What the Millionaire Wants . . . (1 of 2 free samples)

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COPYRIGHT
What the Millionaire Wants . . . by Metsy Hingle. Copyright 2008 by Metsy Hingle.
All Rights Reserved. Sharing not permitted.

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WHAT THE MILLIONAIRE WANTS . . .

Metsy Hingle

For the City of New Orleans and its people who continue to inspire me


ONE

"I am not for sale, Mr. Hawke."

Jackson Hawke bit back a smile as he stared at the woman across the desk. "I'm not trying to buy you, Ms. Spencer. I'm merely offering to employ you."

"I already have a job," she informed him with the cool disdain of a true Southern belle. "I'm the general manager of the Contessa Hotel."

He had to give her points for moxie, Jack thought. He had expected any number of reactions to the news that he had acquired the defaulted bank loan on the small New Orleans hotel. He had made a career of taking over financially troubled companies, revamping them and turning the once-failing operations into profit centers. In each case, his presence was seldom welcome. More often than not his arrival was met with trepidation or anger, and in some cases both. He had expected no less from the owners of the Contessa Hotel. What he hadn't anticipated was defiance. And defiant was the only way to describe the woman seated across from him. Unfortunately for Ms. Laura Jordan Spencer, her defiance didn't change the fact that he now owned her family's hotel. "True. But given the circumstances, your position here could prove to be temporary," he countered.

"There is nothing temporary about my position here, Mr. Hawke," she advised him, a hint of temper coloring her voice. "My great grandfather built this hotel nearly a hundred years ago and it's been owned by the Jordan family ever since. I'm sorry if you were led to believe that we would consider selling the property. But I can assure you, the Contessa is not for sale."

"I have a receipt for fifteen million dollars that says otherwise," he told her.

"Which I'm sure the bank will refund you once I've straightened out this . . . this misunderstanding."

He leaned forward, met her gaze. "Take another look at those documents, Ms. Spencer," he said, motioning toward the packet of legal papers he'd presented her, which outlined his acquisition of the hotel via her mother's defaulted bank loan. "There is no misunderstanding. Hawke Industries now owns this hotel."

Anger flared in her green eyes. "I don't care what those papers say. I'm telling you there's been a mistake," she insisted and punched the button on the intercom. "Penny, try Mr. Benton at the bank again."

"You're wasting your time," he told her. He already knew from his meeting with the bank chairman the previous afternoon that the man had left town that morning.

"The only one wasting my time, Mr. Hawke, is you," she fired back.

While she waited for her assistant to place the call, Jack used the opportunity to study her more closely. He noted the almond-shaped eyes, the stubborn chin, the smooth skin and lush mouth. She wasn't classically beautiful or slap-you-in-the-face sexy. But there was something about her, a sensuality that simmered beneath the all-business exterior. Judging by the quelling look she shot him, his appraisal hadn't gone unnoticed. Nor had it been appreciated.

At the buzz of the intercom, she grabbed the phone. "Yes. I see," she said. "Thank you, Penny."

"Still not available, I take it," he remarked when she hung up the phone.

"He and his family have left for the Thanksgiving holiday. His office is trying to reach him. When they do, I'll get this mess straightened out."

"Talking with Benton isn't going to change the facts, Ms. Spencer. Your mother pledged this hotel as collateral on a loan and Hawke Industries purchased that note, along with several others, from the bank. Since your mother defaulted on that loan, the Contessa Hotel now belongs to Hawke Industries."

"I'm telling you, you're wrong," she insisted. "There is no way my mother would have ever pledged the Contessa."

Tiring of her refusal to accept the obvious, Jack snatched the stack of legal documents, pulled out the collateral mortgage note signed by her mother and slapped it in front of her. "Look at it," he commanded. "That's a promissory note signed by your mother, pledging her stock in the Contessa as guarantee on the loan. Are you going to deny that's her signature?"

Something flickered in her eyes as she stared at the damning document. For the first time since he'd arrived and introduced himself to her as the hotel's new owner, the lady looked uncertain. Just as quickly it was gone and the defiance was back. "I don't care what that says. Even if my mother had wanted to use the hotel as collateral for a loan, she couldn't have."

"And why is that?"

"Because my sister and I each own ten percent of the hotel's stock. And neither of us would ever consent to her using the hotel."

"She wouldn't have needed your consent--not to pledge her own stock. Which is exactly what she did," he pointed out.

"My mother would never do such a thing. Not without telling me first."

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