“No deal.”
Nick Townsend kept his gaze on the man sitting across from him as he said the words. He’d learned a man could grow mean when denied.
Behind his distinctive Huon pine desk, Clyde McDowell nodded slowly and surveyed the room like he was taking stock. Before this discussion started, the old man spent quite a long time talking about Tasmania’s finest wood for furniture. After that, he’d proceeded to cover every piece of wood in this entire office. Nick now knew more than he ever wanted to about Huon pine, and the Silver Wattle double doors behind him leading into the conference room, and the myrtle sideboard Clyde used for his liquor stash. He’d kept his impatience in check because he figured the man was trying to give him a sense of what he stood to gain when he signed on the dotted line.
Something that wasn’t going to happen.
A low hum came from the man behind the desk. Then, he smiled.
That was unexpected.
Nick’s fingers twitched on his leg and his instincts went on alert. He’d known this man for more than a year, and they’d been dancing around each other for six months. He figured there’d be disappointment in those faded eyes. Hell, he was disappointed himself. The deal he’d dreamed of and been excited about was one he didn’t want to let go of, either.
However, McDowell’s last condition was unacceptable.
“I thought you’d say that.” The old man’s smile went wide, creasing slack jowls.
This smile made his instincts go from watchful to wary. He straightened in the alligator-leather chair its owner had crowed about before Nick sat on it. “Did you?”
“Yes.” Clyde smoothed a gnarled hand across the contract they’d been negotiating. “No man wants to contemplate getting tied down.”
He didn’t think of marriage in the context of getting tied down. He thought about it more as descending into the pit of hell. When he climbed into his private plane to make this long journey to the other side of the planet, he’d wondered why Clyde wanted to discuss their final plans in Tasmania, of all places. Now that he’d been shown around the oldest of the McDowell hotels, and heard the history of this man finding his bride here, it made some kind of weird sense. A new family tradition, or a new way of cementing the future. But that didn’t matter anymore, because he wasn’t buying into that future.
There really wasn’t anything more to say.
Standing, he brushed his hands over his cream slacks before glancing at the man one last time. “I’m sorry we couldn’t come to an agreement. I was looking forward to combining your hotels with my casinos.”
“Oh, that will still happen.” Clyde’s smile didn’t budge. “I’m sure of it.”
“Are you?” Wariness turned to annoyance. He didn’t mind pride or arrogance in a man. Why would he, when he had both characteristics himself?
But the old man’s smile grated, and it was time he left before his ever-present temper appeared.
Swiveling, he headed for the elaborately-carved teak door leading into the hallway. Clyde had told him he imported it from an island near the Philippines. Didn’t the man know gathering one exotic wood after another in the same room led only to disastrous interior design?
He managed to stop himself from shaking his head.
He also curbed the regret he would no longer be taking a figurative broom to this man’s holdings. “I’ll see myself out.”
“I bought your father’s ranch.”
The words, gruff and gravelly, took Nick in their grasp and tightened. Clenched and compressed. His every muscle went taut. “What?”
“You heard me.”
Yanking around, he stared at the wily old man.
As long as he’d known Clyde, never once had he caught him in a lie. It was one of the things he appreciated about the founder and CEO of McDowell Enterprises. One of many things he appreciated. He liked the man’s keen intelligence and wit. He enjoyed his insights about the current markets, and his take on what the future of the hospitality industry would entail. When the proposal to merge their companies had come up in casual conversation, he immediately grasped where this man was going because another talent this man possessed was a straightforward way of looking at life. Or death, in this case.
Clyde McDowell was dying.
And he was looking for an heir.
Since his own father had sliced apart any of his ideas of being a worthy successor, Nick hadn’t minded the idea that this successful man—far wealthier than Edward Townsend—would choose him. He also hadn’t minded the thought of taking over a giant, world-wide company badly in need of new leadership. Not until today, though, did he understand what lay beneath Clyde’s final resolution of his life.
Not until today did he understand the old man’s final parlay.
McDowell hadn’t actually lied to him about this last condition, not to any great extent. Yet, he hadn’t laid out all his cards like a good businessman would if he were dealing fairly.
The thought flashed inside him and his temper reared to life. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I know you.” Clyde’s smile hung on. “You’re exactly like I was forty years ago.”
“Not exactly.” He sneered. “I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth.”
“Weren’t you?” Gray brows rose. “When I met with your father at the ranch, it appeared there was plenty of money greasing the gears.”
