They might, just might, pull this off.
His mouth quirked. Her management style could use an overhaul. Her passion for what she did meant she came on a bit strong. But everyone, right down to the busboys and bartenders, respected her work ethic. Even Raymond Bernard, presently making his way across the lobby with Quinn, seemed to be catching the fever. He might even keep his job at this rate.
The pair pulled to a halt in front of him. Matteo studied the dark circles under Quinn’s eyes. She needed help. More than he could give her. She looked longingly at his beer. “Our sommelier’s flight was canceled. He’ll be here first thing in the morning instead.”
“So we come back then?”
“We have a big storm rolling in.” Raymond gestured toward the darkening sky. “I don’t advise you driving back to Paradis under those conditions, not on these roads.”
Quinn gave the sky an uncertain look. “It won’t be that bad, do you think?”
The manager lifted his shoulders. “It’s going to be a proper tropical storm. I wouldn’t chance it.”
Her brow furrowed. “Are they finished with the floors on any of the suites?”
“The Dolphin Suite, yes. I had them finish it in case you wanted to stay.”
“That’s it?”
He nodded. “Everything else is still being polished. That one has three bedrooms in it though.”
Quinn caught her lip between her teeth. Matteo could have saved them all the breath and suggested that, no, staying here in a suite with Quinn with the electricity that raged between them was a distinctly bad idea. However, even he, a lover of windy roads and tricky driving, didn’t relish the thought of traversing the narrow, hair-raising St. Lucian highways in a tropical downpour.
Quinn glanced at him. “Okay if we stay?”
“Of course.” He could make it through one night with a single wall between them. Couldn’t he? He’d managed to get through an entire week without putting his hands on her. Had kept things straight as a board between them. This was definitely doable.
“All right then, thank you,” Quinn accepted. “We’ll stay.”
They raided the hotel boutique for a change of clothes while Raymond got them a key. Quinn held up a tangerine-colored bikini. “I need a swim,” she said with a grimace. “Get yourself some trunks.”
He stared at the curtain of the changing room as it flapped shut behind her. Was she crazy? What planet was she on? Sharing a hotel suite was bad enough. Getting naked with her was insanity.
Not happening.
Except he was severely hot and tired. He needed to unwind from the pressure cooker that was Quinn, and a beer in the plunge pool or hot tub was an irresistible siren’s call. Mouth tightening, he grabbed a pair of trunks, an extra shirt and a pair of khakis. He could swim while she was working. God knew she did it 24/7.
Showered and changed into casual pants and a polo shirt, Matteo emerged from his bedroom into the main living area of the luxury oceanfront suite destined to house heads of state and rock stars, to find Quinn pacing the space, phone pressed to her ear, her gait agitated, voice sharp.
Not something he needed to be present for, he decided, walking out onto the terrace. He took in the forbiddingly dark sky, its ominous gray-black clouds that seemed to hang suspended over the island. Raymond had been right. It was going to be a proper tropical storm, hard and heavy, any minute now. There was nothing like an island rainstorm to relieve the tension and humidity in the air, and right now they both needed it. Badly.
He fought the urge to strip down and dive into the ocean and stay there. No swimming allowed until Quinn, in that sapphire-blue dress of hers, which made the most of her voluptuous figure, was safely immersed in work and the sweats he now knew she preferred to do it in.
Focus. Get the job done, Matteo.
Quinn’s voice floated out onto the terrace, hard, determined. “No, Warren, I do not need you to fly down here. It’s coming together.”
A pause. “You don’t trust me.”
Another pause. “I’m fine. Focus on the U.S. hotels. The reopening will go off without a hitch, I promise you.”
If everything fell into place. He winced as he thought about how much there was still left to do in five short days.
The rest of the conversation was short, abrupt. The ping-pong back-and-forth of two intensely driven, strong wills ended in a defiant silence. It was a good five minutes before Quinn joined him on the terrace, her green eyes glimmering with frustration, full mouth drooping with fatigue.
“Where is the wine?”
He poured her a glass of the sparkling white chilling in the ice bucket. “When,” he asked quietly, handing it to her, “are you going to admit you’re human like the rest of us?”