Off-Limits Fling with the Billionaire
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Suzanne Merchant
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CHAPTER ONE
‘CASS? CASS, where are you? There’s a man in the garden, and he’s... What are you doing?’
Cassandra gripped the ladder and balanced the broken piece of plaster cornice across the top of it. She shuffled her feet until she could perch on the second step from the top. If she ducked her head, she could see a slice of the view.
The sea sparkled, blue and silver. Above it, clouds raced across the pale spring sky. It was her favourite view in the world. It could soothe fears, calm tempers and bring her that sense of home that she treasured above all else.
Except soon it wouldn’t be her view any more. The realisation that this was probably the last time she’d see it hit her like a physical blow that threatened to expel the air from her lungs and stop her heart in mid-beat.
She twisted her head, dragging her eyes away, and looked down at Tess, her PA, instead.
‘Last-minute repairs,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘This bit fell off again last night.’
‘Perhaps you should come down...’
Cassandra wished she’d been more honest with the staff of the Cornish Hideaway Hotel. She’d told them she’d been forced to sell, but she knew she’d been too upbeat when she’d described her plan to persuade the new owner, whoever that might be, to retain the staff.
Tess clutched a chipped mug of coffee in one hand and bit into the flaky Danish pastry she held in the other. She looked up at Cass again and her eyes widened in surprise.
‘Cass? You look...different.’
For a horrible moment Cass thought Tess was going to choke on that mouthful of pastry, adding manslaughter to her own personal list of crimes. Deception, and deliberately ignoring hard facts when they were staring you in the face were two of the others she could think of.
But Tess gulped and swallowed a mouthful of coffee.
Cass squirmed.
‘How did you get your hair to do that? And are you wearing make-up?’
Cass put a hand on the neat knot at the back of her head, checking it was still intact. She’d secured it with proper hairpins and half a can of hairspray, but its defiance of gravity still seemed miraculous. She shrugged.
‘Hairspray actually does what it says on the tin. I think it’s really wallpaper glue in a spray-on formula.’
‘You look pale. Have you had any breakfast?’
‘It’s the make-up. And I didn’t sleep that well last night.’
She had hardly slept for a week. Not since the lawyers had said she had no option but to accept the offer she’d received for the Cornish Hideaway Hotel. It wasn’t high enough to clear the debts but, as they’d pointed out, with each day she delayed those debts would continue to mount.
And then, early this morning, they’d let her know about a new possible buyer. She’d breathed a sigh of relief, not because she hoped for more money—there was scant hope of that—but because it meant she could delay her decision by another twenty-four hours, at least.
‘Why,’ asked Tess, brushing flakes of pastry off her shirt and onto the floor, ‘have you put your hair up and put on make-up?’
‘There’s someone else coming to look at the Hideaway. He’s booked in to stay the night. I need to look business-like. I’m going to change...’
‘That must be who I saw, and I don’t think you have time to change, but you can probably sneak a coffee in, if you’re quick. He was talking to George in the garden. He’s divine-looking.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Who is he?’
‘The CEO of a company called Marine Developments. That’s all I know.’
‘I think George was bending his ear about never having enough time to grow his vegetables because of all the running repairs he has to carry out on the building, but he looked really interested even though he was probably bored...’
Cassandra shook her head. The mere thought of coffee—of anything—made her stomach heave.
She straightened her knees and inched around again, wishing she’d changed before tackling this job. Wishing she hadn’t seen the broken cornice at all, wishing... Wishes were a waste of time and energy. And anyway, they never came true.
‘I must get this done,’ she muttered. If only Tess could stop talking to her, just for a minute, and let her concentrate.
She yanked the claw hammer from the waistband of her jeans and propped the ancient piece of moulded cornice in place. Squinting, she aimed a vicious blow at the rusty nail protruding from one end of it.
‘Oh, Cass, he’s...’
‘Ow! Crap!’ The hammer clattered to the floor and the cornice flew through the air. Cass sucked her injured fingers and squeezed her eyes shut, instantly losing her balance. She swayed, lost her footing and slithered down the ladder, into the arms of the man she had vowed she never wanted to see again.
‘Merde!’ His voice was deep, with the hint of a Gallic accent. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
Cass stared up into grey eyes, stormy with annoyance, and the memory swamped her. The firm yet gentle grip of his hands on her upper arms felt oddly familiar, even after so many years. And his eyes held the same steeliness, except anger had replaced the concern they’d held back then. For one insane moment the essence of his strength almost overwhelmed her, and she thought how easy it would be to surrender to it; to lay her head on his broad chest and let someone else take the strain.