True. There was cattle and oil and gas, and a hundred and fifty years of Townsend thriftiness stored in the local bank. But he hadn’t grown up with any of that. He’d grown up a hoodlum and a thief. Even after he’d arrived at Ádh Ranch at the age of fourteen, he hadn’t been trusted with anything of importance.
You’re crazy, just like your mother.
Shaking off the memory of his father’s constant refrain, he focused on the old man still sitting patiently behind his desk. “You said my father sold you the ranch?”
“Correct.”
Impossible. Edward Townsend lived and breathed the place. He honored the family heritage, revered his ancestors, who’d fought for every acre. He would never let go of one inch of that hallowed homeland, even if he had only one worthless son to inherit. Throughout all these years they stayed apart, the Townsend father and son had understood one thing, if nothing else.
Townsend land was always passed down to a Townsend.
The surety of that unspoken pledge settled him. “You must be mistaken—”
“Your father was concerned about the ranch being broken up.” Clyde’s smile finally faded into a grimace. “He was worried about what you’d do to the place after he died.”
A rip of pain, swift and sure, went through him like the slice of a knife. He’d been in many knife fights as a kid, and had his share of slices. But this one cut into his heart and made it hard for him to breathe.
“So,” the old man continued, his gaze sharp and wise. “I told him about my daughter and my plans.”
Plans to tie Nick down.
Plans that would take him straight to hell.
“I also pledged to him the homestead would stay as is, and it would stay in the family. I put it in the contract we signed.”
A family consisting of a Townsend and a McDowell. A family two old men had schemed to produce. A family he had no intention of being a part of. “There’s going to be no family.”
“Come on.” For the first time during the meeting, Clyde displayed a slice of his formidable personality. His hand hit the desk with a crack. “Don’t be a fool. You know the stakes at this point. Do I really have to spell it out?”
No, he didn’t. If Nick wanted to keep Ádh Ranch, he needed to marry the McDowell daughter. A woman he’d never met and only heard about peripherally, as some vague presence hovering in the background of this old man’s life. A woman who apparently needed her father to arrange a union because she couldn’t get one on her own.
There must be something wrong with her. She must be crazy, or ugly.
Or both.
He hadn’t done crazy since he buried his mother, and he’d never done ugly at all. “I’m not interested.”
“Not interested in that ranch of yours?” The old man’s tone turned sly.
“It’s my father’s and he can do whatever the hell he wants with the place.” Except, that wasn’t true. The ranch might be his pa’s in the present, yet it was his for the future. He’d known that when he walked away from the place at the age of eighteen. Walked away before he took an axe to his father’s stubborn head. He’d known eventually, Ádh would be his.
His heritage. His honor. His home.
Somehow, Clyde McDowell found this out—this vital piece of himself he’d kept well-hid for years. Certainly not from talking to his pa, however. Edward had no inkling of how important the ranch was to him, because Nick hadn’t wanted to give his father any more ammunition than he already possessed. Somehow, though, this old man before him had figured out his Achilles’ heel.
The realization heated his temper into a rage. “I’ll give you twice what you paid for it.”
The tense line of the old man’s shoulders eased and immediately, Nick understood he’d made a huge strategic mistake. He rarely made mistakes anymore, and never huge ones. He’d learned and learned well.
Estoy jodido.
Sí, he was truly fucked.
“I think we should begin planning that wedding of yours, huh?” Clyde smiled one more time.
* * *
Jessica McDowell lived for parties.
But not in the sense one usually thought of. She didn’t yearn to put on heels and swing from the chandeliers. She had no interest in party dresses and being seen with the best of the best. And it took her years of concentrated devotion to the McDowell business to train herself to endure the crowds perpetually encircling her and her father.
No, she lived for parties in the sense that this was her role in life. To throw parties and be the hostess. To be her father’s surrogate and sidekick.
“Jessica,” her father grumbled. “Don’t hover.”
Drawing back, she stifled the immediate hurt and smiled down at him. “I was only making sure you had what you needed.”
Clyde sat in the leather chair he invariably landed in when they held a party in the McDowell crown jewel—Denver’s Golden Palace. He’d only returned from his quick trip to Tasmania last night, but even so, he insisted on attending this party she arranged a month ago. The Golden Palace hosted this charity ball in October without fail, and the owner needed to attend, her father stated.
Tonight would be no different.
There was McDowell history and prestige to uphold, of course.
