you call ‘plans’—” she waved at the papers he had spread out on the reception desk “—you clearly do not.”
The smile/sneer completely vanished, replaced by an angry scowl. “I intended to show these to your father before you cornered me,” he accused her. “And if you think I’m just going to stand here and be insulted—”
“No,” she informed him sweetly. “What I think is that you and your oversize ego should be getting ready to leave now. I’m really hoping I’m right about that.”
There was neither patience nor friendliness in her voice. Those had become casualties in the last volley of words. It never ceased to amaze her how her father could see the good in everyone, including someone who was so obviously a con artist. Her father definitely belonged in a gentler, kinder era. Possibly the era that had seen the original construction of the building they were presently living in and running as an inn.
Her father also seemed to be preoccupied lately. Something was bothering him, which would account for why he’d agreed to contract this renovator without a more detailed quote and then approve his renovation plans after the fact. That meant it was up to her to make sure the contractor was reined in—or, in this case, sent packing.
She saw it as her job to protect her father. The way she had from the moment her mother had died.
His chunky legs spread wide apart, Clarke took a stance that fairly shouted, “I’m not going anywhere.” His words reinforced his body language.
“I take my orders from your father,” the contractor said haughtily, as if that was going to make her instantly retreat.
The smile that curved Alex’s mouth had no humor behind it. “That might be true. However, I’m the one who writes all the checks, Mr. Clarke. You want to get paid, you either agree to work with me—and I do not approve of this particular set of renovation plans—or you take your ‘helpers’—you can’t miss them, they’re the ones who have been doing an incredible imitation of ‘still life’ around the inn for the past week and a half—and your scribbled cartoons, and leave. Now.” Her smile, no more genuine than Clarke’s, returned. “The choice is yours.”
J. D. Clarke scowled at the tall, willowy blonde with the viper tongue, clearly weighing his options.
She could almost read his thoughts. She was the owner’s daughter, but she didn’t exactly pose a physical threat to him. For a moment, Alex suspected he might actually try to physically confront her. She almost welcomed the idea. Then she’d show him precisely what kind of physical threat she could prove to be. Bring it on, guy!
Before he could take a step, however, Dorothy came into the reception area. Alex saw the older woman at the same time the contractor did. Their head housekeeper was staring straight at the man and Dorothy didn’t look any friendlier than she must’ve. Dorothy, with her gray hair pulled back, could appear rather formidable when she wanted to. And she had the unquestioning loyalty of a German shepherd to the Roman family, even though, when it came to animals, she resembled a Saint Bernard a lot more than she did a German shepherd. A rather large Saint Bernard.
Her very body language announced just whose side, sight unseen, she was taking.
“Is there a problem, Miss Alex?” she asked, her deep gray eyes fixed on Clarke. She made no attempt to hide her contempt. Time and again, thought Alex, she had demonstrated she had no use for people who didn’t show the proper respect for her family.
She shook her head. “No, no problem, Dorothy. Right, Mr. Clarke?” she asked pointedly, sparing the man a quick glance.
“Right.” The contractor bit off and spat out the word as if it had been dipped in sardine oil that had gone bad months ago.
Muttering under his breath about having to deal with crazy women, Clarke collected his papers that illustrated the new—and pricey—“vision” he had for the inn, tucked them under his arm and marched toward the front door.
“I’m still sending you a bill,” he declared, tossing the words over his shoulder as he paused for a beat at the threshold to the inn.
“And I’ll be sure to look it over closely,” Alex informed him amiably.
“Your father should have had sons,” Clarke said as if he was uttering a curse. With that, he stomped out of the building.
He certainly wanted them, Alex couldn’t help thinking. Her expression remained unchanged, giving no hint to her thoughts or that the disgruntled contractor had managed, through sheer dumb luck, to hit her exactly where she lived. It was a sore spot for her.
Dorothy took a step forward, her shoulders tensed, braced. Everything about her declared that she intended to make the man literally eat his words or cough up a serious apology. But Alex put a hand out to stop the woman before Dorothy could go after the contractor.
Instead she shook her head at Dorothy and raised her voice to call after the departing man, “I’ll pass that along to him, Mr. Clarke. I’m sure my father will give your comment all the attention it deserves.”
Now out of sight, they could hear Clarke gathering his team as he stormed off.
Dorothy turned and studied her. The woman had watched her grow from a gangly, awkward preteen into the poised, self-confident young adult she hoped people saw her as now.... She sure worked hard enough to convey that image.
“Why did you stop me?” she asked. Alex knew that she and her three younger sisters were like daughters to Dorothy, who had no family to call her own. And since their mother’s death, they were even more glad to have Dorothy in their lives. “I just wanted five minutes alone with him.”
Alex laughed, shaking her head. She knew the offer came from the woman’s very large heart, but it was still better not to allow that sort of one-on-one “meeting” to take place.
“That’s four and a half minutes more than he could have handled, Dorothy,” Alex told her with a wink.
Though polite, Dorothy was clearly angry. “He had no right to talk to you like that. He deserved to be put in his place,” she said with feeling.
Alex flashed a smile at the older woman. This time there was absolutely nothing forced about it. Dorothy was one of the good ones. Like her father. “I appreciate you standing by me.”
Dorothy laughed softly, shrugging off the thanks. “Not that you needed it. You fight your own battles well enough. You always have.” Seemingly without realizing it, as she spoke she fisted her hands at her sides. “It’s just that seeing him trying to put you down made me so angry—that fool isn’t good enough to lick your boots.” Dorothy glanced down at her feet. “Or high heels, as the case might be. So he’s gone for good, right?” she asked, just to be certain that there was no need for her to hang around.
“Right,” Alex confirmed. “Seems Clarke had a totally different vision for where the inn should be going than what was established by the family years ago.”
Ladera-by-the-Sea Inn had begun as a modest little five-bedroom home, converted into an inn as an attempt by Ruth Roman, the original owner, to keep a roof over her children’s heads after her husband was brought down by a stray bullet fired during a heated dispute between two other men.
Over the years, as different generations came to helm the inn, more rooms were added. Slowly, more rooms turned into wings, then modest guest houses until the inn seemed to become its own miniature village, but always with a single, distinguished Victorian motif. A motif that Clarke was obviously determined to change, turning the inn into a hodgepodge of old and modern, that would have resembled nothing specific and been part fish, part fowl and all very off-putting.
Clarke had seen it as making a statement. And who knows? Maybe he might even have convinced her father, who didn’t have a strong sense of design. That would have been criminal. Of course, Alex would have been able to convince her dad of that. In her emotional reaction to seeing Clarke’s plans first, she’d just skipped that step.
As