She dismissed that madness, placed her hands instead of her cheek on his chest and pushed herself away from him. He let go of her arms, massaged his shoulder and nudged the offending piece of cornice out of his way with the toe of a polished leather shoe.
He would have had to duck through the door, she thought, even though it was one of the newer doorways, built to an almost twenty-first-century height. He ran a hand through his windswept dark hair and glanced around the room, and then his gaze returned to her face.
Cass stepped backwards until she felt the ladder behind her. She raised her chin a fraction and took a deep breath, hoping the hammering her heart had set up in her chest would steady. But as long as those implacable eyes held hers, she knew she had a snowball’s chance...
The suit he wore screamed ‘bespoke’, or, more likely, fait sur mesure. The words were probably stitched into the lining. Beneath the jacket and crisp white cotton shirt his body looked—felt—hard and toned. As rock-solid, she was willing to bet, as the business deals he and his father struck.
In the fourteen years since their last, brief meeting he had been transformed from a twenty-something diffident young man, obscured by his father’s shadow, to a thirty-something fully-fledged, independent powerhouse. She’d hoped—prayed—that the sale of the Hideaway would escape the notice of the formidable Chevalier clan. How naïve was that?
He stopped rubbing his shoulder and extended his right hand. His fingers were long and bronzed, the nails squared off and expertly manicured.
He had no right to be early; to catch her unprepared. The business suit she’d brought down from London last week was useless , hanging behind the door of her attic bedroom. And right now she could have done with the extra inches a pair of heels would have given her.
‘Miss Greenwood.’ All trace of annoyance had been wiped from his eyes and his voice. His tone was even. ‘Shall we start again and renew our acquaintance in a more civilised way?’
His gaze drilled into her and she knew she had to return it or betray her confusion. Mesmerised by the sheer force of his confidence, Cass put out her hand. He flexed his cool fingers around hers and she wished her palm wasn’t damp with anxiety. He’d notice, of course. He wouldn’t miss a thing. Her hand was trapped, just like the rest of her, but if she hoped to save any of her self-respect, she needed to break the contact between them.
His presence and his utter self-assurance were intimidating. From the arrogant tilt of his head as he surveyed her study, to his faintly dismissive expression, it was obvious that Matheo Chevalier did not doubt himself. He might as well have spoken the words out loud. He was about to gain control of what he and his family had wanted for so long.
She opened her mouth, but he spoke first.
‘We met once before.’ Her hand was still in his. ‘I came here with my father, but you probably don’t remember. You must have been...about sixteen?’
Cass remembered. It wasn’t a time she’d ever been able to forget. She remembered the sense of desperation that had gripped them then. She and her father, crushed by grief, struggling to come to terms with the changed order of things. Despite all the treatments the doctors had tried, all the money her father had spent on futile attempts to halt it, the disease had claimed her mother’s life with cruel speed.
Cass had felt as if she’d been cast adrift on an alien sea with no familiar landmarks to navigate by, dreading the next blow but not knowing from which direction it would come. She’d clung to her father; he’d always known what to do. He’d been the rock on which she and her mother had depended. His solidarity had been unquestionable.
But she’d quickly discovered he was no longer the father she recognised. He’d become unreachable, engulfed in grief so intense that he seemed to have to expend all of his energy on keeping it locked inside him. Cass became afraid to talk to him, afraid of what might happen if he allowed any of it to escape.
Within a few weeks the next blow had materialised in the form of the rich, successful hotelier Charles Chevalier. He’d wanted to buy the hotel, pointing out that he was willing to pay over the odds for what was, by rights, his property anyway. Joe Greenwood would be able to settle his debts, he had said, contempt in his tone, as if he was doing them a favour, trying to force them to part with the home they loved.
Matheo Chevalier had retreated from the argument that had erupted between the two older men. After his weeks of silence, Cass had felt an odd sense of relief that her father could still string a coherent sentence together. But then she’d listened, shocked, as, in language more colourful than anything she’d ever heard, he’d declared he’d sell his soul to the devil before he sold the Hideaway to a lying, cheating Chevalier.
Fast forward fourteen years, and here was the son, hiding behind a different company, about to try again.
She pulled her hand from Matheo Chevalier’s, memory stoking her anger. He might be smooth-talking, but he was his father’s son, and she wasn’t going to forget it.
He’d tried to be kind to her during the few frightening, confusing days of their visit. He’d asked about her mother, and she’d attempted to describe the dark, bottomless pit of sorrow that yawned inside her. He’d lost his mother, too, he’d said, when he was ten, and then he’d been sent away to boarding school, where he hadn’t been allowed to be sad.
