Forgotten Father Page 11

  Mitchell went swiftly to the front desk in the main lobby. “Where can I find Ms. Carlyle?”

  The clerk’s head snapped up. “Mr. Riese! Yes, sir. Ms. Carlyle? Well, let’s see. Yes, I believe she’s up at the villa. At least, that’s where she was this morning.”

  “Thank you.”

  He should be grateful to her, Mitchell thought in disgust, as he stopped by his room to retrieve his overcoat. In the days since they’d shared his mangled birthday cake, he’d found his resolve weakening. Found himself questioning his course of action. Maybe he just needed to accept the situation with The Cedars and let his grandfather’s wishes stand.

  On the surface, she seemed to add to the place. The staff liked her and she’d made several good suggestions about the activities offered to the guests. Until now, she hadn’t made any attempts to alter the running of the place and, most interesting in his view, was the fact that Delanie hadn’t made any financial demands from her inheritance. No outlandish personal expenditures charged to the resort accounts. Not even a request for a salary to compensate the time she was spending here.

  Mitchell had found himself wondering about that. In his experience, avaricious women didn’t wait long to slide their hands into a wealthy man’s pockets. And this place was legally half hers.

  Yet, she hadn’t taken anything from it.

  That fact combined with the strange, tenuous connection he’d been feeling with her since she’d talked with him about her father’s death had left him reconsidering his goal. It didn’t seem possible, considering the circumstances, but could he have been wrong about Delanie Carlyle?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  For two days, he’d been wrestling with the dilemma of Delanie’s true nature. As he’d come to know her better, she didn’t seem anything like he’d expected. She exuded a warmth and seemingly-genuine concern for others that he’d never seen before in a woman bent only on monetary gain.

  Yet, here she was, half-owner of The Cedars by his grandfather’s decree. If she hadn’t been the old man’s mistress, why would he leave such a significant family property to her?

  As he walked towards the villa through the lightly falling snow, Mitchell thought about this new development. With his assessment of her hanging in the balance, Delanie’s high-handed behavior with the villa almost seemed like a gift to him.

  Golddigger, after all. Manipulative and devious. She knew he hadn’t given his approval for the villa project.

  He wondered if she assumed she’d get possession of the villa when she was through squandering the resort’s income on renovating the place. The palatial old stone house, situated as it was up the hill from the main building, would be a spectacular place for wild parties and living the high life.

  He’d be damned if he let her have the only real home he’d ever known.

  ******

  Half an hour later, cold and disgusted, Mitchell let himself in a side door of The Cedars’ main building. He’d walked up to the villa and found ample evidence of repairs in progress, but he hadn’t found Delanie.

  Stamping the wet snow off his feet, he left his coat in his room and headed back to the concierge desk. The damned woman’s car was still in the lot, so she had to be here somewhere.

  As he approached the main lobby, he heard James Martin’s voice raised in what sounded like a near-tearful protest.

  What the heck was the head chef doing in the lobby this near the dinner hour?

  “But you can’t close the kitchen!” James cried as Mitchell crossed the open area, skirting the clusters of comfortable armchairs.

  “I’m sorry,” said a man standing next to him, the clipboard he held and scribbled on seeming to indicate some official capacity. “I don’t have any choice.”

  “We have a very large, highly important wedding this weekend,” the chef protested. “It’s imperative that we serve.”

  “I still have to close you down,” the man said implacably. “No food in or out of that kitchen. No cooking on that stove.”

  Seeing Delanie entering the lobby from the opposite side, Mitchell checked, assessing which conflict needed the most immediate attention.

  “There are five hundred people expected here this weekend,” James said tearfully, “and the bride’s counting on us to feed them—“

  “Without that vent fan working, a fire could start,” the official said severely, “and threaten the safety of all five hundred of those people.”

  Obviously, the kitchen situation had to be addressed immediately. A celebrity wedding meant increased publicity and revenue. Chewing Delanie out could wait.

  As Mitchell changed his course, already trying to think who he knew in the health inspector’s office, he saw Delanie join the harassed chef and the man with the clipboard.

  Slowing his pace fractionally, Mitchell wondered what she thought she could do about this.

  “Good afternoon,” Delanie stretched out her hand, “I’m one of the owners. I understand we have a problem?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the inspector said, shaking her hand. “Six weeks ago, we cited you for an improperly functioning vent fan over the stove in the kitchen—“

  “We had the repairman out here,” James said, turning to Delanie. “He said we needed a special part because this model vent fan is the top of the line—“

  “As per our requirements,” the inspector interrupted officiously, “we returned to make sure the repairs were done and found the situation unchanged—“

  “The repairman said they sent the wrong part,” James protested tearfully. “He assured me that the fan’s in good condition, other than this one part. He said there’s no real likelihood of fire in the short period until the part arrives.”

  From halfway across the lobby, Mitchell watched the official’s face, reading complete immovability there. The man was determined to close them down, he thought, wondering how much it would cost to have food for five hundred airlifted in from the closest supplier.

  “Be that as it may,” the inspector said nastily, “I gave you time to repair the fan and it’s not repaired.”