The hotel sat in the center of the city, a magnet for rock stars and presidents for the last hundred years. Her father bought the place when Jessica was ten. They’d lived here for a month before decamping for her father’s next purchase. If she remembered correctly, it had been the hotel in southern France.
“I have what I need, and Carlos can get anything I want going forward.” Clyde waved at the swirling crowd of tuxedoed men and silk-covered women surrounding them. “Go mingle.”
The two words she’d dreaded for most of her life. Except somewhere between earning her MBA and finding her feet in the McDowell organization, Jess learned to deal with those words. “Fine. I’ll be back in a few.”
She moved off, her pale-gray silk gown swishing on her legs. The color suited her desire to not draw attention. The dress itself suited her by covering most of her gangly body. Before she let herself dip into the familiar yearning for jeans and a T-shirt, she focused.
On her hotel.
The massive ballroom’s arched ceiling glittered with gold-and-glass chandeliers, a signature ornamentation she helped her dad pick out when they renovated seven years ago. The inlaid Italian marble floors threw the light back, making the giant room seem to glow. If she tried, she could almost ignore the crack running down one cream wall, and the way the uniforms of the waiters weren’t up to snuff.
Her hands balled into fists.
The frustration swelled.
Her father was dying. There was nothing she could do about that, although she still fought against the knowledge. Fought against the well of deep despair. However, her home, the McDowell hotels, was crumbling. And there was for damn sure something she could do about that.
If only her dad would let her.
“Jess.” The hotel’s catering director stepped to her side. “There’s trouble in the kitchen.”
Along with mingling, she’d acquired other skills. Like pacifying temperamental chefs and negotiating peace between maids and managers. She’d learned to smooth over her father’s tirades at their lawyers, finesse issues with various governmental agencies, thread a needle through competing concerns.
She’d done it in France, in Thailand, in every McDowell hotel strewn across the world.
Why couldn’t her father see this? Why couldn’t he acknowledge she’d been doing most of the behind-the-scenes work for at least two years? Why wouldn’t he name her the heir and give her the power? There were so many changes and improvements needed, but nothing significant was being done. Not for years.
“Jess?”
Pulling herself together, she gave the catering director her confident smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll fix it.”
Which had become her mantra. It was the only thing she was allowed to do. Fix things. Not change them or improve them. No, all her dad would let her do was keep things status quo.
Barely.
She’d believed him, at first. Believed he was merely tired and needed to recharge. It still hurt to know he’d withheld the knowledge of his real situation.
Not until six months ago, did she realize.
“You’re…dying?” She’d clung to the windowsill looking out on Hyde Park.
They were staying at the McDowell London hotel for a month, and the only thing her father told her was he had some tests scheduled with specialists he could only find in England.
“Yes.” He’d squinted at her before glancing away, as always. He’d long ago given up trying to find any of her mother’s beauty in her and yet, the glance away still bit her. Hurt her. “I’ve got maybe a year to live.”
“A year?” She needed to lean against the window for support.
As long as she’d lived, Clyde McDowell was the center of her life. She hadn’t been the type of girl to wrap a daddy around her pinky finger, or the type of young lady to impress a father who believed women should be beautiful ornaments in a man’s life. Rather, she’d been the type to slide into her bed with a good book and hide along the walls at parties. She’d been the type to voice her opinions even in the face of his wrath. She’d been the type to ignore makeup and fancy shoes and couture dresses.
She’d been a disappointment.
She also knew he loved her.
“Yes, but don’t worry.” He’d stood in a slow, shaky movement. “I have your future planned.”
That statement jerked her straight. “What do you mean?”
“You’ll be taken care of.”
She closed her eyes against the reality of a wall she’d never been able to break through. Still, she had to try again. “Dad. How many times do I—”
“I’m your father.” Lurching toward his desk, he laid a trembling hand on the edge. “It’s my job to take care of you.”
“I’m twenty-nine. I don’t need to be taken care of anymore.”
“I promised your mother I’d take care of you,” he said in a soft, tough voice. “I promised.”
Jess walked to his side to stare into his narrowed eyes. “That was when I was a baby, Dad. I’m not a child anymore. Can’t you see?”
Except he couldn’t see. Not seven years ago, when she graduated from Yale summa cum laude. Not five years ago, when she graduated at the top of her Harvard MBA class. Not now, when he knew there was no one else to take over the McDowell hotels who loved them as much as he did.
Sighing, she focused on tonight’s emergency.