They’d walked on the beach, climbed on the rocks, and talked. It had been cathartic for Cass. She had told him of her fear of the future, of how she sometimes thought she heard her mother’s voice and how her father had become a stranger who had decreed that nothing in the hotel could be changed. Nothing at all.
And if he was his father’s son, she was her father’s daughter. Old grievances ran deep.
‘I remember you.’ Her voice surprised her with its firmness, considering how wobbly she felt. She remembered how she’d reacted when he’d first tried to talk to her, the mix of fear and betrayal of loyalty to her father. ‘But I remember your father better.’
‘And I remember yours,’ he responded, drily. ‘I’m unlikely ever to forget his opinions of my family, or his lack of restraint in expressing them.’
‘My father never believed in mincing his words, and he had scant regard for moral weakness.’
‘Which he considered my father to have in spades.’
‘And your grandfather, too.’
His laugh was low. ‘You’ve changed in the past fourteen years. I remember you as something of a wild child. And fragile.’
His eyes travelled over her, and she hoped he saw that the wild child had been well and truly banished. Any latent wildness had disappeared for good that day a year ago, when her father had died, shockingly and suddenly, leaving her with nothing but the almost unbearable responsibility of saving the hotel and preserving the livelihoods of its faithful staff.
As for fragility, she’d shed that, too. What didn’t kill you made you stronger, and she had survived. The years of coping with her father’s descent into depression, forcing herself to leave him to go to college, forging a career for herself in the competitive world of interior design and surviving the break-up of a controlling relationship had transformed her into a stronger woman than she’d have believed possible back when she’d first met Matheo Chevalier.
If she’d seemed wild, it had been wild with grief, perhaps, or maybe fear at what the future could possibly hold without her mother to keep her safe.
‘You’ve changed too. You were the only person I’d really spoken to in weeks, and you seemed to understand.’ She shook her head. ‘But it seems you’ve assumed the family mantle with enviable ease. And you have a new company name. Did you mean to take me by surprise? To catch me out?’
His eyes darkened, slate hard, and his mouth, which had softened as he studied her, compressed into a straight line.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I have changed. And Marine Developments is a company that was set up two years ago. It’s not exactly new.’
‘Your father, I remember, has always got what he wanted. He’s played a long waiting game.’ She shrugged. ‘But I’m afraid you may be too late. I’m about to accept an offer.’ Suddenly the too-low bid seemed attractive, if it meant not selling to the Chevaliers, but she knew her lawyer would not share that view.
‘Naturally you are free to sell to any of the other bidders.’
Cass was not free at all. She’d be pressured into taking the highest offer, and quickly, and she was sure he knew that. The knowledge would be giving both him and his father enormous satisfaction.
‘But your position is very weak. It would be sensible to go for a straightforward sale to the highest bidder.’
Cass didn’t want to be sensible. She wanted to keep her home, and the staff, some of whom had known her all of her life, around her, so that all the memories of her parents and her childhood would not be obliterated by the plans of a mega-successful property developer.
‘Selling at all is a betrayal of my father’s wishes. I will never compound that by selling to the Chevaliers.’
Matheo Chevalier slipped a leather bag off his shoulder and put it on the desk as if he already owned it. He turned and strolled over to the window. ‘My interest in the Hideaway has nothing at all to do with my father.’
‘You expect me to believe that?’ Disbelief coloured her voice. ‘Your grandfather and then your father used every means available, some definitely unscrupulous, to try to get control of the Hideaway. Don’t tell me this has nothing to do with the past.’
Cass looked past him, towards the sea. White caps had appeared, foaming on the crests of the waves as they rolled into the cove below. The wind must have changed direction, she thought absently. She tried to focus on what he was saying, through the fog of despair that engulfed her at the thought of finally leaving this place, with its ever-changing weather but never-changing comfort of home.
She’d spent the whole of the past year trying everything possible to keep the hotel going, but when the accountants had presented her with the bald financial facts she’d been forced to accept that selling was unavoidable. At least this way she’d be able to pay most of the outstanding bills. And if she used the full powers of her persuasion with the new owners, some of the staff might keep their jobs.
‘I would like to have found a way...’ She hated the defeat she could hear in her own voice.
She brushed a cobweb from her jumper and glanced down at her faded jeans and scuffed trainers. How could she expect anyone to take her seriously, dressed like this?
From the corner of her eye she caught a movement, and she swung her gaze back into the room. Tess, whose presence she’d completely forgotten, was sidling silently towards the door, her eyes huge with surprise.
