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 forgotten why he’d come to this derelict hellhole in the first place.
He sighed and supposed he ought to check on her 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
