Jet-Set Escape with Her Billionaire Boss
Author
Andrea Bolter
Reads
19.5K
Chapters
14
The trip of a lifetime with her billionaire boss! Dive into Andrea Bolter's latest story for Harlequin Romance. FROM NEW YORK TO THAILAND…INTO THE TYCOON'S ARMS! Spa manager Esme has sacrificed too much to let her career stall before reaching the top. So when her brooding boss, Jackson, needs her expertise to relaunch the business, she offers him a deal. If she impresses him on a whirlwind tour of the world's best spas, he must promote her! Only, with each new destination, an unexpected temptation builds… Dare she take a risk with the guarded billionaire?
CHAPTER ONE
“YOU NEED TO learn to relax, Jackson.” Dr. Singh leaned forward in his chair, obviously trying to make his point. “When was the last time you took a vacation? Or walked on the beach, or even played a round of golf?”
“There are only so many hours in a day,” Jackson quipped after pausing to reach into his pocket and tilt up his phone screen so he could get a quick check of the time. After his examination, Dr. Singh had asked him to step into his cluttered office, where they sat across each other at his desk. Jackson was already behind schedule, the doctor visit taking longer than he’d anticipated. “I’m swamped.” Indeed, running the acquisitions company that became his after his parents died took every moment from him. Who had time for a vacation?
“Being busy doesn’t exempt you from taking care of yourself.”
With both of his parents dying much younger than average age, Jackson was screened regularly in the hope that any developing heath problem would be caught and treated early. But he’d scheduled a special appointment because the tightness in his neck and shoulders was becoming more frequent.
“I felt that muscle strain you’re talking about. You’re hard as a rock. You report headaches in addition to the occasional shortness of breath. Those are irregularities in a thirty-three-year-old man. We’ll run some tests but I think what you’re describing is chronically uncontrolled stress.”
Jackson figured plenty of people lived to ripe old ages with lives that didn’t leave time for golf. He tried to speed up the conversation with a short “Fine.” At least Dr. Singh didn’t think he was in immediate danger.
“I’m serious. It’s long thought that lifestyle, and mental and spiritual wellness, greatly influence health. You need to rest, eat well, exercise. And take breaks from all of it every once in a while. Did your parents have pursuits other than work?”
“Are you kidding?” Jackson snarked. He thought back to his father and mother when he was growing up, both putting in eighteen-hour days, sometimes seven days a week like he did now. His doctor was stating the obvious, that Jackson was following in their footsteps. Which he knew in his gut to be true.
Still, the Finns weren’t people with hobbies or sports or pastimes. They worked a lot and slept a little, plain and simple. That’s how empires were built and maintained. Jackson’s lean physique was the result of poorly digested meals eaten indifferently at desks and on airplanes more than from following a nutrition strategy.
“I think it’s essential that you make some changes. Carve out the time for yourself. You must find a balance or you’re going to get sick. How about starting with a massage? That can be restorative.”
Dr. Singh had no idea how ironic his suggestion was.
One, two, three, four, five stories, Jackson counted, eyes ticking upward as he studied the Sherwood Building across the street from where the driver dropped him off after his doctor’s appointment. He owned that historic building, or that was to say that Finn Enterprises did. Which, of course, now came to mean Jackson and Jackson alone, as he was an only child. With his mother’s untimely death followed by his father’s, he was left with full ownership of their many assets. He hadn’t seen the landmark Sherwood Building in a year, so long ago that while he knew it was five floors, he wanted to get a good view of the structure from across the street, counting the stories to reconfirm. He’d be spending time here now, remembered agonies notwithstanding. Jackson was on a mission.