‘Tess, wait...’ she called out, desperate to offer an explanation, though she didn’t have the faintest idea how to phrase it. The long-standing feud between theGreenwoods and the Chevaliers was the stuff of legend at the Hideaway, along with the myth of the treasure, reportedly to have been smuggled out of France by the Chevalier ancestors, on the run from the Revolution and a date with Madame La Guillotine. Now the identity of the latest prospective new owner was going to get out in the worst possible way. She had no reason to believe Tess would be discreet. She’d be bursting to tell everyone what she’d heard.
‘Tess!’
Matheo’s voice, like a blade sheathed in velvet, carved through the silence and Tess, who had ignored Cass’s plea, froze.
‘Tess,’ he repeated, a fraction more softly. ‘Could you organise some coffee for us, please? There are points I need to discuss with Miss Greenwood.’
Cassandra watched as Tess struggled to respond. She looked like a mouse caught in the mesmerising stare of a cat. Then she ducked her head and swallowed.
‘Coffee. Yes...of course.’ She backed towards the door. ‘Mr Chevalier, sir.’
His laser gaze flicked back to Cassandra, but she thought the corners of his lips twitched. Her skin pricked and she shivered.
‘Are you cold? The heating in here doesn’t seem to be on. It’s only April, after all.’
‘Yes, but it’s been spring in Cornwall for a month. Officially. It was declared four weeks ago.’
It may have been spring, but there was no denying the cold. The truth was she’d turned off the radiators in all the private areas of the building months ago, trying to save on the fuel bill. ‘Put on a vest, and another jumper’ she’d advised anyone who complained about the cold and damp. As long as the guests were warm, everyone else could make do.
His eyebrows arched. ‘Does spring come to Cornwall before anywhere else in the country?’
‘Spring is declared in Cornwall when a champion magnolia in each of seven different Cornish gardens has fifty or more blooms fully open. That happened on the third of March.’
‘Is the garden of the Hideaway one of the seven?’
‘Well, no... People don’t come here particularly to see the garden. It’s grown a little wild.’
‘Is “wild” a creative word for “neglected”? Like the building?’
‘It’s an old building. Ancient. There’s always something needing to be fixed. It keeps our gardener, George, very busy...’
‘Trying to stop the place from falling down and landing up on the beach.’ He nodded towards the cove below. ‘I had a conversation with George on my way in,’ he continued. ‘He said he’d like to grow enough vegetables and fruit in summer to supply the kitchen but much of his time is spent patching things up rather than on productive gardening.’
Cass wished George hadn’t been quite so candid but what he’d said was true. And he would have been no match for the sort of intense questioning Matheo Chevalier would have directed at him. She’d defy anyone caught in the beam of those eyes not to tell all, immediately. She tried a different tack.
‘George has been here a long time and he knows the building better than anyone now that my fa—’ She breathed in and out again. ‘Anyway, he knows every corner of the building, and all its weak spots. He can fix anything...’
He turned to face her fully, and his broad-shouldered frame blocked a significant amount of light from the window. ‘This whole operation is a collection of weak spots held together by old habits and sentimentality, by the look of it,’ he continued. ‘George would be better employed doing what he says he does best and growing vegetables for the restaurant.’ He pushed a hand through his hair. ‘These days, everyone wants to know where their food was grown and how many air miles it took to get it onto their plates. Serving fresh, organic produce grown in the garden with zero carbon footprint would be a powerful marketing tool.’
‘I know that.’
She’d thought about it, of course she had, but the constant round of necessary repairs had taken up most of George’s time and there was no money to pay anyone else to do the work.
‘You haven’t acted on something you know would obviously improve business,’ Matheo said bluntly. ‘Anyone who works for me gets fired for that sort of lapse.’
‘Well, luckily I don’t work for you,’ she snapped.
‘This hotel is dowdy, run-down, unexciting—the list is endless, and I don’t expect to be impressed by the staff, either.’
Cass felt anger swelling in her chest. This man knew nothing of what it was like to hold your breath at the end of every month while you tried to balance the books, or how putting on an extra jumper in the winter might keep your body warmer but your fingers were still sometimes too cold to hit the right buttons on the keyboard. He’d had it easy all his life. All he’d had to do was follow in his father’s arrogant footsteps.
‘There are good people here. People who’ve been loyal and faithful to the hotel and to my family for years. They don’t deserve to be discarded without a chance to prove themselves. Some of them know no other life, and—’
‘What I need are people who know what they’re doing and who have the initiative to get on with the job.’
‘They all know what they’re doing. Some of them have been here so long they could do their jobs blindfolded...’
