Читать книгу A Princess for Christmas - Shirley Jump - Страница 8

JAKE LATTIMORE peered down the boardwalk of Harborside, Massachusetts, and knew he didn’t see the same thing the other people did. The brightly waving flags on the masts of the few covered boats wintered in the marina didn’t beckon to him. The shop windows hawking T-shirts and sunglasses didn’t attract his attention. The cafes and coffee shops, their doors swinging open and shut as people drifted in and out, sending tantalizing scented snippets of their menus into the air didn’t call to his appetite.

No, what Jake saw wasn’t even there. Yet.

Condos. A hotel. Maybe even an amusement park, and down the beach, Jet Ski rentals, parasailing stations.

By this summer, if at all possible, so profits could start rolling in immediately.

In other words, a vacation mecca, one that would expand his—and that of his financial backers—portfolio, and take this sleepy little town up several notches.

He glanced again at the boardwalk, at the festive holiday decorations. The notes of a Christmas song carried on the air as someone walked out of the stained-glass shop across the street. The melody struck a memory in Jake’s heart, followed by a sharp pang.

A long time ago, this kind of place, this kind of setting, would have had him rushing in to buy a gift. Humming along with the song. Thinking—

Well, he didn’t think that anymore.

He got back to business. That was the only place heartache couldn’t take root. Jake returned his attention to the facts and figures in his head, dismissing the sentimental images around him.

He’d done his research, ran his numbers, and knew without a doubt, Harborside was the perfect location for the next Lattimore Resort. Located along the Eastern seaboard, beneath Boston and above New York, away from the already congested areas of Cape Cod and Martha’s Vineyard, the tiny town had been tucked away all this time, hardly noticed by tourists, just waiting for someone like him to come along and see its potential.

This was his specialty—find hidden treasures and turn them into profit machines.

This town would be no different. He’d find each shop owner’s price, and pay it. Everyone, Jake had found, had a price.

He wouldn’t let a little thing like dollars and cents get in the way of adding this resort to the Lattimore Properties empire. Not with so much on the line.

If he didn’t land this deal, and went back to New York empty-handed, he knew what would happen. The whispers would start again. People saying he’d only been promoted to CEO because he was the Lattimore heir. Not because he had the chops to handle a project of this scope.

His father had handed him a challenge, sent him to prove he could achieve the goal on his own, and Jake had no intentions of doing anything but exactly that. He’d worked side by side with Lawrence Lattimore for five years, learning the business from the ground up. In the last year or two, though, his father had begun to lose his magic touch. Lawrence’s decision making had become less sound, and the Lattimore Properties balance sheet showed the signs of his uneven hand.

The board began talking forced retirement, so his father had put Jake in charge and given him one directive:

Pull off a miracle.

When Jake returned to NewYork triumphant, with the Harborside jewel in his back pocket, no one could say the junior Lattimore wasn’t up to the task of helming the multimillion dollar corporation. Lattimore Properties would once again be on the way to being the powerful company it had once been, and the downward slide that had begun under the last two years of Lawrence’s tenure would be reversed.

“Who are you?”

He turned around and found the brunette from the art gallery standing behind him, fists propped on her hips, green eyes ablaze. She had a fiery demeanor about her, one that spoke of passion, in everything she did.

And that intrigued Jake. Very much.

“I told you. I’m an investor,” he said. “In towns like this one.”

Her lips pursed. “Let me save you some trouble. No one here is looking to sell their shops.”

He arched a brow. “And you know this because…?”

“Because I live here. And I’m the chair of the Community Development Committee. It is my job to know.”

He smirked. “And that makes you an expert on every resident?”

“It certainly gives me more insight than you.”

He loved her accent. Lilting, lyrical. Even when she argued with him, it sounded like a song.

“You think so?” he said, taking a step closer to her. When he did, he caught a whiff of the floral notes of her perfume. Sweet, light. Tantalizing. “I’ve seen hundreds of towns like Harborside. And met dozens of people like you, people who have this romanticized vision of their town.”

“How dare—”

“What they don’t realize is that underneath all that coziness,” he went on, “is a struggling seaport town that depends on one season of the year, maybe two, for all its financial needs. How much money do you think the people here make off the tourists who visit between the three months of summer and few weeks of Christmas? Enough to sustain every business and every resident for the other eight months of the year?”

She didn’t answer.

“You and I both know it isn’t.” He gestured toward the town, from one end of the boardwalk to the other. This town—and this woman—didn’t even realize what a boon a Lattimore resort would be. How it could bring twelve months of financial return. Every resident could benefit from a hotel like this, if they’d just imagine something different. “This place is quaint. Off the beaten path. And that’s half the problem. Without something to draw visitors in, and really keep them here year-round, you might as well hang up the Going Out of Business signs now.”

