The Magnate's Takeover: The Magnate's Takeover. Mary McBride
so he walked in the direction of the buzzing, nearly burned-out vacancy sign. He knocked on the door, waited a moment and when nobody answered, he entered what appeared to be the office of this dump which she claimed to manage. Hell. It was already pretty clear to him that she couldn’t even manage herself much less a run-down tourist court.
The office was as tawdry as he expected, like something right out of the 1950s if not earlier. It didn’t surprise him a bit to see a small black-and-white television with foil-wrapped rabbit ears wedged into a corner of the room, right next to a windowsill lined with half-dead plants. Good God. Did people actually stay here? Did they pay to stay here?
There was a floral couch against one wall. On the table in front of it sat a straw-covered bottle of Chianti and an empty glass. The caretaker’s poison, no doubt.
He knocked softly on a nearby door, then he opened it a few inches and saw a dimly lit bedroom that wasn’t quite as tattered as the lobby. There was a faint odor of lavender in the small room, and in the center of the bed, beneath the covers, he recognized a Libby-sized lump.
Good, he thought. She’d sleep it off and tomorrow she’d have a headache to remind her that cheap wine had its perils.
“Sleep well, angel,” he whispered. “When you lose this job, you can come to work for me.”
He quietly closed the door and returned to the parking lot.
A quick walk around the dismal property only served to confirm all of David’s suspicions. The place was a total wreck in dire need of demolition, which he would be more than happy to arrange. He got back in his car and headed for his hotel on the other side of the highway. As he drove, his thumb punched in his assistant’s number on his cell phone.
Jeff Montgomery was probably in the middle of dinner, he thought, but the call wouldn’t surprise him nor would David’s demand for instant action. The young man had worked for him for five years and seemed to thrive on the stress and the frequent travel as well as the variety of tasks that David tossed his way, from Make sure my tux is ready by six, to Put together a proposal for that acreage in New Mexico.
This evening David told him, “I need to know everything there is to know about the Haven View Motor Court across from the hotel. Who owns it? Is there any debt? What’s the tax situation? Everything. And while you’re at it, see what you can dig up on a woman named Libby Jost. Have it on my desk tomorrow morning, Jeff. Ten at the latest.”
“You got it, boss” came the instant reply. David Halstrom was used to instant replies.
He was used to getting precisely what he wanted, in fact, and he figured he’d own the ramshackle Haven View Motor Court lock, stock and barrel in a few days, or a week at the very most. And if he didn’t exactly own the fallen strawberry-blond angel by then, at least she’d be on his payroll.
Two
At ten o’clock the next morning Libby, in faded jeans and a thick white wool turtleneck, wasn’t at all surprised that she had a splitting headache while she followed the painting contractor around Haven View. She couldn’t even bear to think about the previous night, even as she wondered what had happened to the handsome bear.
As on most days, a camera hung from a leather strap around her neck because a dedicated photographer never knew when a wonderful picture might present itself. This morning, however, the camera strap felt more like a noose while the camera itself seemed to weigh a lot more than it ever had in the past. She was grateful the contractor didn’t walk very fast, which allowed her to sip hot, healing coffee while she tried to interpret his expressions.
Sometimes the man’s sandy eyebrows inched together above the bridge of his nose as if he were thinking, Hmm. This old wood window trim might be a little bit tricky. That won’t be cheap. Other times he narrowed his eyes and bit his lower lip which Libby interpreted as, There’s not enough paint in the state of Missouri to make this crummy place look better. Once he even sighed rather dramatically and then gazed heavenward, which probably meant he wouldn’t take this job no matter how much she offered to pay him.
Finally, the suspense was more than she could stand, not to mention the imagined humiliation when he told her the place wasn’t even good enough to paint, so she told the man to take his time, then excused herself. She headed back to the office, pausing once more to look around the foot of the lamppost to make sure she’d picked up every shard of broken glass from last night’s sorry incident.
She had almost reached the office door when she heard the familiar growl of a certain sleek automobile. As she turned to watch the dark-green vehicle approach along the gravel driveway, Libby swore she could almost feel the sexual throb of its engine deep in the pit of her stomach. Oh, brother. She wasn’t going to drink Chianti again for a long, long time.
Or maybe she was just feeling the deep shame of losing control the way she had the night before. Whoever the guy was and whatever he wanted, his opinion of her must be pretty low. If nothing else, she thought she owed the guy an apology along with a sincere thank-you for rescuing her from all that shattered glass.
She also thought, while staring at his fabulous car, that the vehicle was undoubtedly worth more—way more—than her fifty-thousand-dollar surprise fortune. How depressing was that? Still, it certainly piqued her interest in the man behind the wheel and whatever intentions he might have.
As if by reflex, she put her coffee mug on the ground and lifted her camera, shoving the lens cap in her pocket and glancing to make sure the aperture was set where she wanted it for this relatively bright morning. She snapped him exiting the car.
He seemed taller and more muscular than she remembered from the night before, but that face matched her memory of it perfectly. It was tough. Rugged. Masculine as hell. It was a countenance far better suited to a dusty pickup truck than a shiny luxury sedan.
His face, however, was shielded by his lifted hand as he approached her. Damn. She really wanted to capture those great Marlboro-Man features, especially his wonderful smile lines, but he kept them hidden as he approached.
She lowered the camera. He lowered his hand.
“How are you feeling this morning?” he asked.
Sensing the smirk just beneath his affable grin, Libby quickly forced her lips into a wide, bright smile as she responded, “One hundred percent.”
He cocked his head and narrowed his autumn-colored eyes, scrutinizing her face. “Really?”
“Well…” Libby shrugged. The man knew all too well what her condition had been the night before. She had nearly thrown up on him, after all. There wasn’t much use denying it. “Maybe ninety-five percent. Actually it’s more like eighty-five percent, but definitely trending upward.”
“Yeah,” he said, bending to pick up her coffee, then placing the mug in her hand. “Booze tends to do that more often than not.” Now his gaze strayed from her face, moved down past her turtleneck, paused at her breasts for a second, then focused on her Nikon. “What’s the camera for?”
“I’m a photographer.” She took a sip from her mug.
“I thought you were a motel sitter.”
Libby laughed. “Well, I’m both I guess. I’m Libby Jost.” Locals more often than not recognized her name from the photographs in the paper, but it didn’t seem to ring even a tiny little bell for Mr. Marlboro Man. She extended her hand. “And you are…?”
“David,” he said, reaching out to grip her hand more tightly than she expected. “I’m…” He frowned slightly, then angled his head north in the direction of the hotel across the highway. “I’m the architect of that big shiny box.”
At that particular moment the big, shiny, mirrored façade of the Halstrom Marquis was full of lovely blue autumn sky and a few crisp white clouds. Libby loved it more every time she looked at it, she thought.
“It’s stunning,” she said. “You did a truly spectacular job.