Читать книгу Building a Perfect Match - Arlene James, Arlene James - Страница 9

Chapter One

“Well, sis,” Asher Chatam said, smiling across his desk at Petra, “you’re bringing the old Vail Hotel back to life. How does it feel?”

“The Anderton Vail,” Garth Anderton, CEO of Anderton Hotels, corrected, passing a stack of papers to the man on his right.

Petra flashed a careful smile at her older brother, who, as the attorney for Bowen & Bowen Construction, had drawn up the contracts now being signed for the renovation of the historic hotel. Knowing well her reputation among the members of her own family, she silently prayed for success.

Lord, this is my chance to achieve something, to finally find my place in the world. Please help me pull this off.

At twenty-eight, Petra had flitted from one “career” to another, never quite finding her calling, her passion, while her siblings, high achievers all, had long ago settled into their chosen fields. Now, as Special Assistant to the CEO of Anderton Hotels, she finally had an opportunity to do something meaningful—right here in Buffalo Creek, Texas, the hometown of her parents, both physicians who resided in Waco, where she had grown up.

She had brought the Vail to the attention of Garth Anderton soon after going to work for his company. Garth, who had built the Anderton chain by renovating small, historic hotels in good locations into unique and profitable properties, had been skeptical at first, as Buffalo Creek lay nearly forty miles to the south of the downtown centers of both Dallas and Fort Worth. The value of the property, however, along with the cost-plus contract that Petra had negotiated with Bowen & Bowen, had convinced Anderton of the viability of the project.

Now, if Petra could just bring this off on budget and schedule, she stood to be named manager of the hotel. Then, Garth had promised, after a few months he would bring her on to the acquisitions team. She would be perfectly placed, and on a career trajectory at last, when he took the company international.

Yet so much could go wrong. Her business degree hadn’t exactly prepared her for overseeing the renovations of a historic hotel, let alone managing it. Plus, Garth himself presented something of a problem. Twice divorced, he had a reputation for dating and marrying his employees. Though he constantly cast out lures, Petra was determined not to bite. It meant walking a tightrope on the job, never taking up Garth on his more personal suggestions and constantly doing her best work.

Walton Bowen, the senior partner at the construction company, finished signing the papers and laid aside his ink pen. A big man with graying brown hair and smiling hazel eyes, he rose to his feet and shook hands all around before leaving the office. Petra and Garth followed a few moments later, strolling along the square to the southeast corner in the ninety-plus-degree heat. They crossed the street to the Vail and pushed through the bronze-and-glass doors.

Petra did not recall a time when the hotel had been operational. During her many visits to see her aunties in Buffalo Creek, the old hotel had stood silent and empty, the peach-colored marble columns and grand staircase rising in ghostly splendor behind the thick glass of its murky windows. As a child, Petra had often stood with her nose pressed to the glass, imagining those who had climbed the steps and moved through the lobby.

Though the major contracts had just been signed, work had already begun on the first phase of the project, which involved Garth’s personal quarters. The new construction had left the soaring lobby looking more like a war zone than a luxury hotel in the making, however. Dust coated everything in sight, from the dull but intricately carved registration desk to the gapped crystal chandeliers overhead.

Suddenly dismayed, Petra scrunched her toes inside her shoes. It didn’t help that her spectator pumps, which perfectly complemented her paper-white linen suit and black, sleeveless turtleneck, had turned out to be nothing more than attractive vises to torture her feet. Picking her way through the debris littering the marble floor, she wished mightily that she’d worn sensible flats.

“We’ve got quite a job cut out for us,” Garth Anderton decreed, nodding his frosty head.

“Still,” she said determinedly, “the beauty is here. Just look at that.” She pointed toward the scrolls beneath the pediment of the nearest column.

“Of course, it’s not real gold leaf,” Garth pronounced, tilting back to eye the rich metallic glow far overhead.

“Oh, but it is,” said a new voice. Firm and masculine, that voice carried the weight of knowledge.

Petra turned her dark amber gaze toward the sound, her blond ponytail swishing between her shoulder blades. The speaker stood in the doorway of one of the inner offices. Easily one of the best-looking men she’d ever seen, present company included, he stood at least an inch or two over six feet. Like Garth, he seemed exceptionally fit, but the tool belt slung about his slim hips proved that the muscles bulging in his upper chest and forearms came as the result of hard labor, while Garth’s slender physique was owed entirely to the workout routine designed by his personal trainer. Other differences stood out starkly.

Casually dressed in jeans, boots and a yellow T-shirt that brought out the vibrant green of his eyes, the stranger obviously depended less on packaging than Garth, who prided himself on his grooming and wardrobe. At thirty-nine, Garth appeared several years the elder, but his frosty blond hair had been cut and styled to reflect the latest trend, while the longer, gold-streaked bronze locks of the interloper appeared somewhat unkempt. Yet not even the shadow of a morning beard dimmed the impact of that wryly smiling face, with its deeply set eyes, and lean cheeks grooved with dimples. In short, Petra found this unfamiliar man disturbingly attractive—and to her horror, everyone seemed to know it!