She glared at him. “We are doing fine.”

He arched a brow. He’d read the statistics on Harborside. Talked to several of the business owners. He knew the tax base, the annual business revenue of each of the cottage industries lining the boardwalk.

They needed a bigger draw for tourists to sustain them—they knew it, he knew it. The only one not facing reality was Mariabella Romano.

“We do not need you,” she insisted. “Or your coldhearted analysis of our town. Go find someplace else to expand your control of the world.”

“Sorry. I’m here to stay.”

The fist went back to her hip. She drew herself up, facing him down. Frustration colored her face. “Do not bother to unpack because you will not find anyone who will sell to you here. We all love Harborside just the way it is.”

This woman didn’t have any idea what she was up against. This was going to be fun. A challenge. Something Jake hadn’t had in a long time.

His pulse raced, and he found himself looking forward to the days ahead. To interacting with her especially. “I can be pretty persuasive, Miss Romano. We’ll see how you feel about holding onto that little gallery after you hear my arguments for selling.”

“And I can be terribly stubborn.” She flashed him a smile of her own, one that held a hundred watts of power, but not a trace of neighborly greeting. “And you will never persuade me to sell so much as a coloring page to you.”

Mariabella stood in her gallery and seethed. To think she’d found that man attractive!

No longer. He clearly had some kind of plans for Harborside and for that, she wouldn’t give him so much as a single line in her social notebook. Christmas was only a few days away, surely the man would have somewhere to go—some fool who wanted to spend time with him over the holiday—and he could leave, taking his “investment” ideas with him.

Her cell phone rang, the vibrations sending the slim device dancing across the countertop. Mariabella grabbed the phone, just before it waltzed itself right off the edge. “Hello?”

“Mia bella! How are you?” her mother asked in their native language, one that was close to the Italian spoken in the country bordering their own country of Uccelli. Their small little monarchy, almost forgotten in Europe, had its own flavor, a mix of the heritages surrounding it.

“Mama!” Immediately, Mariabella also slipped into her home language, the musical syllables falling from her tongue with ease. Mariabella settled onto the seat behind her and held the phone close, wishing she could do the same with her mother. “I’m fine. And you? Papa?”

“Ah, we are about the same as always. Some of us are getting older and more stubborn.”

Mariabella sighed. That meant nothing had changed at home. After all this time, Mariabella had hoped maybe her father had softened. Maybe he might begin to see his daughter’s need for independence, for a life away from the castle.

He never had. He’d predestined his firstborn’s path from the moment she’d been conceived, and never considered another option.

“But…” Her mother paused. “Your father is…”

The hesitation caused an alarm to ring in Mariabella’s heart. Her mother, a strong, tall, confident woman never hesitated. Never paused a moment for anything. She had sat steadfast by her husband’s side for forty years as he led Uccelli, weathering the roller coaster of changes that came with a monarchy. She’d done it without complaint. Without a moment of wavering from her commitment.

“Papa is what?”

“Having a little heart trouble. Nothing to worry about. We have the best doctors here, cara. You know that.”

The letter in her back pocket seemed to weigh ten times more than it had this morning. Her father’s demand that she return home immediately and take her rightful place in the family. She’d brushed it off when it had arrived, but maybe he’d sent the missive because his illness was worse than her mother was saying. Mariabella sent up a silent prayer for her father’s health. He’d always been so hearty, so indestructible. And now—

“Is he going to be all right?”

“He’ll be fine. Allegra has been wonderful about stepping in for him.”

Her middle sister. The one who had always enjoyed palace life. Of the three Santaro girls, Allegra was the one who loved the state dinners, the conversations with dignitaries, the museum openings and policy discussions. She had sat by their father’s side for more state business than any of the Santaro women—and for naught, because as the second-born, she was not first in line for the throne.

“I’m glad she’s there,” Mariabella said.

“I am, too. Your father misses you, of course, but he is happy to have Allegra with him. For now.” Unspoken words hung in her mother’s sentence.

Mariabella’s father had made it clear he expected his eldest to return and take her place as the heir to the throne. Allegra was merely a placeholder.

Her father had voiced his displeasure several times about Mariabella’s choice to leave the castle and pursue her dream of painting. At first, he’d talked of disowning her, until her mother had intervened. He’d relented, and given her a deadline. She’d been given a little over a year and a half—the time between college graduation and her twenty-fifth birthday, in February—and then she had to return.

Or—

Abdicate the crown and give up her family forever.

That was what her father had written. Choose the throne or be disowned. Mariabella hadn’t told her mother, and suspected neither had her father.

“Don’t worry,” her mother said. “It will all be fine.”

Easier said than done. She thought of her mother, and how worried Bianca Santaro must be about her husband. The miles between mother and daughter seemed to multiply. “I should come home. Be there for Christmas.”

