Page 67 of Christmas at Sturcombe Bay
“However.” Stretton’s voice carried a heavy emphasis in spite of the smile. “I have to tell you that we’ve already received a very good offer for the property.”
“Oh?” That was unexpected, and unwelcome, but Paul was careful to keep all trace of his reaction from his face and his voice.
“I need hardly explain that I’m duty-bound to get the best return I can for our partners. If you can see your way to improving your offer . . . ?”
“May I ask who the other party is?”
That shark’s smile again. “Ah, well, I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. Commercial confidentiality, you understand. But they already have some plans for re-development of the site.”
Paul nodded slowly. Damn. He could increase his offer, of course — it was still well within the sum he could afford — but was this a bluff? Did Stretton really have another offer in the bag? It seemed unlikely, but not impossible.
Across the wide desk he studied his . . . It was hard not to think of him as his opponent — the goalie looking to block his penalty shot. Stretton was watching him, too, those sharp eyes cold, no doubt calculating how far could he push without losing the deal.
Half an hour later Paul was standing on the Millenium Bridge watching the silver-grey waters of the Thames drift slowly down towards the sea. He’d agreed a price with Stretton— more than he wanted to pay, but less than he was willing to pay.
Now it remained to be seen what would happen next. Stretton would contact the other party, of course — if they existed — and try to persuade them to increase their offer. Then he’d hear from him again, probably spinning another line about a higher bid and trying to get him to top it.
Well, he’d deal with that when it happened. Meanwhile, he had an appointment with a couple of new young players at their training ground out in the suburbs, then dinner with some old mates now playing for one of the top London clubs.
Chapter Twenty-One
November, and summer was fading. A cool sun still shone in the pale-blue sky, but the air was beginning to chill. Alex was strolling on the beach when his phone rang.
The call was from Stretton. He perched himself on a convenient flat rock below the hotel to take it.
“Ah, Mr Crocombe. Good to speak to you again.”
“And you.” Alex smiled to himself. “How’s the weather at your end?”
“I’m afraid we’ve got rain.”
“Too bad. The sun’s shining here. Matter of fact I’m on the beach right now. Anyway, what can I do for you, Mr Stretton?” That was a trick of Frank’s, to put the ball back immediately into his opponent’s court.
“Ah, well now, regarding the bid for the hotel.”
“Yes?”
“I have to tell you that someone else is showing an interest.”
Alex’s jaw clenched. He hadn’t expected that. Maybe he should have. But was it genuine? Would the place really attract that much attention?
“As you came in first, I felt it only right to give you the opportunity to revise your original offer.” Oh, so smooth.
“I see. Well, that’s very considerate of you, Mr Stretton. I’m sure you’ll understand that I can’t respond immediately. I’ll need to consult the figures again.”
“Of course. Perhaps you could get back to me . . . tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
Alex cut the call and swore fluently. Fortunately only a couple of seagulls were around to hear him, and they used far worse language themselves.
For a long moment he gazed out at the distant horizon. It wasn’t the money that was the issue here — well, only partially ashe did have deeper reserves to call on. But it stuck in his gullet to play that game, when the future of the hotel was at stake.
Swinging round, he looked up at the building, sitting like a grand old lady in white on the top of the low sandstone cliff. She deserved so much better than to be left derelict, then demolished to make way for a caravan site.
He glanced at his watch. Almost two o’clock. Nine o’clock in Toronto. He tapped on Frank’s number. It was answered promptly.
“Hey there, Flyboy. What’s with you, eh?”