New York’s busy Tribeca neighborhood surrounded him. A syllabic abbreviation for Triangle Below Canal Street, the Lower Manhattan neighborhood was renowned. In the early eighteen hundreds the area’s Washington Market was a central shopping hub for meat and fish, dairy and produce. In fact, upon completion in 1830, the Sherwood Building itself held dry goods merchants. By the end of that century many of the area’s original brick buildings were replaced by factories, manufacturers and warehouses. Fortunately, the lovingly nicknamed Sher survived. In the past fifty or so years, Tribeca received a huge boon when filmmakers, artists and celebrities began buying up property. Now a mélange of restoration, new construction, green spaces and a few remaining cobblestoned streets, it was one of the city’s most unique enclaves.
Even with the typical New York swirl of hurried pedestrians, horns honking and the rattle of subways underground, Jackson’s eyes stayed glued to his building. He’d really forgotten how dramatic it was, Italianate architecture with huge arched windows on the street level, and cast-iron front facades that were among the first of their kind in New York. He was proud to be such a grand old dame’s owner.
On the street, businesses populated every available space. A boba café stood on one side of the Sher with a pet groomer on the other. The building’s ground floor was leased to an art dealer and a couple of colorful abstract paintings hung in those front windows. Offices on the second, third and fourth floors housed longtime tenants. It was the fifth, and top, floor where Jackson had business today.
Some of those memories he dreaded ticked across his mind like a camera roll of still photographs. His awful debacle of a marriage had nearly shut down operations four years ago on the fateful fifth floor, which housed a day spa that had previously made every best-of list around the globe. Until Jackson’s disaster. After that, it languished. Operational but underutilized. No longer buzzed about, true spa aficionados having long moved on to newer places. With a swallow, Jackson reaffirmed to himself that he was going to restore Spa at the Sher to the greatness it once held a reputation for. It was the least he could do for his parents. They wouldn’t be there to see it, but Jackson would know he did it.
It was actually a paradox that the Finns owned a spa at all, given their all-work-and-no-play mode of operation, as Dr. Singh had just pointed out. It was only one business within their varied portfolio, but obtaining a landmark building in Manhattan was, in and of itself, a crowning triumph for his parents. Starting from an early age, they’d both worked three jobs a day to save up enough money to leave Ohio and start a life in New York. That they made it to the top, to own one of the city’s most famous addresses, was truly an American dream. Jackson turned it into a nightmare.
It gnawed him alive that he had let their prized acquisition become irrelevant because of bad decisions. Meanwhile, other luxury spas pressed forward with beautiful designs and features, and both classic and cutting-edge offerings. With no new innovations, the Sher had lost its luster. Jackson himself had been isolating and living in hotels everywhere but New York, as if avoiding the city would make all the history fade away. Now he was finally back, as the spa’s group of investors was gathering in a few weeks to vote on the fate of Spa at the Sher.
The spa deserved to be restored to its former glory, and Jackson was going to convince the investors of such. Lest they vote to back out of their shares in the business. He’d get rid of that cute fairy they’d hired as manager who they’d never given any power to. What was her name—Emma, Eden, Elsa? He’d hire a real spa director with a vision and give him or her the budget to implement it. Hopefully then the ache in the back of his neck that represented the past would subside. And perhaps he wouldn’t wake up unable to catch his breath in dark hotel rooms alone in the middle of the night anymore.
Maybe he’d even take his doctor’s advice and get a massage. After all, that was one of the services spas were best known for. There was a time when Spa at the Sher employed some of the best massage therapists on the planet, who came with their own client rosters and weeks-long waiting lists. He’d return it to those good old days.
He took in the majesty of the Sher one more time before retrieving that pixie girl’s name from his phone. Up in the window of the fifth floor, part of the spa, Jackson spotted someone gazing down to the street scene. It looked like a woman. Was it that manager? For some unexplainable reason, a wiggle shot up his spine.
“My six-o’clock glycolic-acid-peel client canceled so I’m going home,” Demi, one of the Spa at the Sher’s estheticians, said to Esme, who was gazing down to the street from the large fifth-floor windows.