“I wish you could, cara. I would like nothing more than to have my daughter with me for Christmas.” Her mother sighed, and Mariabella swore she could hear her mother begin to cry.

Half a world away, Mariabella’s heart broke, too. Christmas. Her favorite holiday, and Mama’s, too. The castle would already be decorated top to bottom with pine garlands and red bows. Christmas trees in every bedroom, set before every fireplace. None of them would top the giant tree, though, the twenty-five-foot beauty the palace’s landscaper searched far and wide to find, then set in the center hall.

Every year, her mother personally oversaw the decorating of that tree, draping it in gold ribbons and white angel ornaments. And every year, it had been Mariabella’s job to hang the last ornament on that tree. To be the one to pronounce it finished, and then to turn on the lights, washing the entire hall in a soft golden glow, sending a chorus of appreciation through the audience of onlookers brought in from the city.

But not this year. Or last year.

No, she had been here, instead. Leaving her mother to handle Christmas with her sisters. Who had lit the tree? Who had hung that last decoration?

“We will miss you,” her mother said softly, “but if you come back, you know what will happen.”

Mariabella let out a sigh. “Yes.”

She would be expected to step back into her role. To go back to being groomed and primped for a crown she neither wanted nor asked to be given.

Because her father would not be convinced to let her go a second time. She knew that, as well as she knew her own name.

“Stay where you are,” her mother said, as if reading her daughter’s mind. “I know what this time, as limited as it is, means to you.” Her mother’s gentle orders were firm.

“Mama—”

“Don’t argue with me, Bella. I sent you there. I know your father isn’t happy, but I will deal with him. You deserve a life outside of this…birdcage.”

That was, indeed, how Mariabella had come to think of life back home. A cage, a gilded one she could look out of, but not escape. People could stare inside, see her and judge her, but never really know her.

Then she’d come to Harborside and felt free, like a real person for the first time in her life.

“I’ll call you if anything changes,” her mother said, “but I have to say goodbye now. I’m late for a state dinner.” She sighed. “You know how the prime minister gets. He hates to sit next to the visiting dignitaries from other countries and make small talk. The man has no social graces.”

Mariabella laughed. She certainly didn’t miss that part of palace life at all. The stuffy meals, the endless dinner parties. “Have a good time. If you can.”

“Oh, I will. I seated the prime minister beside Carlita.” Her mother let out a little giggle.

“Mama!”

“Your little sister will talk his ear off about horses and dressage. The man may just fall asleep before the soup arrives.”

Mariabella laughed. Oh, how she missed some of those moments. The little fun they’d have behind the scenes, the laughter with her sisters, her mother. “I love you, Mama.”

Her mother paused, and Mariabella could hear the catch in her voice when Bianca Santaro spoke again. “I love you too, cara.”

They ended the call, and Mariabella closed her phone, but held tight to the cell for a long time, as if she could hold her parents in the small electronic device. For a moment, she was back there, in her mother’s bedroom, sitting on the chaise lounge, watching her mother get ready for a party. She saw Bianca brushing her hair, heard her humming a tune. Then she’d always turn and open her arms, welcoming her eldest daughter into her embrace. With Mama, there had always been time for a hug, a kiss, one more story before bed.

How she missed those days.

Even if she returned to Uccelli, those moments were gone forever. When her father stepped down, Mariabella was expected to fill the king’s shoes. Which meant every day of her life in the palace had been spent grooming her for the throne.

If she returned, she’d be stepping right back into the middle of the very expectations she’d run from.

Her role as future queen.

Mariabella sighed. As much as she missed her parents and her homeland, she couldn’t go back. Returning came at too steep a price.

Freedom.

Carmen came bursting through the door. Mariabella slipped her phone into her purse and with that movement, brought her mind back into work mode. She would dwell on the events across the world when she was alone.

“You will never believe what just happened when I was in Savannah’s shop.” Carmen slammed her hand on the counter in emphasis.

“An incredibly rude man offered to buy her place, yes?”

Carmen’s jaw dropped. “How’d you know?”

“He was here, a few minutes ago. And wanted my gallery, too.”

“The gallery, too?”

Mariabella nodded. “He wants the whole block. For some kind of ‘investment.’” She put air quotes and a hint of sarcasm around the last word.

“In Harborside.” Carmen said it as a statement, not a question. “That same cute guy we saw earlier.”

Mariabella nodded again. “He is not so cute close-up, you know. Not when he is trying to turn our town into some kind of circus for tourists.”

“Savannah tried to ask him questions, to find out what his plans are, but he didn’t tell her more than boo.” Carmen moved to the back of the counter and stuffed her purse underneath. “He’s a big mystery man. I still think he’s kind of cute, even if his plans might be diabolical. Or, maybe perfectly harmless. We’d have to find out more to know for sure.”

