Chapter 3 #3
She looks at me, her amusement like a slap across my face.
"Mr. Kensington," she says, one eyebrow arching dangerously high. "Mingling amongst the hoi polloi, I see, looking like you’re one of us.” Her eyes rake over me.
"When I met you last week, I thought you were an Adonis carved from marble, but now I see that you have feet of clay like the rest of us mortals.
" She shakes her head and strides toward the door, the sunlight catching subtle auburn highlights in her hair.
I lunge after her. "Ms. Sydney!" My voice tears from my throat.
She whips around, those topaz eyes burning into mine.
"If you must know," I growl, "I was surfing, which is why I look like this.
" I rake my fingers through my salt-crusted hair, furious at myself.
What the hell am I doing, standing in my own goddamn lobby half-naked in nothing but swim trunks and a shirt that clings to every muscle?
I never let anyone see me as anything but immaculate in Tom Ford or Brioni.
The humiliation scalds me from the inside out as Lilith Sydney's gaze lingers on me, seeing straight through to my core.
She dismisses my apology with a wave. "No need to worry.
It's just amusing to see you wandering through your hotel lobby half-dressed as if you own the place—which, of course, you do.
" Her gaze drifts momentarily to my damp t-shirt before meeting my eyes again.
"And that disheveled hair? Very Renaissance masterpiece meets California surf culture.
" She playfully fans herself. "Pardon me while I recover. "
I roll my eyes despite being unable to look away from her face. Something about this woman throws me off balance—she shows no fear, no intimidation, and speaks to me with a familiarity that should get her fired for mocking my appearance.
Words fail me, so I retreat into the hotel, waiting impatiently for my golf cart to take me to my suite.
Baroness Janssens has tickets to Madame Butterfly in San Francisco tonight—a critically acclaimed production of her favorite opera.
She's counting on me, and I won't disappoint her.
I'll personally ensure she boards our military-grade Chinook helicopter within the hour.
After the golf cart takes me to my suite, I storm into it, shower and dress in one of my immaculate Brioni suits, my hands still unsteady.
Damn, that woman bothers me. There's only one way to fix this.
Lilith Sydney has to be terminated—immediately.
I don't care if she somehow nailed every detail in that reading.
Lucky guess. Coincidence. Whatever. The fact remains: I can't have some tarot-flipping hippie getting under my skin like this.
Nobody messes with my equilibrium. Nobody.
I check my watch. The moment the Baroness's jet leaves our airspace, I'm telling Miranda to handle it.
I get the Baroness up in the air and then I get to Miranda’s office. She doesn't even look up from her laptop when I slam her office door open. "I want that tarot reader gone."
"I just hired her, Roman. She's under contract." She finally meets my gaze, unflinching. "If you want her gone, handle it yourself."
No one else in my empire would dare speak to me that way.
But Miranda's desk still has the coffee ring from when we stayed up all night eleven years ago, running numbers on napkins, wondering if my grandfather's loan would be enough to transform this crumbling property into something magnificent.
I'd paid him back within twelve months with interest.
Now my resorts dot coastlines from the French Riviera to Sao Palo Brazil, Sardinia to Crete to Lake Como, Italy to Dubai to Beijing to Auckland, New Zealand.
The flagship's guest list reads like a global Who's Who.
But Miranda remembers the twenty-two-year-old kid terrified of becoming the family failure.
She believed before anyone else did, which is why she's the only person whose "no" I accept.
“Fine,” I say. “Where is she now?”
“She's down at the beach cabana. Doing a tarot reading for Countess Vandermeer of the Netherlands. So, I suggest you wait—"
I cut her off with a wave of my hand. Wait?
When I want this woman gone from my resort immediately?
I storm toward the door. I won't barge in on royalty—I have some standards—but I'll be right outside that cabana platform when she finishes, ready to tell her to pack her crystals and disappear. Permanently.
I slip into the vestibule of the cabana, realizing Lilith is already deep into a reading.
“Countess Vandermeer,” Lilith says in that steady, soothing tone, and I can hear the Countess’s soft sobs.
Guilty as I feel for eavesdropping, I can’t tear myself away—I’m curious to see how Lilith handles nobility.
Part of me hopes she botches the tarot reading. It would reflect poorly on the resort, sure, but it would also hand me the perfect justification to terminate her contract.
The fact that I’m willing to sacrifice business optics just to be rid of her should tell me something.