skimmed down, the heat clouded with distress. “That’s it?”

  “You didn’t have a lot of equity built up. The bank gets theirs first, then the government takes its share.”

  “It’s better than a stick in the eye,” she muttered. “Barely.”

  “I drew on your account to square your American Express bill. I don’t suppose it occurred to you to fly back here coach.” When she only stared coolly, he shook his head. “I don’t know why I said that. You’re back under the max on your Visa card, but I’d go easy on it. After you distribute the net from the sale of the flat, you’ll only be about a hundred and fifty thousand in the hole, excluding interest and penalties.”

  “Pin money,” she said dryly.

  “You shouldn’t plan on buying any pins for a while. Now, as your representative, I’m willing to clear your debts, and assist you in dealing with any you incur while initiating your business. You got a name for this place yet?”

  “Pretenses,” she said between her teeth as he flipped out more papers.

  “Perfect. I’ve drawn up the necessary agreements.”

  “Have you?” she said slowly. “In triplicate?”

  Warned by the tone, he looked up, met her icy stare equally. “Naturally.”

  “And just what would I be agreeing to, Counselor Templeton?”

  “To pay back this personal loan in regular installments beginning six months after the date of signing. That gives you some breathing space. You also agree to live within your means during the term of the loan.”

  “I see. And what are my means, in your legal opinion?”

  “I’ve worked up a budget for personal expenses. Food, lodging, medical.”

  “A budget?”

  He’d expected an explosion. Even, perversely, hoped for one. Margo’s tantrums were always so . . . stimulating. It didn’t appear that he was going to be disappointed.

  “A budget?” she repeated, storming to him. “Of all the unbelievable, bloody nerve. You arrogant son of a bitch. Do you think I’m going to stand here and let you treat me like some sort of brainless bimbo who needs to be told how much she can spend on face powder?”

  “Face powder.” Deliberately, he scanned the papers, took a pen out of his pocket, and made a quick note. “That would come under ‘Miscellaneous Luxuries.’ I think I’ve been very generous there. Now, as to your clothing allowance—”

  “Allowance!” She used both hands to shove him back a step. “Just let me tell you what you can do with your fucking allowance.”

  “Careful, duchess.” He brushed the front of his shirt. “Turnbill and Asser.”

  The strangled sound in her throat was the best she could do. If there had been anything, anything at all to throw, she’d have heaved it at his head. “I’d rather be picked apart, alive, by vultures than let you handle my money.”

  “You don’t have any money,” he began, but she barreled on as she whirled around the room. Watching her, he all but salivated.

  “I’d rather be gang-raped by midgets, staked naked to a wasp nest, be force-fed garden slugs.”

  “Go three weeks without a manicure?” he put in and watched her hands curl into claws. “You go after my face with those, I’ll have to hurt you.”

  “Oh, I hate you.”

  “No, you don’t.” He moved very fast. One instant he was leaning lazily on the wobbly banister and the next he’d flashed out, grabbed her. He took a moment to enjoy the dark fury on her face, the lethal glint in her eyes, before he crushed her snarling mouth under his. It was like kissing a lightning bolt—that heat, the jolt of deadly power, the sizzling sting of fury.

  He knew that when he finally got her into bed, it would be a full-blown storm.

  She didn’t resist. That would have given him too much satisfaction. Instead, she met him force for force and pleased herself. Until they both stepped back, gasping.

  “I can enjoy that and still hate you.” She tossed her hair back. “And I can make you pay for it.”

  Maybe she could. There were women in the world who had the innate gift of knowing just how to make a man suffer and burn and beg. All of them could have taken lessons from Margo Sullivan. But he wasn’t fool enough to let her know it. He walked back to the stairs, picked up the papers.

  “Just so we know where we stand, darling.”

  “I’ll tell you just where we stand, darling. I don’t need your insulting offer. I’m running my life my way.”

  “And that’s been such a rousing success so far.”

  “I know what I’m doing. Take that ridiculous smirk off your face.”

  “I can’t. It sticks there every time you say you know what you’re doing.” But he tucked all the papers back in his briefcase, closed it. “I’ll say this, I don’t think it’s an entirely moronic idea—this place.”

  “Well, I’ll sleep easy now, knowing I have your approval.”

  “Approval’s a little strong. It’s more like hopeful resignation.” He gave the banister a last wiggle. “But I believe in you, Margo.”

  Temper died into confusion. “Damn you, Josh. I can’t keep up with you.”

  “Good.” He strolled over, flicked a finger down her cheek. “I think you’re going to make something out of this shop that’ll surprise everyone. Especially you.” He leaned down, and when he kissed her this time it was light and friendly. “Got cab fare?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Grinning, he pulled keys out of his pocket. “Fortunately, I had a spare set to the Jag. Don’t work too late, duchess.”