  “But I keep telling you--,” James said indignantly.

  “James,” Delanie said, placing a hand on his arm. “I’m sure the inspector understands we’ve done everything possible to make the repairs.”

  The inspector didn’t look overly impressed at her vote of confidence, but he said nothing.

  “We have a hotel full of guests,” James reminded her, “plus this huge wedding! We can’t close the kitchen!”

  “We’ll manage something,” she said soothingly. Turning back to the inspector, she smiled. “What a tough job you have! People getting mad and yelling at you for trying to keep the public safe!”

  Mitchell watched cynically, wondering if she thought female charm alone would get them out of this situation.

  “Well, yes, it can be quite difficult,” the man said, thawing slightly. “We have regulations.”

  “Of course,” she said, both her voice and face serious. “And I’m glad you do. Otherwise, none of us could trust the food we didn’t prepare ourselves.”

  “That’s right. It’s a public service.”

  She smiled at him in approval. “Actually, I know about this vent fan. I ordered it installed over a year ago when we renovated the kitchen along with the rest of The Cedars.”

  “If it was installed just over a year ago,” the inspector said severely, “it should still be under warranty. Don’t let that repairman charge you!”

  “Yes,” Delanie agreed as if she appreciated his concern. “This particular model is top of the line, as vent fans go, and I’m sure that’s why they’re having difficulty getting the part. These fans normally have an excellent track record.”

  “I guess that would explain why the parts aren’t handy,” the inspector agreed, but he added in a autocratic tone, “Still, we can’t have you using the stove with no vent fan.”

  “Of course,” she agreed, her face thoughtful. “But you do see
our dilemma here?”

  “Yes,” he agreed, making no other comment.

  Delanie turned to James, who stood at her elbow, a disgustingly trustful expression on his face. “What is the wedding menu?”

  “Barbecued ribs,” he said, shrugging, “and squabs.”

  “Ribs, huh?” She looked at him meditatively before turning back to the inspector. “Would you let us keep the kitchen open if we didn’t use the stove?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” he said uneasily.

  James protested, “But Delanie—“

  She placed her hand soothingly on his shoulder, still addressing the inspector. “If we used the outdoor barbecue pits, there wouldn’t be a ventilation problem in the kitchen.”

  “Outdoors?” James looked scandalized. “We’ll freeze.”

  “It’ll work,” she insisted. “We’ll bundle up and cook outside while the guests are inside, nice and warm.”

  “You have to have a permit to cook outdoors,” the inspector protested. “This is New Hampshire, not the wilds of Wyoming.”

  “Naturally,” Delanie agreed. “We want to stay in compliance. Can you renew our permit to cook outdoors?”

  “I’m not the inspector who handles that,” he said, a tinge of satisfaction in his words. “I can put in a request for him to stop by sometime next week.”

  “Next week!” James shrieked.

  “We serve a large area,” the inspector informed him loftily. “You can’t expect us to be able to come immediately.”

  “I understand,” Delanie said with a warm smile that was at odds with the suddenly steely light in her eyes. “I’m sure they work you like slaves. I’ll just call your supervisor and explain the situation. Maybe he can help us sort this through.”

  “Well,” the man said, a sudden hint on anxiety on his face, “I’ve got a few moments. Maybe I could step outside now and just look over the cooking facilities. Tell you how it looks to me.”

  “Would you?” she asked, beaming. “How wonderful! Then we’ll be all ready when your supervisor sends someone else by.”

  She gestured toward the kitchen doors. “Right this way.”

  Struggling with conflicting emotions, Mitchell watched the three leave together.

  What an amazing woman.

  He knew without a doubt Delanie would have the inspector’s signature on an outdoor cooking permit before the man left the place. That, or the damned supervisor would come by on his way home and give them a permit. How did the woman do it?

  Watching her finesse the situation left him filled with admiration and anxiety.

  On the one hand, she’d saved The Cedars from a spectacular disaster. Botched weddings left a terrible reputation. Particularly one as big as the Goldman/”Kiener” wedding.

  Delanie had really pulled their tail out of the fire. But watching her delicately play that jerk of a health inspector made Mitchell uneasy inside.

  She’d done it frighteningly well. Smiled at the man with what appeared to be genuine warmth, appearing to see that he was the one in a dilemma, the one who had no choice but to close them down. Smiling and agreeing and all the while, she’d been maneuvering toward the goal. Manipulating the situation.

  How easy it seemed for her.

  She hadn’t done anything illegal or overtly dishonest, but she’d gotten what she wanted.

  That moron of an inspector hadn’t easily given way, but Mitchell knew by the look on the his face that, given the combination of Delanie’s charm and her delicate threat of involving his supervisor, he’d cave in and sign the outdoor permit. Hell, he might even offer to let them cook inside.

  And it was all due to Delanie and her smile. Delanie and her soothing voice. One dangerously sweet and wily woman.

  Just seeing her work her magic left Mitchell queasy inside. With a woman like her, how did a man know what to believe?

  ******

  Mitchell slammed the car door and waved as his driver circled around the front drive at The Cedars and headed down the valley road. His trip to New York had been necessary and, in addition, conveniently timed.