Garth’s dark eyes narrowed behind the rectangular frames of glasses the exact shade of silvery gray as his summer-weight Italian suit. “I beg your pardon?” he intoned, his voice cold enough to leave icicles on the newcomer’s perfect nose.

“The gold leaf on the capitals,” said the other man easily, his vibrant green gaze on Petra as he walked across the floor to place a hand on one of the smooth columns. He smiled and nodded before addressing Garth again. “It’s real. Which is why it was scraped off the bases.”

Garth folded his arms, a sure sign of irritation, but then he quickly stepped forward to offer a perfectly manicured hand. “Garth Anderton, and you are?”

“Dale Bowen.”

So this was the other half of Bowen & Bowen Construction, Walton Bowen’s son. Petra silently thanked God that she hadn’t had to deal with him during the contract negotiations; her discussions with his father had been tense enough, and he did not set her on edge the way the younger Bowen did. Torn between fleeing for cover and basking in that openly interested green gaze, she just stood there staring mutely. When he clapped palms with Garth and switched his attention there, she felt a spurt of relief.

The two men measured each other with blunt, level looks. Finally, Garth put on his easy, gleaming white smile, the one meant to disarm.

He knew as well as she did that Dale Bowen was a partner in the construction firm to which they were now legally bound, but he had to try to take the guy down a peg by saying, “You must be the project manager.”

“I am,” Bowen said, sounding amused.

Petra cleared her throat in warning to Garth. Clearly, here was one “construction type,” as Garth would say, who wouldn’t be easily intimidated. Garth took the throat clearing as a bid for introduction and waved her forward with a frown.

“My Special Assistant, Petra.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Bowen said, and once again she felt the full impact of that green gaze. He shook her hand, his own much larger one emanating bone-melting heat. The man was human lava. Garth, by comparison, always managed to be as cool as a cucumber. Petra suddenly wanted to cuddle up to Bowen. Instead, she yanked her hand back.

“Well, Dale,” Garth said, purposefully using the other man’s given name, “I’m sure you agree that we should consider a less costly alternative to real gold leaf.” He looked up at the gold gleaming far overhead, and so missed the shake of Dale Bowen’s head. “How difficult will it be to match the color?”

“Not very,” Bowen answered, “but it doesn’t matter. Use anything other than original materials anytime they’re available and the BCHS will be all over you.”

Garth settled a frown on the other man. “BCHS?”

“That would be the Buffalo Creek Historical Society,” Petra volunteered.

“It would,” Bowen confirmed, smiling at her before switching his gaze back to her boss. “I’ve worked hand-in-hand with them for years, and I’m warning you now. Use the wrong materials or methods such as pre-hung doors, and they’ll go to the state to shut you down.”

“But the security of our guests—”

“Won’t be compromised in the least if we reuse the original doors,” Bowen interrupted.

“What about cost?” Garth demanded.

“Probably about the same. The real issue is the time it’ll take to strip and refinish.”

“Time, as I’m sure you know,” Garth growled, “is money.”

Bowen looked him in the eye, his sculpted mouth curving in a tight smile. Petra noticed that the square tip of his chin flattened when he smiled. Her own somewhat pointed chin had a tiny cleft in it, a Chatam family trait, and it tended to disappear when she smiled.

“Trust me,” he said, “reusing the original hardwood doors will take less time and money than fighting the BCHS.”

“We’ll see about that,” Garth muttered. Turning to Petra, he ordered, “Do a cost analysis.”

“Yes, sir.” She nodded, carefully avoiding Bowen’s gaze.

“I want to see my private apartment now,” he barked at Bowen. With that, he headed for the staircase. Petra trailed after him on her aching feet.

Behind them, Bowen asked dryly, “Wouldn’t you prefer to use the elevator?”

Garth stopped so suddenly that Petra bumped into him from behind. Turning on his heel, he glared at the construction manager over the top of her head. “Fine.”

Petra closed her eyes in relief. The thought of climbing five flights of stairs to the roof in these shoes made her want to weep. Garth didn’t seem as pleased. Grasping her by the elbow, he grimly marched her toward the elevator tucked into a corner at the end of the reception area. Dale Bowen fell in beside her as they drew up in front of the outer doors of the elevator. Constructed of glass inlaid with bronze, the doors showed the polished wood interior of the waiting elevator car. Bowen pushed a button and the glass doors slid open. The trio walked into the elevator and turned to face the front. Dale took a key from his pocket and inserted it into a lock in the control panel. When he turned it, the doors slid closed.