By the time she solved the troubles in the kitchen, her head had begun to pound from the frustration and the returning fear. The fear that started to simmer in her during these last few months, as she realized her father might well sell the hotels out from under her to some huge conglomerate. A faceless group of investors who wouldn’t care if Chef Philipe had the correct spices for a dish, and wouldn’t worry whether Cecily the concierge was pregnant or not.
Didn’t her father see?
The McDowell hotels were her home, the staff the family she’d grown up with.
How could he possibly think a pile of millions of dollars would compensate her for the loss of family and home? The loss of her reason to exist?
Standing at the entrance door of the ballroom, she scanned the crowd and was satisfied at what she saw. Clyde McDowell sat in his high-backed chair, surrounded by a crowd. Jess heard his hoarse laugh and watched as Carlos, his constant companion since being hired for the role several months ago, handed him a glass of water.
Her dad was all right. For the moment.
She decided she’d take a few minutes to gather herself. Frustration and fear weren’t emotions she should be dealing with while she served as the gracious hostess her father required.
Backing away, she strode down the hallway and onto the small balcony the staff used to smoke and chat. To her relief, it was empty. The balcony led off past another hallway, winding back to the ballroom. When her father first demanded she serve as his hostess, she’d spent several nights coming here, time and time again, ready to vomit over the anxiety.
That girl and her worries seemed far distant.
Now, she was a woman struggling to find a way to prove herself.
She took in a breath of crisp October air and lectured herself. There was still time. Her dad loved her. These hotels were hers. She only needed a moment, a speck of time, to reach her father. Tell him her truth. Convince him.
“Hello.” A deep, masculine voice came from the open doorway.
Whipping around, she eyed the male lurking in the shadows. The night was dark with not a touch of moonlight, and the city lights were dulled by the darkness of the alley below and the looming walls of the hotel above. Only the dim bulb shining behind him hinted at his bulk.
Yet, she knew instantly. This wasn’t one of the staff, and wasn’t anyone she knew.
“May I join you?” He took a step closer and the door swung shut behind him.
Jess shifted into the corner of the balcony.
The man stilled.
She’d been under her dad’s protection her entire life. He had security surrounding her from the day she was born, and she’d never stepped out of a McDowell hotel without an escort. Even at college, she was forced to endure the taunts of her classmates because her father wouldn’t budge.
“Jessica,” he’d said with a snap. “You’re the only daughter of one of the richest men in the world.”
“But, Dad—”
“I don’t intend to lose any of my wealth ransoming you back from a kidnapper.”
“I won’t be—”
“And it would kill me if you were raped or mugged.” He’d stared at her hard. Something he only did when he was really focusing in on her. Just her. “Don’t put me through that.”
There had been love in his voice, and that didn’t happen often, so she went silent and hadn’t complained since. Not even when McDowell security vetted the two boyfriends she dated in her twenties.
Consequently, she’d never been in a situation where she was alone with a strange man.
A thrill of something that wasn’t dismay ran up her spine.
“Don’t be afraid.” The masculine voice went husky as if he were cajoling a frightened kitten. “I won’t hurt you.”
“I know.” Straightening, she remembered who she was. A strong woman. She’d taken a martial arts class last year, and if she had to, she could scream, and her entire staff would come running.
“Good.” He took a step closer and the movement of his body, even in the gloom, caught her attention.
He moved with fluid grace, like a dancer, like an acrobat. After flying across the world a time or two and landing in city after city filled with theaters and amusements, Jess had attended hundreds of shows celebrating the human body in all its sinuous glory. This man moved like he was on stage. He commanded the area around him with a vital, virile force.
Her fingers tightened on the steel railing and she raised her chin. “Who are you?”
“Nick.” The name came out with a flick at the end, as if he dismissed himself.
Which was absurd. Even in these few short seconds, she could see this man was powerful. “Nick who? And how did you find your way back into the employee area?”
“I took a walk down a hall, because I needed to get away from the crowd for awhile.” Stepping to the rail, he leaned his elbows on it and peered at the alley below. His scent drifted to her. It wasn’t like any men’s cologne she’d ever smelled. It hinted of spicy, hot nights with a warm, rich undertone, beckoning a woman to come closer.
She stayed where she was. “This isn’t a place for hotel guests.”
“I’m not a hotel guest.” He kept his gaze straight, not glancing at her. “I’m something else.”
Just then, a flash of car headlights struck his face, highlighting his profile.
Jess sucked in a deep breath.
