Page 9 of Between the Lines

He stood for a moment staring at his phone after his father ended the call, wondering if he’d done the right thing. But he couldn’t stand the thought of Grant Daly breezing in and charming Luca Moretti with his easy smile and warm handshakes, stealing the sale from under Theo’s nose and screwing up his shot at partnership. No, he wouldn’t let that happen. He could do this—hewoulddo it—even if he hated every bloody moment.

When he stepped back into the shabby dining room, Moretti and Jude had returned. There was no sign of Don. Moretti had his arms folded, shoulders hunched, scowling like a teenager who’d just been reamed by his mother.

Jude tipped her head. “Well?”

“Oh.” They’d been expecting him to speak first, of course. “Yes, my father’s agreed it would be an excellent opportunity for me to get to know the place better.” He hoped the transparency of the lie wasn’t as obvious as it felt, but the look Moretti flashed him suggested it was. Theo looked away quickly, the brief eye contact unnerving. “I’ll ask my assistant to send my luggage. It should be here by tomorrow morning.” The thought of staying here alone, without Miranda’s support, only heightened his disquiet. But with him out of the office, he’d need her back at her desk. The New Milton development was far from the only iron in the fire.

Jude’s smile widened, oblivious to his unease. “Wonderful! Then welcome to the Majestic, Theo. Come through and I’ll check you in.” As she headed into the foyer she glanced at Moretti, slouching in the doorway. “Could you show Theo up to the Whitman suite, Luca?”

“The Whitman suite?” Something passed between them, a glinting look from Jude which made Moretti subside. “Sure,” he said and glanced at Theo, a cool brush of his silvery eyes. “Hope you’re okay to take the stairs. The elevator’s, uh—”

“Temporarily unavailable,” Jude caroled from where she was walking across the foyer. “But it’s a beautiful staircase and there are views all the way across the bay from every landing.”

Theo lifted an eyebrow in Moretti’s direction. “The stairs are fine.” No need to mention the prohibitive cost of fixing the ancient elevator; he was sure they were all well aware. The financial difficulty of refurbishing a building of this age had to be one of Jude’s prime reasons for selling. Moretti scowled and turned away.

Point.

Jude checked Theo in on a computer which might have been state of the art at the turn of the century and handed over a genuine brass key with a large wooden fob. Perhaps in response to his surprise, she said, “Much nicer than those plastic key cards, don’t you think?”

“A little harder to fit in your wallet.”

“And harder to lose.” She smiled. “Follow Luca, if you will. He’ll bring up your luggage when it arrives—and I’m sure he’ll be delighted to show you around New Milton while you’re here. Won’t you, honey?”

“Sure,” Moretti growled. “Delighted.”

That was a lie. Or sarcasm. Theo couldn’t always tell the difference, but either way it didn’t matter; he wasn’t here for Moretti’s friendship, he was here to close the sale. Theo smiled as he followed him out of the foyer and up the stairs.

Game on, Mr. Moretti. Game bloody well on.

Chapter Four

It was seven the next morning when a car pulled up next to Luca’s van with luggage for Mr. Theodore Wishart: three smart, monogrammed cases driven all the way out from New York City in their very own car. How the one percent lived!

Luca wondered who’d packed them. Did Wishart have a boyfriend at home? Some metrosexual hipster who drank kale smoothies and rode a skateboard? Was that why he’d been all up in Luca’s face? Hell, maybe he’d been wrong and the guy had a wife. Or a maid. No—he smiled to himself—avalet. Yeah, someone as uptight as Theodore Wishart would have a valet to iron his impeccable shirts and style his sleek hair.

Not that Luca cared whether he had a boyfriend. He had zero interest in the snooty bastard with his stuck-up accent and unfathomable expression. Wishart hadn’t even had the balls to look him in the eye when he was trying to sell his aspirational branding crap. Probably because he knew it was bullshit, and that made him a liar.

Jude was kidding herself inviting him here, thinking she could somehow convince him to refurbish the Majestic instead of demolishing it.Make him fall in love with the place, she’d implored him.Make him fall in love with it and he won’t be able to tear her down.But even if it were possible—and Wishart was definitely the sort to prefer golf courses over wild beaches—what would it achieve? No matter what Wishart thought, Lux Properties was never going to refurbish an old place like the Majestic. It would cost a fortune and companies like Lux were only interested in profit. Luca had told Jude as much—even Don had agreed—but she wouldn’t listen.If there’s a chance I can leave her in the hands of someone who loves her, then I’ll take it.

That, he knew, had been aimed at him. But he hadn’t risen to the bait—that argument was long over.

Grumbling at the stupidity of it all, he slung the smallest of Wishart’s bags over his shoulder, grabbed the larger two in each hand, and started trudging up to the third floor. Jude had given Theo the Whitman suite, the largest in the hotel and the honeymoon suite back in the day. If she wanted to impress him, she was on the right track; the view was to die for and if Wishart hadn’t been stunned by the sunrise this morning then he had no damn soul. A possibility Luca hadn’t yet ruled out.

He’d broken a sweat by the time he reached the third floor, and dropped the bags outside Wishart’s room with a grunt of relief. There were only three suites up here, and neither of the other two was occupied, so Wishart had the whole floor to himself. Luca rapped on the door, taking no pains to be quiet despite the early hour. No answer. He knocked again and was about to try a third time when the door opened and Theodore Wishart stood there blinking at him. He’d clearly just gotten out of bed. Rumpled shirt half untucked, feet bare, and hair all smooshed on one side: he looked disheveled, undone, and totally unlike the city slicker Luca had met yesterday. In fact, he looked rather lost, as if he didn’t want to be there any more than Luca wanted him there, and for a moment he felt a flicker of empathy for the guy; Wishart was only doing his job after all. But the emotion was short lived, snuffed out when Wishart stepped back with a haughty nod, indicating that Luca should haul his luggage inside like the help.

Only loyalty to Jude kept him from leaving Wishart to deal with his own damn bags. Instead, with a glare, he picked them up and dumped them unceremoniously at the foot of the wide bed. All the pillows had been piled together in a messy heap, a person-shaped dip in the center of the mattress suggesting where Wishart must have slept. Bed hog, Luca noted. Typical.

“Uh...?” At the sound of Wishart’s voice Luca turned to find him hovering by the door, gaze averted as per usual. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Luca said it with exactly as much enthusiasm as he felt. “Have a nice day.”

He started to leave, but Wishart lurched forward with his hand outstretched, giving Luca’s abs a glancing blow. “What the—?”

Wishart recoiled with a frustrated tut, five bucks clutched in his fingers: a tip? Luca got tips around the hotel all the time when he was helping Jude out. It had never bothered him before, but the thought of Wishart offering him money... He retreated a step, lifting his hands in refusal. “Just doing you a solid, man. That’s how things work around here.”

Wishart frowned, crumpling the bill in his fist. “I see. My mistake.” A faint flush returned to his cheeks, a couple of unruly dark curls tumbling forward over his forehead. He pushed them back irritably.

He was quite appealing when he was disheveled. Which was annoying.

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