“You can take them off now,” he said as the elevator slowly lifted away from the ground floor.

“What?” Garth snapped.

Bowen ignored him, dropping his leaf-green gaze on Petra instead. “You can take off your shoes now,” he said gently. “The floors in the penthouse are clean.”

“Oh.” Surprised, she looked down at her feet. “How did you…” She broke off, wincing with embarrassment. And she’d thought no one had noticed. Garth certainly hadn’t!

“My mom and sister like pretty shoes, too,” Bowen told her with a knowing smile. “They call them ‘cruel shoes’ because they can’t resist buying them even though they hurt when they wear them.”

Garth finally realized what Dale Bowen had obviously surmised with a glance. Not to be outdone, he slipped an arm about Petra’s shoulders. “By all means,” he cooed solicitously, “take off your shoes if they’re uncomfortable.”

The intimacy of his tone and gesture heightened Petra’s embarrassment. Quickly stepping out of the shoes, she stooped to pick them up by the heels. Thankfully, the elevator came to a stop just then, and the door slid open.

“Well, well,” Garth said, sounding pleasantly surprised.

“This way,” Bowen directed, lifting a hand and sliding past Petra to push open the tall, carved doors that stood across a narrow length of gleaming wood floor.

Petra gasped as she stepped into the private apartment. Twelve-foot-high ceilings radiated with hidden lights, augmenting the sunshine that spilled through the broad windows set deeply into the paneled walls. French doors in one end of the living area overlooked an enclosed patio. Black granite and steel appliances accented the small, well-appointed kitchen, separated by a bar from the greater room. The two bedrooms, each with a private bath, opened off a short hallway.

As was his practice with every hotel added to the Anderton chain, Garth had contracted the apartment separately and given his personal decorator, Dexter, control of this portion of the overall project. Dexter had done well.

“Excellent,” Garth said, brushing back the sides of his suit coat with both hands. “At least the historical society didn’t hold up things on this end.”

“This falls under the heading of new construction,” Bowen pointed out.

“Excellent,” Garth said again, looking around. “Quality work.”

“And on budget,” Bowen added. The sound of a revving engine had him reaching for his pocket, from which he pulled a cell phone. “Excuse me.” Crossing the room, he tapped the tiny screen and lifted the phone to his ear. “This is Dale.”

Petra turned away, affording him as much privacy as possible, and found Garth watching her. He stepped close enough to lightly brush a hand down her arm.

“Pretty nice, huh?”

“Lovely,” she agreed, shifting away.

“And roomy,” he went on, adding softly. “You know, staying here would be much more convenient for you than that old family mausoleum across town.”

Petra kept a smile firmly in place as she whispered, “Chatam House is blocks, not miles, away and my aunts would be offended if I didn’t stay with them.” Triplets in their seventies, the sisters held some old-fashioned but laudable ideas about hospitality and family.

“Just tell them you need to be on-site,” Garth pressed.

“If I stay anywhere else,” Petra insisted quietly, “their feelings will be hurt. Besides, Chatam House isn’t a mausoleum. It’s quite grand, actually.”

Garth narrowed his eyes. “I’d like to see that for myself.”

“I’ll have my aunts issue an invitation when it’s convenient,” she returned lightly. “You understand, of course, that it’s a busy time for them just now.”

Her Aunt Odelia was getting married after more than seventy years of maidenhood—to the same man she’d jilted fifty years earlier! Petra’s brother, Asher, had also married last month, and two family weddings in so short a space of time had had the house in an uproar for weeks. The former gardener, Garrett Willows, had recently married, too, so of course the aunties had insisted on hosting a small reception for him and his bride. No, this was not an optimal time to introduce a new face into the mix, and Petra could only be glad of that. She was having enough difficulty keeping this relationship on a business footing as it was.

Bowen returned. “Sorry. I’ve been trying to track down—” He broke off. “Never mind. Another job. Now then, if you’ve finished here, we need to stop on the third floor to take a look at a problem with the railings there.”

“What problem?” Garth asked, frowning.

“They’re gone,” Bowen reported. “Whole sections of them. And none of my suppliers can find anything like them. We’re probably looking at having them replicated.”

Garth threw up his hands and charged for the door. “I don’t suppose we could just replace them with something similar?”

“We’re not going to find anything similar,” Bowen called out to him, following. He stopped and held the door open for Petra, who hurried through on her bare feet. He winked, as if to say that the boss was having a bad day.

Petra had the sinking feeling that it was only going to get worse, and she proved entirely correct.

The two men disagreed on everything from the depth of the carpet pile to the placement of light switches. Petra thought Garth would pop a blood vessel when it came to the issue of closets, of all things. The Vail didn’t have any, and Dale doubted that the historical society would approve of having them built.

Garth finally turned on his heel and stormed off. Petra shot Dale Bowen an apologetic glance before hurrying after Garth in her killer shoes. This project was becoming more complicated by the moment, and she couldn’t help worrying.