“Well, cuteness will not win me over. Or convince me to sell.”

Carmen shot her a grin. “You’d be surprised, Mariabella. Stronger women than you have been done in by blue eyes and a nice smile.”

Mariabella glanced out the window again at the town she had come to love, to think of as her home. “Not me. And if this man thinks I will fall apart that easily, he can think again.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then returned her attention to the catalog. “Because he has no idea who he is dealing with.”

Truly, he had no idea. And neither did anyone in this town.

When the door of the limo shut, the sights and sounds of Harborside dropped away, leaving Jake alone with his thoughts.

Never a place he wanted to be.

He pulled out his PDA and started reading e-mails, at the same time powering up his laptop and scrolling through the reports he’d downloaded earlier about the town. The back of his limo had been his mobile office for as long as he could remember. The automobile had a satellite connection, to give him a link to the Web whenever he needed it, and a small desk installed between the seats for his laptop. Some days, it seemed as if he spent more time in this car than he did at home. If one could call his apartment in New York a home at all.

The passenger’s side door opened and another man slid in. “Do you ever stop?”

Jake didn’t look up. “I thought you went to lunch.”

“I did. I’m done. Unlike you, I took a break from my job. I even made some friends.”

Jake stopped working to stare at William Mason, his best friend and chauffeur, who had loosened his tie, and looked as relaxed as an out-of-town uncle at Thanksgiving dinner. Today, Will was sporting a red tie featuring reindeer leaping across the front, a glaring contrast to the white dress shirt with green pinstripes.

No one would call Will conventional. More than once, people had asked Jake why he didn’t insist his chauffeur wear a more traditional dark suit and muted tie. Jake told them that if he wanted a conventional chauffeur, he would have hired one out of the phone book.

With Will, he’d gotten something no one else would have brought to the job—

Honesty. Loyalty. Friendship.

Three things Jake didn’t seem to have in abundance, not in the vicious world of Lattimore Properties.

Will grinned at Jake, waiting for an answer. His sandy brown hair had been mussed by the wind, his cheeks reddened. He looked like he’d had…fun.

“How could you make friends?” Jake asked. “We’ve been in this town less than an hour.”

“It doesn’t take days to say, ‘Hey, I’m Will, who are you?’”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.” He shrugged. “Well, maybe something close to that. It would do you good to do the same.”

Jake snorted. He could just see himself going into the local diner and introducing himself to a perfect stranger. Will had the affable personality to pull that off. He always had. Jake…well, Jake didn’t. “Why would I? I’m here to complete a business deal, not win a popularity contest.”

Will leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “Have you ever found it odd that your best friend is a chauffeur? That you spend the last few days before Christmas working obsessively, instead of cuddling by a fire with some hot woman? Which is where I would be, I might add, at home, with my wife, if you weren’t keeping me on the road, working more than Santa does. My wife, by the way, has learned to curse your name in three different languages because of the hours I work.”

“I pay you well enough.”

“Sometimes it’s about time, not money, Jake.” Will put his hands up before Jake could voice another objection. “I’m just saying, you might want to try the whole staying-home-with-a-girlfriend thing sometime.”

“One—” Jake put out a finger “—my best friend is my chauffeur because you have been my best friend since we were kids, and I wanted to hire someone I trusted to drive me around. Especially since I’m going to spend half the day with you. Two—” he put out another finger “—I don’t need more friends—”

“One friend is just so many you thought you might lose count after that?”

“And three—” Jake went on, putting out a third finger “—I’m not at home in front of a fire with a hot woman because I’m not dating anyone.”

“Exactly the problem. You’re going to be thirty this year, Jake. Don’t you ever wonder what life would be like if you had one?”

“Had one what?”

“A life. Outside of that.” Will waved at the PDA and laptop. “Inanimate objects aren’t the most affectionate beings on the planet, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Jake scowled and ignored Will. He’d had what Will was talking about once before—had even expected by this age to be going home to a wife, just as his best friend did at the end of the day.

But fate had another future in mind. And Jake wasn’t about to risk that kind of pain again. Once was enough.

“All I’m saying,” Will persisted, “is that it’s Christmas and it might be nice if you gave yourself a present this year.”

“No one buys themselves gifts on Christmas. Or at least they’re not supposed to.”

“I meant a present. A life outside of work. Someone to wake up to.” Will leaned forward and waited until Jake’s gaze met his. “You had that once. And it sure would be nice to see you that happy again. Real nice.” Will got out of the car and shut the door.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Jake muttered to the closed door. “That kind of happiness doesn’t happen twice.” And he went back to where he found peace.

In those inanimate objects that didn’t leave him. And didn’t die.