  She didn’t smile until he was well out of sight. Then she gathered up her bag, her clipboard. She was going to put her newly healed Visa card to use and buy a paint sprayer.

  It took Josh less than two weeks at Templeton Monterey to fine-tune his strategy for dealing with Peter Ridgeway. He had already made it clear with a single phone call from Stockholm that it would be best for his brother-in-law, personally and professionally, to take a brief leave of absence from Templeton.

  Until, as he’d put it, all reason and bonhomie, t
hey’d gotten this little domestic matter ironed out.

  He had always steered clear of his sister’s marriage. As a bachelor, he hardly felt that he qualified to hand out marital advice. And as he adored his sister, and had mildly despised her husband, he’d also had to consider the indisputable fact that his advice would have been heavily one-sided.

  Since Peter had always performed well as a Templeton executive, there’d been no cause for complaint there. He was, perhaps, a bit rigid in his view of hotel management, more than a bit distant from the staff and the day-to-day problems and triumphs, but he’d had a fine hand with the corporate groups and foreign businesses that poured money into Templeton coffers.

  Still, there came a time when professional efficiency had to be weighed against personal disgust. Because nobody, but nobody, messed with Joshua Templeton’s family and walked away whole.

  He’d considered taking the corporate route, simply amputating Peter from any connection with Templeton hotels and using his connections and influence to see to it that the son of a bitch never managed so much as a roadside motel in Kansas.

  But that was so easy, so . . . bloodless.

  He agreed with Kate that the sensible route, and the most straightforward, was to—in Kate’s words—drag Ridgeway’s sorry flat ass into court. Josh knew a half a dozen top family lawyers who would rub their hands together in glee at the prospect of nailing the greedy, adulterous husband who had cleaned out his own daughters’ little savings accounts.

  Oh, that would be sweet, Josh mused as he drew in the early-morning scents of sea and oleander blossoms. But it would also be a painful and public humiliation for Laura. And again, he thought, bloodless.

  Still, such matters were best handled in a civilized fashion. Josh decided the most civilized place to balance the scales was the country club. So he waited, patient as a cat, for Peter to return to California.

  Peter accepted his invitation for a morning set of tennis without hesitation. Josh had expected no less. He imagined Peter calculated that being seen exchanging lobs with his brother-in-law would quell some of the rumors over Peter’s position with Templeton.

  Josh was happy to oblige him.

  Golf was Peter’s game, but he considered himself a fair hand at the net. He’d dressed for the match in spotless whites, his shorts pressed with lethal pleats. Josh wore a similar uniform, if slightly less formal, with the addition of a Dodgers fielder’s cap to shade his eyes from the dazzling morning sun.

  Later, Minn Whiley and DeLoris Solmes, who’d been playing their regular Tuesday morning set on the adjoining court, would sip after-match mimosas and comment on what a picture the men had made, golden and bronzed and fit, muscular legs pumping as they thwacked the bright yellow ball back and forth.

  Of course, Minn would tell Sarah Metzenbaugh after she joined them for a steam, that had been before The Incident.

  “I don’t take time to do this often enough,” Peter commented as they unzipped their rackets. “Eighteen holes of golf twice a week is all I can squeeze in.”

  “All work and no play,” Josh said affably, and didn’t miss Peter’s smirk of disdain. He knew exactly what Ridgeway thought of him. The pampered golden boy who spent all his time jetting from party to party. “I feel deprived if I don’t get at least one decent set in every morning.”

  Taking his time, Josh set out a bottle of Evian. “I’m glad you could manage to meet me. I’m sure that between us we can straighten this uncomfortable business out. You’re staying at the resort now that you’re back from Aruba?”

  “It seemed best. I’d hoped that if I gave Laura a little time and space she’d see reason. Women.” He spread his elegant hands, uncluttered now by the gold band of his marriage. “Difficult creatures.”

  “Tell me about it. Let’s warm up.” Josh took his place behind the line, waited for Peter to set. “Volley for serve,” he called out and hit the ball easily. “How was Aruba?”

  “Restful.” Peter returned, pacing himself. “Our hotel there has a few kinks. It should be looked into.”

  “Really?” Josh had done a complete check on it less than eight months before and knew it ran brilliantly. “I’ll make a note of that.” Deliberately he fumbled a backhand, sending it wide of the line. “Rusty,” he said with a shake of his head. “Your serve. Tell me, Peter, do you plan to contest the divorce?”

  “If Laura insists on going through with it, I hardly see the point. It would only add fuel to the gossip. She’s dissatisfied with my responsibilities to Templeton. A woman like Laura doesn’t understand the demands of business.”

  “Or a man’s relationship with his secretary.” Teeth flashing in a feral grin, Josh sent the ball whizzing by Peter’s ear.