Please, Lord, she prayed, please help me work it all out. For once, Lord, help me get it right!

* * *

Bam! The pickup truck rocked as Dale slammed the door. He took a firm grip on the steering wheel with both hands and closed his eyes, calming himself.

Okay, Lord, he thought, it’s obvious this job isn’t going to be easy.

“Man,” he added aloud, “that guy rubs me the wrong way!”

Sucking air in through his nose, Dale blew it out again through his mouth. An image of Special Assistant Petra popped up in his mind. Average height with a truly lovely face, she had captured his interest instantly. Unfortunately, she was obviously very “special” to Garth Anderton, even though he had to be forty if he was a day, and she couldn’t be older than her mid-twenties.

Not that it’s any of my business, Dale admitted silently, frowning.

Business. He’d somehow forgotten the importance of this job as soon as he’d laid eyes on the woman, which wasn’t like him at all, especially considering that business had been slow these past couple of years and the doctor had told his dad to take it easy. Sitting back in his seat, Dale closed his eyes again and began to pray.

Lord, You know that we need this job. This one job could let Dad step back, maybe even retire, so please give me what it takes to see it through. Amen.

Feeling better, Dale started up his white, double-cab truck and eased it out of the alley and onto the street flanking the downtown square with its turn-of-the-century, pink granite courthouse and circa 1930s storefronts. A few blocks later, he turned right onto Chatam Avenue then made a sharp left.

He’d been guiding his truck through the black wrought iron gate and up the easy slope in the circular drive to the big antebellum mansion—built in 1860—on the hill for weeks now. Soon after Odelia Chatam and Kent Monroe, both in their seventies, had gotten engaged, the Chatam sisters had hired him to reconfigure several rooms into a suite for the newlyweds. Dale had been pleased to take on the job, but with the three sisters’ insistence that he not work before nine in the morning or after five in the afternoon, the project had been slow going.

Still, the Chatam sisters were generous Christian women. His buddy Garrett Willows had worked as their gardener after he’d gotten out of prison, and the sisters had allowed Dale to take time away from the Chatam House renovation in order to help Garrett and his new wife open a florist shop and plant nursery in Kent Monroe’s old Victorian house. Then they’d helped Garrett get a much-deserved pardon.

Pulling the truck through the porte cochere at the west side of the mansion, Dale parked it out of sight, then gathered his tools and let himself into the back hall through the yellow door. As was his custom, he stopped by the kitchen to elbow open the swinging door and let the cook know he was on the premises.

“Hilda, I’m here.”

“Well, that makes two of us, sugar,” she quipped, turning from the sink. As wide as she was tall, with lank, straight hair cropped just below her chin, she winked at him. “I’ll let the misses know.”

“Thanks.”

Backing out of the doorway, he continued down the hall to the end, only to turn right into another that flanked the massive marble-and-mahogany staircase, which anchored the foyer at the front of the house. Dale always looked up when he started the climb. He dearly loved the painted ceiling with its ruffled clouds and white feathers against a sunny blue backdrop. No one could tell him who the artist had been, but he’d certainly been a genius.

The grand staircase, with its yellow marble steps and ornately carved mahogany banister, was an architectural wonder that few could appreciate more than the skilled carpenter who crossed the landing and went to work opening a new doorway into the unfinished suite.

Dale managed the chore with a minimum of noise and mess, while wolfing down his lunch, answering numerous phone calls from other jobs and, if he were to be honest, thinking about the blonde whom he’d left back at the hotel. He couldn’t help wondering about her. She hadn’t worn a ring, so he assumed she was single, but that didn’t mean she was unattached. Anderton had made his interest in her clear enough.

That didn’t mean they were involved, though.

Neither did it mean that Dale ought to get involved with her himself. He wanted an old-fashioned Christian girl, like his mom, a homemaker who valued family above all else. All he knew about Petra was that he was attracted to her. Maybe he’d get a chance to know her better, and maybe he wouldn’t. That was up to God.

Dale nailed the header in place with just enough time remaining in the workday to clean up the site before heading home. He pulled out his phone to call home and let everyone know that he was on his way. With his attention on his phone, he wandered out onto the broad landing toward the stairwell, only to bump into someone coming from the other direction.

“Sorry!”

Looking up, Dale meant to reply to the surprised female voice with an apology for not watching where he was going—and nearly dropped his phone, along with his jaw.

Petra stood on the top step in her bare feet, one slender hand on the curled end of the banister, the other holding her black-and-white shoes by the heels. Her sleek ponytail lay across one shoulder.

For a moment, Dale thought he’d conjured her up from his imagination, but then he backed up a step and watched recognition overtake her. Shock swiftly followed.

He knew just how she felt, especially when she smiled.