“Okay, see you tomorrow,” she answered without turning. She didn’t know why she was gazing down from the windows or what she was looking for. Well, actually she did. But she had things to do, so, with great effort, pulled herself away. She returned to her tasks, separating a large vase of colorful flowers into smaller ones so that she could place them on three different tables in the reception area. He was expected any minute now and she wanted to make the spa shine as much as it could.
After all, although the spa had no director, and therefore no direction, as manager she was running things with what she had to work with. Right down to repurposing a floral arrangement, or buying some new flavors of tea for clients to enjoy. Anything she could do so that guests had a memorable experience and would return. At that thought, she clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. Not easy. Not when there were incredible, unforgettable spas all over the world that offered so much more than the stodgy old Sher, which had seen better days.
“The Vichy shower is broken again,” Esme’s assistant manager, Trevor, announced as he came out from the main corridor and into the reception area. “Do you want me to call for repair?”
“Yeah. Get them to come as soon as they can. I don’t want to have to rebook anyone because of it.”
Trevor turned and ducked into a treatment room. Esme neatened up the front desk, putting away the sticky notes staff sometimes left for each other reminding them of things that needed doing. She didn’t know why she was nervous. Maybe it was because owner Jackson Finn hadn’t said why he was coming in as opposed to the typical email or phone call that was his usual method of communication. He rarely even scheduled a video meeting. Appearing after what Esme guessed was close to a year made no sense. Unless he was coming to fire her, having the decency to at least do that in person.
She again peered down to the street, as if she would recognize him in the crowd at this distance. When she’d seen him on video and a few times in person, she did notice how handsome he was, with his thick dark hair, impeccable in tailored business clothes and a devastating smile that made rare appearances. All of that was neither here nor there, merely observation. She reassured herself that he had no grounds to fire her. The spa wasn’t losing money; they were afloat. It had lost its charm, though it was a perfectly serviceable establishment. The Wall Street crowd did still make their way up for deep tissue massages, sometimes booked at regular biweekly intervals to fit in with busy schedules. The Tribeca and SoHo art scene still trickled in for the ministrations given to battle the damaging effects of big city life. The Sher was still as much a part of the neighborhood as the dry cleaners and the pizzeria.
Esme remembered years ago reading about it in spa magazines. The historic building. The fifth-floor oasis of pampering and unfathomable luxury in Lower Manhattan. She’d read interviews with the professionals who worked here and had brought leading-edge everything from the online accounting program to the latest in skin rejuvenation. They’d all moved on now. Esme didn’t know the full story of why the spa had fallen from its highest peak. When she was brought in four years ago, she’d heard gossip that Jackson’s wife had been running things. Or that was to say, ruining things. Esme was curious about what really transpired but was never privy to anything other than hearsay.
Doing her final walk-through before he was to make his return, she double-checked the side table that displayed those new teas. One large clear cylinder held cool water infused with cucumber and a second one was flavored with lemon slices. There were whole fresh fruits, nuts and dark chocolate to nibble.
With its palette of the palest lavender and sage accents against tan furniture, it was welcoming, pleasant although dated. All of the walls held photos, paintings or drawings of flowers. Again, pretty but not compelling. Likewise, the treatment menu itself was flat, nothing to offer those chasing the next new experience. There was nothing she could do to dazzle Jackson. A spa without a director, a direction and a budget to make it happen was stagnant.
Hearing the elevator doors open outside the spa’s glass entrance door and catching sight of tall and formidable Jackson Finn meant that she was about to find out what brought him in. He opened the heavy door and entered, his dark brown eyes quickly scanning the foyer until they landed on her. “Esme Russo, right?”
“Are you okay?” Ooh, that was a bit personal but it popped out of her mouth. His shoulders were practically touching his ears, obvious even under the bulk of his fine wool coat.
“What?”
“Your shoulders are so tense.”
“Yeah, I know. Everybody keeps telling me that.”
