‘You’re right,’ he agreed, standing to hold Margaret’s chair. ‘I’ve got a lot on my mind.’
Women had always been ornaments in the past, to be enjoyed and briefly admired. He had never thought of them as potential mothers to any children he might have. He’d never thought of having children, or settling down. Life had kicked that notion out of him. His best plan was to make Rosie Clifton an offer for her half of the island that she couldn’t possibly refuse.
She might refuse.
There was that possibility, he conceded now he’d met her. The figure he had in mind was substantial, but would she take it? She was an idealist with her own plans for the island. She knew his reputation for taking wasteland and transforming it into a site of unparalleled luxury, but to Rosie every inch of that island held magic and potential—and not for a six-star hotel.
‘Xavier...’
‘Yes, Margaret?’ He would trust this woman with his life. She was the only woman he would trust with his fortune. Margaret was his fifty-four-year-old financial director, an accountant with a steel-trap mind who could run circles around every bean counter he knew. It was thanks to Margaret that he could take time away from the business. As a judge of people she had no equal. What would Margaret make of Señorita Clifton? he wondered.
‘I knew the meeting might run over,’ she said as he held the door for her, ‘and so I took the liberty of ordering the chopper to be fuelled and ready for you. You can leave at once.’
Margaret’s second talent was for reading his mind. His mood lifted, and he smiled at her decadent English vowels. Years of drilling in a strict UK boarding school accounted for the precision of her accent, Margaret had once told him. He didn’t care. He’d forgive her anything. She was the one woman in his life who had never disappointed him. Nodding briefly, he smiled his thanks and then they both went their separate ways.
* * *
It was late afternoon. Rosie was sitting on the beach, staring out to sea as she dabbled her feet in the water. She kept telling herself she knew Don Xavier wouldn’t come.
She should be relieved he wasn’t coming. She wasn’t relieved. Part of her wanted to get their business over with as fast as she could, while another, far less worthy part of her just wanted to see him again. Her best guess was that he couldn’t admit—not even to himself—that the island still meant something to him, and so he had decided to stay away. She got that. She had difficulty with emotions, having hidden hers for years. She would have been laughed at when she lived at the orphanage if she had given away even a hint of her romantic dreams, but that had never stopped her dreaming. In fact, sometimes, she thought she was overburdened with dreams, but they had never turned her into a block of ice like Don Xavier.
Almost six o’clock! The day was flying away. It was time to go back to the house. The glaring light of a sultry Spanish afternoon was fast burning out to burnished gold. The sunset promised to be spectacular, which was the only thing holding her on the beach. The sky was an intense, almost metallic blue, while the first signs of dusk were appearing on the horizon in random drifts of fluffy pink clouds. The sea was so smooth it looked like a skating rink, as if the waves, having exerted themselves all day, couldn’t be bothered to crash on the shore, so they were creeping up it instead. She scrunched her toes in the wet sand, loving the sensation as she allowed the rhythmical sound of the waves to flitter across her eardrums. Even that wasn’t soothing. Her irritation about the missing guest was stronger. Don Xavier seemed to find it easy to walk away from things and she’d been looking forward to another verbal sparring match with him. They had to get together if they were going to sort out the future of the island, and they should do that as soon as possible. They had a duty to the islanders.
She had wanted a chance to make him understand how much she cared for the island, and how lucky she felt to have been given the chance to live here. Helping the islanders was just her way of thanking them for their kindness towards her. Her dream was to share the island one day with other young people who’d had no advantages in life. She guessed that would have to wait, as her tin
y pot of money would run out soon—
A sound distracted her. She couldn’t identify it at first. Then she realised it was the sound of rotor blades approaching fast. As she sprang to her feet a gleaming black craft appeared over the cliff at the far end of the bay. She remained motionless as it wheeled onto its side, at what appeared to her to be an impossibly acute angle.
She exhaled with relief when it levelled off to skim the surface of the sea, driving up spumes of water in glittering clouds. It kept on coming towards her, and only wheeled away at the very last minute. Rising rapidly, it banked steeply before turning inland. The pilot seemed to be flying on the edge of what was possible.
So it could only be one man, Rosie reasoned. Who else would take such risks with his life and company property?
And she shouldn’t be here on the beach daydreaming, but up at the house ready to greet him—or to hold him off!
To hell with greeting him! She should be up at the house to establish her right to call the hacienda home—the only home she’d ever known. More importantly, the hacienda had meant everything to Doña Anna, and no patronising, nose-in-the-air grandee was going to bulldoze it, to build yet another of his glitzy hotels. Kicking off her flip-flops, she began to run.
Rosie scrambled up the cliff path as if the hounds of hell were after her, and she didn’t stop until she reached the boundary to the property—a fence she hadn’t realised was quite so broken down. She picked her way carefully through the broken struts of a barrier that was supposed to divide a once beautiful formal garden from the glorious wilderness. As of now, it was all glorious wilderness, she saw with concern.
Imagining Don Xavier seeing the same thing made Rosie wince. She’d known things were bad, but not this bad. She’d meant to do something about the garden, but had no money to pay a gardener, and there was so much to do inside the house. Any spare time she had was spent researching grants and subsidies for the islanders, to help them get their plans for marketing their organic produce off the ground.
She glanced up to see the helicopter hovering over the hacienda. It looked like a giant black hand come to claim its rightful property. Its shadow was like an omen. Descending slowly from the sky, it looked like a malevolent locust as it settled on its widespread skids. It seemed to Rosie to be the clearest signal yet that she had no money, no power, no influence, while Don Xavier Del Rio had a cash register for a heart. What was going to happen to the island if she didn’t stand firm? Why had Doña Anna set them against each other like this? She couldn’t have expected them to work together. Don Xavier would never consider it. Doña Anna hadn’t been exactly noted for her willingness to compromise, and yet that was what she expected them to do.
So was she going to disappoint the woman who had given her a fresh chance in life?
Drawing a deep steadying breath, Rosie smoothed her hair and straightened her dress, ready for her second meeting with Don Xavier.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE KITCHEN DOOR was open so he walked straight in. It smelled clean, but looked shabby. He leaned over the pristine sink to see if the window really was in as much danger of falling out as he’d first thought. He heard a faint noise behind him—just a breath, a slight shift in the air. He turned and she was there.
His good intentions counted for nothing. His body responded instantly to the sight of Rosie Clifton, his groin tightening as blood ripped through his veins. She was so young, so innocent—and so not his type, but it seemed that no argument he could put up could take anything away from her appeal. The low-slanting sun was shining straight into her face. She looked like an angel waiting to fall, in shades of white and gold—and yellow? As she came deeper into the kitchen he took more notice of the dress. It was a hideous dress that must have hung unloved in a thrift shop for years, but on Señorita Clifton it served a very definite purpose, which was to cling to her shapely form with loving attention to detail.
‘Don Xavier,’ she exclaimed in a calm, clear voice, walking forward to greet him.
‘Señorita Clifton.’ His tone was cool.
‘Rosie, please,’ she insisted, forming the words with the kissable lips he hadn’t been able to get out of his mind.