Too late, Cass realised she’d played straight into his hands.
‘Yes, that’s what I thought. The first thing this place needs is some new ideas and a fresh approach.’
Matheo Chevalier moved from the window and gestured to the desk. ‘Shall we sit down, or would you prefer to stand by the window? It’s slightly warmer there, in the sun.’
‘The sun will be gone in a few minutes.’
‘How do you know what the sun will do?’
If Cass hadn’t known she couldn’t possibly be right, she would have thought a hint of curiosity had crept into his voice.
‘Because the wind has changed. Earlier today the sea was flat calm and a particular shade of blue, but now there are white caps on the swells and a weather front on the horizon. When it hits land, it’ll rain and we won’t see the sun again until tomorrow.’
And, she thought, I’ll have to sleep on the sofa in the staff sitting room again. Her little attic room had a leak in the roof which even George had been unable to mend, and the rain would drip relentlessly onto her narrow childhood bed.
He looked out at the sea, his gaze narrowed. ‘I suppose if you’ve spent your entire life in a place you get to be able to predict the weather. I’ve never had that...’ He stopped and Cass wondered if his frown was one of regret or simply of incomprehension.
He pulled up a second chair and Cassandra watched as he removed his jacket and slung it over the back of what had been her chair until he’d decided to use it. He inserted a forefinger into the knot of his tie, pulling it loose and undoing the top button of his shirt, exposing the smooth golden skin in the hollow where his neck joined his shoulder, and the protuberance of his collar bone.
Then he removed a pair of heavy gold cufflinks and rolled up his sleeves. He crossed his arms, resting his muscled forearms on the desk.
‘Mademoiselle Greenwood? Will you sit down?’ A corner of his mouth lifted as he regarded her. ‘There are a few things I’d like to discuss with you before finalising my bid.’ He glanced towards the door. ‘Will the coffee arrive soon, do you think?’
Cass lowered herself onto the edge of the chair beside him.
‘I usually go and get what I need. So shall I...?’
She began to rise again but he shook his head, just firmly enough to show who was in charge.
He looked up as a soft tap sounded at the door.
‘Ah. And here it is.’
Cass sat down again. How did he do that? Even Tess had listened to him.
‘Thank you, Tess. The coffee smells excellent. Could you put it on the desk, please?’
Tess carried a tray across the room, her bottom lip caught in her teeth. She placed it on the desk and backed away.
‘Um... I brought sandwiches. It’s almost lunchtime and I know Cass hasn’t had br—’
Cass shot Tess a look and she closed her mouth.
‘Thank you. And please will you inform the restaurant I’ll be dining there tonight, and I hope Mademoiselle Greenwood will join me?’
‘Oh, but Cass and I go to our yoga class on Mondays. Cass, aren’t you...?’
‘That’ll be all, Tess, thank you,’ he said.
‘Yes, Mr Chevalier, of course.’ Tess almost ran from the room.
Dinner with him in the restaurant was quite possibly the worst idea Cass had ever heard. And anyway, she was busy. The yoga class shone like a beacon of hope at the end of what was becoming a difficult day.
‘Thank you, Mr Chevalier, but I won’t be able to join you for dinner. I’m busy this evening.’
‘Could you skip yoga tonight?’
‘But may I suggest you make a reservation at a restaurant in town instead?’ she carried on, ignoring him. ‘I don’t think the Hideaway serves the sort of food people...um...like you prefer to eat.’
The crease between his brows deepened.
‘What sort of food do “people like me” prefer?’
Cass felt herself flushing. She had the feeling he was hiding amusement behind that frown.
‘I think you know what I mean. Our menu consists of plain, old-fashioned dishes of the meat and two veg variety. It’s what our loyal guests expect. People who’ve been coming here year after year don’t like change.’
‘Ah. And can I expect jelly and custard for pudding?’
‘It might be spotted dick this evening.’
Two could play at this game.
‘Good,’ he countered smoothly. ‘It’ll be like being back at my English boarding school.’ His mouth curved and she noticed the hint of a dimple in his cheek. ‘It’ll remind me how happy I was to be expelled. But I presume your...yoga class...won’t last all evening?’
His tone rated yoga somewhere on a level with English boarding schools. Cass thought if she had to dine with him, she might stab him with a steak knife.
‘Can you talk me through some figures?’ He pulled a slim laptop from the case on the desk and flipped it open. ‘I’m hoping you’ll be able to clarify a couple of things. Then they might make less depressing reading than the accounts for the last financial year your lawyer provided.’
That, thought Cass, was highly unlikely.