  He’d needed some time away from Delanie and The Cedars dilemma to think about what his best move was now. Time to think about her sweet generosity and the beautifully-manipulative job she’d done on the inspector.

  Having been called into the city on business almost immediately after her handling of the health inspection crisis, he hadn’t spoken to Delanie directly about the villa. But he hadn’t wanted to leave the situation completely up in the air, so he’d penned her a memo. Pushing aside his confusion about her true character, he expressed himself in the most precise, business-like tones. He’d simply pointed out that by going ahead with the renovation without his consent, she’d breached their verbal management agreement.

  To his mingled frustration and amusement, she’d faxed him a return memo to his office in New York. In it, she’d cheerfully acknowledged that getting forgiveness was easier than getting permission and, she wrote, he hadn’t actually ever said he was opposed to the villa renovation.

  Cheeky witch, he thought now. Waving to the desk clerk on duty, he made his way up to his room. He remembered specifically opposing the work on the villa from the first time it had been discussed as they sat having breakfast with his grandfather….

  Mitchell frowned.

  That conversation had taken place the morning after he’d first met her, after they’d made hot, soul-wrenching love the night before. During the weeks she couldn’t remember.

  Still, he thought, shaking himself free from the memory, she’d known the project hadn’t had his full approval and she’d done it anyway.

  Of course, he should have confronted her in person before he’d left for New York. Only, doing so then had seemed mean and small-minded when he remembered how magnificently she’d salvaged the Goldberg wedding. How considerately she’d acknowledged something as insignificant as a grown-up’s birthday.

  It wasn’t like he’d earned that. He hadn’t been very kind or encouraging to her through out the duration of their relationship.

  Hanging his overcoat in the closet, Mitchell struggled with the increasingly frequent sensation of being off kilter. From the time he’d graduated college and taken on the responsibilities of managing the industries he’d inherited, he’d always known his own mind.

  Hell, he’d known his own mind when he was ten years old when he’d made his first business deal trading baseball cards with another kid at school.

  Yet, here he was, completely at sea over a sexy redhead who, a year and a half before, had lain waste to his…hopes and left him only with fortitude of will. She’d done all that in one twenty-four hour period and then forgotten him completely.

  God, why couldn’t he forget her?

  ******

  An hour later, he once more trudged up the snow-dusted path toward the villa, his breath a frosty fog in front of him. Apparently, there’d been a problem at the house. The hard freeze of the night before had taken hold of the old house’s pipes and left them spraying water into an upstairs bath.

  Delanie was at the villa now, Ben Norton said, trying to get the leaks under-control and assess the water damage to the floors below.

  He’d thought about her while he was in New York. More than he should have, no doubt, and he couldn’t suppress the anticipation surging through him as he climbed the steps leading to the villa.

  How could one woman provoke so many emotions in him? He was a rational man, one who knew the costs of trusting passion-induced emotion. How important was one small birthday celebration, really? Yet, he found his heart pounding as he crossed the snow-encrusted lawn to the villa’s low front step.

  She was here. Right inside the house. An amazing woman full of contradictions. One who baffled, enraged and disarmed him. He couldn’t be sure if she were in truth a wanton who used her sexuality to bemuse an old man into leaving her a million-dollar property or if she was someone entirely different.

  He could
n’t think of who that might be.

  That she was unique seemed unquestionable. Multi-talented and intelligent. Beautiful enough to make him sweat in his dreams.

  He’d woken twice in the last week, knowing the images from his sleeping mind had held her laughing smile, her teasing voice.

  Walking now into the villa, he was conscious of an unacceptable confusion about Delanie Carlyle. Shaking it off, he looked around.

  The old house still held the furnishings he remembered as a child, he saw as he stepped through the front door. The Regency rosewood center table in the front foyer, the balloon-back chairs against the wall. Through the archway into the front drawing room, he spied the George III gilded secretaire his grandmother had found in Europe as a young bride.

  The place seemed to smell still of his grandmother’s faint perfume. Lavender. More a recollection than anything real, he still felt her presence here.

  But the place was shabby, the old-fashioned plumbing and kitchen had been inadequate when he was a boy.

  Turning, he left behind fond memories and climbed the stairs. Ben Norton had said the leak was in the bathroom off the blue bedroom, two doors down from the room he’d slept in as a child, he thought irrelevantly.

  “That’s it!” a worker’s thick voice called out. “That’s stopped it.”

  Traversing the Turkey-carpeted hallway to the last bedroom on the left, Mitchell heard Delanie’s voice.

  “No! We’re not ripping down the curtains to sop up the water,” she said, her words sharp. “I don’t care how old they are. Go get some rags and dry up the worst of the water. Then you can go home for the day.”

  A heavy-set workman scuttled out of the bedroom and went past him down the hall.

  Hearing the disgust in Delanie’s voice, Mitchell frowned, realizing he’d never actually seen her overtly frustrated or angry. Not even that day by the lake when he’d said some terrible things to her. She’d just looked at him with horrified, wounded eyes, absorbing his words rather than lashing back.