  “She misinterpreted a situation. My point.” Testing a fresh ball, Peter shook his head. “Frankly, Josh, she’d become unreasonably jealous over the time it was necessary for me to spend at the office. I’m sure you’re aware of the recent influx of conventions, and the ten-day visit last month of Lord and Lady Wilhelm. They took two floors and the presidential suite. We couldn’t offer them less than perfection.”

  “Naturally not. And Laura didn’t understand the pressure you were under to deliver.” She’d only been nursed at the breast of the grande dame of hoteliers.

  “Exactly.” Puffing a little as Josh mercilessly worked him cross court, Peter missed the return. “It only got worse when that ridiculous, foulmouthed Margo showed up on the doorstep. Naturally, Laura would take her in without a thought to the consequences.”

  “Softhearted, our Laura,” Josh said easily, and let the conversation lag until he’d taken the first set 5–3.

  “It wasn’t exactly gallant, old man, cleaning out the bank accounts.”

  Peter’s lips hardened. He’d expected Laura to have more pride than to go whining to her brother. “On my lawyer’s advice. Simple self-preservation, as she had no sense about finances. The move has certainly been justified now that she’s proved her lack of sense by going into partnership with Margo Sullivan. Shopkeepers, for God’s sake.”

  “As bad as innkeepers,” Josh murmured.

  “What was that?”

  “I said who knows what puts ideas in a woman’s head.”

  “She’ll have lost her capital within six months—if Margo doesn’t abscond with it before that. You should have tried to talk her out of the whole insane notion.”

  “Oh, who listens to me?” He thought about letting Peter win the second set, then decided he was bored and wanted it over. He played it out for a while and, just to make it interesting, allowed Peter to break his serve.

  “Bad luck.” The pleasure of beating his brother-in-law at his own game pumped through Peter’s blood like fine wine. “You’ll have to work on your backhand.”

  “Mmm.” Josh jogged to the sideline, mopped his face, glugged down Evian. As he recapped the bottle, he flashed a smile toward the women in the next court. He was darkly pleased at the idea of an audience for the show he had in mind. “Oh, before I forget, I’ve been doing some spot-checking at the hotel. There’s been an unusual number of staff turnovers in the last eighteen months.”

  Peter arched a brow. “It isn’t necessary for you to involve yourself with Templeton Monterey, or the resort. That’s my territory.”

  “Oh, don’t mean to trespass, but I was here, and you weren’t.” He tossed his towel aside, plunked the plastic bottle onto it, then went back behind the net. “It’s odd, though. Templeton has a tradition of long-term employee loyalty.”

  Interfering bastard, pampered fool, Peter thought, carefully controlling his temper as he walked in the opposite direction. “As you can see if you read the reports, lower management made several errors of judgment in hiring. Weeding out was necessary to continue our standard of service and appearance.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “I’ll be back at the helm tomorrow, so there’s no need to concern yourself.”

  “Not concerned at all. J
ust curious. Your serve, isn’t it?” Josh’s smile was as lazy as a nap in a hammock.

  They resumed play. Peter faulted his first serve, then bore down on his irritation and slammed the next cleanly. Biding his time, Josh entertained himself by bouncing Peter back and forth across the court, forcing him to dig and pump. Barely winded himself, he kept up a steady flow of conversation as he took the next game, forty-love.

  “I noticed a few other things while I was fiddling around. Your expense account, for instance. Seventy-five thousand in the last five months for client entertainment.”

  Sweat dripped into Peter’s eyes, infuriating him. “My expense account records have never been questioned in the fifteen years I’ve worked for Templeton.”

  “Of course not.” All easy smiles, Josh gathered balls in preparation for the next game. “You’ve been married to my sister for two-thirds of that time. Oh, and there was that bonus to your secretary.” Idly, he bounced a ball on the heart of his racket. “The one you were fucking. Ten thousand’s very generous. She must make a hell of a cup of coffee.”

  Stopping, bending with his hands on his knees to catch his breath, Peter squinted over the net. “Bonuses and financial incentives are Templeton policy. And I don’t appreciate your innuendos.”

  “That wasn’t an innuendo, Peter. Listen up. It was a statement.”

  “And a pathetically hypocritical one coming from you. Everyone knows how you spend your time, and the family money. Cars and women and gambling.”

  “You’re right about that.” With a friendly smile, Josh stepped behind the serving line, bounced the ball lightly. “And you could say it was hypocritical of me even to mention it.” He tossed the ball up as if to serve, then caught it, scratched his head. “Except for one little detail. No, no, it would be two really minor details. One, it’s my money, and two, I’m not married.”

  He tossed the ball up, swung and served an ace. Straight into Peter’s nose. As Peter dropped to his knees, blood gushing out from between his fingers, Josh strolled over, twirling his racket.

  “And three, it’s my sister you’re fucking with.”