The Magnate's Takeover: The Magnate's Takeover. Mary McBride
gave silent thanks to the anonymous Santa Claus who’d sent her a check for fifty thousand dollars in appreciation of her recent book of photographs of old, downtrodden motels in the Midwest. Libby Jost was, first and foremost, a serious photographer who had worked for the St. Louis newspaper for nearly a decade. She’d garnered numerous awards in the past, but most of them came in the form of plaques or framed certificates usually accompanied by long, boring speeches and polite applause. She’d gotten a check for two hundred bucks once for a photo of the Gateway Arch in morning mist, but never anything close to fifty thousand dollars.
The huge, unexpected check not only sustained her pride in her work, but it also provided her the wherewithal to help her aunt Elizabeth, the woman who had raised her here at this run-down motel after the death of her parents in a car accident when Libby was just a toddler.
Aunt Elizabeth hadn’t asked for her help, but then she didn’t have to. As soon as Libby realized that the fifty-thousand-dollar gift wasn’t a joke or a stunt of some kind, but was indeed good as gold according to her bank, she arranged for a leave of absence from the newspaper and began making plans to revive the derelict motel. It was her aunt’s dream, after all, and Libby felt she owed it to her to keep that dream alive as long as she possibly could.
And while she was giving thanks, she directed a few of them to the Halstrom Marquis, which soon would be sending its overflow customers across the highway to the newly remodeled, all spiffed-up, ready-to-go Haven View.
Libby was determined to make it happen. The anonymous Santa had given her the money to set it all in motion. She had taken her time to nail down her plans and to budget the money properly. Now she was ready to begin.
Stepping out onto the pebbled drive that wound through the dilapidated little tourist court, she noticed that one of the lampposts was dark. Damn. If it wasn’t one irritation, it was another. Exterior bulbs had gotten so expensive, even at the discount stores, and they seemed to burn out way too frequently these days.
Maybe she could let one light go dark for awhile. Maybe no one would even notice. There weren’t any guests here, for heaven’s sake. But, after another glance at the magnificently illuminated hotel across the highway, Libby sighed. Got to keep up with the Joneses now, she thought, or with the Halstroms as is in this case. She went back into the office in search of a ladder and a light bulb.
Well, this wasn’t one of the best ideas she’d ever had, Libby thought ten minutes later as she wobbled and swayed high up on the ladder while trying to juggle a large glass globe, a dead light bulb, a fresh light bulb and the four screws from the lamp. If anything, it was a terrible idea. She could see the paper’s headline already: Woman, inebriated, expires under lamp.
And if it wasn’t a disaster already, it surely became one when a car engine growled behind her, headlights flooding the parking lot and tires biting into the loose gravel of the driveway just behind her. A customer at this time of night? That wasn’t at all likely. The motel hadn’t had a single customer in three or four weeks.
She tried to look over her shoulder to see who or what it was, but the fierce headlights blinded her. When she heard the car door whip open and then slam shut, her heart leaped into her throat and made it impossible to shout or scream.
This was not good. Not good at all. It was terrible. A strangled little moan broke from her lips.
Then Libby lost her grip and the globe and the light bulbs crashed onto the ground below her, and she was about to crash down, too, on top of all that broken glass when a deep voice said, “Hold still.”
Two hands clamped around her waist.
“I’ve got you,” he said. “You’re okay. Just relax and let go of the ladder.”
Libby, in her total panic, tried to jerk away from his grasp and she held on to the lamppost even tighter than before.
“Dammit,” he growled, tightening his grip on her waist. “I said let go. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
He did, indeed, have her.
What else could she do? Libby dragged in a breath, held it and then let go of the lamppost, wondering vaguely if her life was going to flash before her eyes now that it was about to end.
It felt like falling into a giant bear hug. The arms that caught her were warm and encompassing. Then glass crunched under the bear’s feet as he turned, took several strides and finally and oh-so-gently set her down.
She was safe, but only for a second. The bear turned on her, his eyes flashing. “What the hell were you doing up there?” he growled. “You could have broken your damn neck.”
Libby’s heart was pounding like a jackhammer. Her legs felt like jelly, and she was still not exactly sober. Far from it, in fact. But now, instead of feeling tipsy and scared to death, she felt tipsy and mad as hell so she yelled back at the bear, “Well, it’s my damn neck.”
He merely stared at her then, stared hard, as if he were memorizing every feature and angle, every crook and cranny of her body, or else perhaps he was merely calculating the calories there just in case he decided to take a bite out of her.
Belligerently, Libby stared right back, into a face that struck her as more rugged than handsome. Even in the semidarkness of the driveway, she could tell that his eyes were a deep hazel and the line of his chin like granite. He was fairly good-looking, for a bear. She wobbled again, struggling to keep her balance and wound up standing even closer to him. He smelled divine, even though she was too tipsy to identify the scent. Then he smiled. It was a sudden, wonderful surprise of a smile that carved out sexy lines on both sides of his mouth.
“It’s a lovely neck,” he said, reaching out to touch the hammering pulse in her throat.
Libby blinked. “Thank you,” she said. “I think.”
Whatever hostility that had flared up so suddenly between them seemed to vanish into the cool night air. She glanced at his car—a dark, sleek Jaguar—and was fairly well convinced that this guy wasn’t a thug or a rapist or, for that matter, a paying customer. People who stayed at the Haven View these days tended to drive dirty pickups and dented sedans.
But before she could ask the Jaguar guy just who or what he truly was, he asked her, “Is the boss around?”
Libby almost laughed. Her whole life she’d looked far younger than she actually was. Now, even at age thirty, she could still easily pass for nineteen or twenty. And obviously she didn’t look like a “boss,” either, in her current panicky and slightly inebriated state.
Well, in reality she wasn’t the actual boss here. The Haven View Motor Court belonged to her aunt Elizabeth, after all, as it had for the past fifty years, but while her elderly aunt was in a nursing home recovering from a broken hip, Libby was most definitely in charge.
“The boss,” she said, “is currently under the weather, which means I’m temporarily in charge around here.” She attempted to stand a bit taller, a bit more steadily, even as her vision seemed to be blurring. Hoping to appear professional in spite of her condition, Libby stuck out her hand. “I’m Libby Jost. What, may I ask, can I do for you?”
His lips curled into another stunning and sexy grin. “I don’t think you can do much of anything for anybody at the moment, little Libby.” His hand reached out to steady her. “What do you think?”
What did she think? She thought she heard a bit of a Texas twang in his voice, and then she thought she was going to be very, very sick right here in the parking lot if she didn’t make it to the office in time.
“Excuse me,” she mumbled, then ran as fast as her wobbly legs would allow.
Well, it wasn’t the first time he’d encountered a pretty woman who’d had too much to drink, David Halstrom thought, but it was certainly the first time he’d witnessed a woman four feet off the ground clinging to a lamppost or one who looked like an inebriated fallen angel. She was so damn pretty, even in the dim lamplight, with her strawberry blond hair and her spattering of freckles that he’d almost