He approached and reached out his hand to shake hers. Which was strange to her. Spa people didn’t shake hands. If you knew someone, you hugged and if you didn’t, you weren’t sure how they felt about touch so wouldn’t want to invade their personal space until that was established. In any case, she’d forgotten that Jackson had a formality about him that was instantly out of place at the spa. Out of propriety she returned the handshake. His was firm and his hand all but wrapped around hers, an unexpectedly pleasant sensation.
“Can I take your coat?”
As he removed the garment topping a formal gray suit and handed it to her, she had this ridiculous impulse to bring it to her nose just to see what his smell was like. Of course, she resisted and quickly shook her head in surprise at herself. She hung the coat on the rack put out in the colder months so that clients weren’t encumbered with heavy outerwear they didn’t need in the warmth of the spa. When she turned around she saw that his eyes were directed at her, and she had the sense that he’d been watching every move she made. Please, please, please. Don’t let him have come to fire her. With her considerable experience, it wouldn’t be hard for her to find another job, but being fired never looked good on a résumé.
Jackson then scrutinized the reception area. Two sofas and the registration desk, with the relaxation room in sight to the right. “Was this how the front room was arranged last time I was here?”
Oh, no. She was sure she heard disapproval in his voice. “I believe so. We may have repositioned the sofas with a bit more feng shui.”
He raised his eyebrows as if he didn’t understand her. Was it possible he didn’t know what feng shui was? She supposed, as the CEO of a multi-million-dollar company, he had underlings that handled everything for him including the harmony of environment. “Were you successful?” He caught her eyes so they locked with his. Wow, they were deep and soulful, brown like black coffee. She also saw pain inside them, and not just from the stiffness of the shoulders.
“Successful in what?”
“Improving the feng shui.”
“I don’t know if that’s really measurable. It’s just a flow decision.”
“A flow decision?” Why did his tone sound like an interrogation?
After all, if he wasn’t going to be involved with the spa enough to see it more than once a year, he didn’t really get to be critical. Moving a couple of sofas around to create a more welcoming entry didn’t seem like a change so big that she even needed to communicate it to her higher-ups. “Do you dislike it?”
He shrugged those stiff, broad shoulders slightly. “I don’t have a feeling about it one way or the other.” He was so tightly wound. He obviously didn’t lead a spa lifestyle. Peering over to the beverage table in the relaxation room, he asked, “Are those cucumber slices in the water?”
“Yes.”
“Your clients enjoy that?” Again he sounded like he had either just landed from another planet or thought she had.
Without waiting, she dashed over to pour him a glassful. “Try it. It’s very refreshing.”
He eyed it skeptically before taking a sip. Again she felt like her entire career now rested in that eight ounces of water as he weighed his decision. “Blech.”
Failure! As if she’d just lost a contest.
Surprisingly though, he tried a second time. When he brought his full lips to the rim of the cup, she nervously licked her own. How did he make the act of drinking a beverage seem so...important? He didn’t appear to like the water any more on the second sip.
“Would you like to sit down?”
“No.”
“Is there something I could do for you, then?” She still had no idea what the true purpose of his visit was, and whether she was to assist him with it in some way.
He pointed to the computer at the reception desk. “Who has access here to your system?”
Wasn’t that an obvious answer? “Staff.”
“All of them?” What was he fishing for?
“Pardon me, I mean the administrative staff. Myself, my assistant manager, Trevor, and our two front desk supervisors.”
“How often do you change access passwords?”
“I believe it’s on our schedule every six months.”
“It’s very important.” Esme thought he sounded suspicious. She felt a bit insulted by that. Maybe it was an attitude left over from what she’d heard were some shady dealings at the spa before she’d started working here. “I’d like to refamiliarize myself with the space.”
She couldn’t ask why. All she could get out was, “Okay. A couple of the treatment rooms are in use—” she pointed down the corridor “—but otherwise, I’m sure you know your way around.”
“Actually, I don’t really remember the layout.”
That was so unexpected she had to collect herself with a deep inhale through her nose and a slow exhale through her mouth. She hadn’t realized she’d be giving Jackson Finn a tour of his own property.
