There was a collective gasp, then something thumped him in the chest, knocking the air from his lungs. He folded, clutching his ribs and hauling in oxygen to replenish what he’d lost. Once he’d recovered enough to straighten, he searched for whatever it was that had struck him.
A purple purse sat on his lap. Someone had thrown it at him with enough force to wind him. He rubbed his chest, wincing. Damn, these women were stronger than they appeared.
“Who did that?” No one so much as fidgeted in their seat. He held the purse up. “I’ll ask again. Who does this belong to?”
Betty snatched the purse from him and passed it to the woman on her other side, staring at him as though he were a rattlesnake. “Dear God,” she said, appalled. “First you say you want to tear down Sanctuary, then you hold poor Nell’s purse hostage. What sort of monster are you?”
“I wouldn’t have damaged anything,” he said in his own defense, not that any of them believed him. No matter. He knew the truth. He may be ruthless when the situation called for it, but he’d never harmed a senior citizen, and he wasn’t about to start now.
“You actually want to demolish our beautiful Sanctuary?” another lady asked, her lower lip quivering.
Sanctuary, he’d learned, was what Mrs. Hopa had named her partially renovated lodge. It was obscure and strange, in his opinion. Not at all a good marketing tactic. He kept his mouth shut, knowing it wouldn’t be wise to voice his thoughts.
“Not necessarily. The building could be relocated to another site, but we’d construct the new resort from scratch.”
“Move Sanctuary?” the bulldog demanded. “Just how do you expect anyone to do that?”
“It’s quite straightforward these days.” He ran a finger along the edge of his tie and adjusted his collar. The conversation was veering dangerously off topic. “I’d really prefer to speak to Katarina about this directly.”
Betty puffed up like an angry poodle. “There’s no need for you to bother her with your crazy plans. Darling Kat has enough on her plate, and luckily she has us to keep the likes of you away from her.”
He tried a different tack. “Let’s be reasonable. I can see that Sanctuary means a lot to you, but it must be a drain on Katarina’s resources. With the money she’d get from selling the property, she’d be able to start over elsewhere, and my company can help Haven Bay the way I’d like to.”
“Help us?” a plump lady with a silver buzz cut demanded. “How on earth would you be doing that? We’re overrun with tourists as it is. At least the ones we have are friendly. If you bring snobs into town, you’ll ruin what makes the bay special.”
Would he?
He dismissed the thought. Of course not. Things would change, but change meant progress, and progress was a good thing, even if it took people a while to realize it. Just look at what had happened with Eli’s development in Itirangi. Everybody had hated the idea at first, but now it was a stunning success.
“I think you’re being shortsight—ouch!” A heavy coin purse bounced off his shoulder onto the floor.
Betty scrambled to return it to the bulldog across the table before Sterling could get his hands on it. “Nice shot, Mavis,” she said, lobbing it back.
Sterling stood and kicked his stool away. He battled the urge to yell at them, or throw something. They were frail and more than twice his age—it wouldn’t be fair to retaliate. That didn’t stop his body from heating with frustration. He picked up his briefcase and gripped the handle tightly enough to cut into his palm. He couldn’t believe he’d driven all the way from Auckland only to be treated like scum by these abominable ladies.
“You’re all being incredibly rude,” he huffed, shoving his free hand in his pocket so he didn’t strangle someone with it. As the chief operating officer of a multi-million-dollar corporation, he didn’t have the luxury of wasting hours on fools’ errands. His heart sank at the thought of the mountain of work waiting back in his office, and his throat constricted. He closed his eyes until he’d regained his composure. “You should know better than to behave so poorly at your age.” Then he swung on his heel and made for the door.
Something hit him in the back. He stopped, and turned around ever so slowly, scanning the floor until his gaze fell on a pink purse.
“It’s impolite to mention a woman’s age!” one of the she-devils yelled.
He wanted to stomp the purse into the ground. To scoop up the remains and set fire to them. It would serve them right. But he prided himself on taking the high road, so he gritted his teeth, nudged the purse with his foot, and stomped out.
The old ladies had won this round, but he’d be back, and next time he wouldn’t be leaving without Katarina Hopa’s signature on a dotted line.