Love on the Rocks (9 page)

He smiled up at her, but his eyes were hard. Granite grey. Unforgiving.

‘There’s a bell.’ Hannah pointed it out, determined to stand her ground. ‘I would have heard it.’

Bruno waved a dismissive hand.

‘Don’t worry about it. I want you to phone everyone who’s unfortunate enough to have booked in here. Tell them there’s going to be building work going on over the next few months and that some of the facilities might not be available. Give them the chance to cancel, but if they still want to come tell them they can’t complain about the noise and the mess because they’ve been warned. If they really kick up, offer them a discount.’ His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. ‘Twenty per cent. No more. And anyone else who books, tell them the same.’

He strode out from behind the desk. Hannah was still staring at him in disbelief. She knew he was the hotel owner. She’d seen him once or twice before – and let’s be honest, once you’d seen Bruno Thorne, you didn’t forget him in a hurry. Even in a polo shirt and jeans, he had presence. There’d been a rumour in the staffroom that he was back – the staff were all jumpy. And it seemed they were right to be nervous.

‘What’s happening then, exactly?’ Hannah wasn’t one to beat around the bush.

‘Let’s just say the honeymoon is over.’

He gave a ghost of a smile, looked her cursorily up and down, then turned on his heel and walked back through the reception area, through the revolving door and out on to the steps that afforded him a panoramic view of the bay. He breathed in the salty tang, felt the ozone hit his lungs and immediately felt exhilarated. God, he loved it here. Whenever he had so much as a glimpse of the wild, craggy rocks, contrasting with the softness of the sand, with the sea either crashing or lapping, depending on its mood, he wondered why he’d ever left. The place was stunning. What had he been doing, stuck in the city, penned in by traffic and pollution and people? Why had he ever gone away? This was where he belonged.

He looked out across the water, as if seeking a sign that what he was about to do wasn’t utter madness. On the other side of the bay, tucked on the edge of a far cliff, he saw the outline of The Rocks. For a moment he tensed as he remembered his earlier conversation with the estate agent, but then he relaxed. Perhaps it was a good thing that he hadn’t won the bid. He was going to need all the money he could get his hands on, if he was going to turn this place round.

He marched back inside, along the corridor, past the dining room and the kitchens, which smelt of over-boiled soup, then ran lightly down the back staircase that led to the laundry area that doubled as a staffroom. He pushed open the swing door to find seven startled faces staring up at him. Three chambermaids, two waiters and the kitchen porter were sitting round a baize-topped table, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes and looking in awe at Hannah, who had wasted no time in running down to deliver the latest bombshell. In the background, industrial tumble-dryers whirred.

‘Cigarettes out, now. If I catch you smoking again in here, you’re fired,’ Bruno snapped, sweeping an open packet off the table and crushing it in one hand.

‘Hey!’ One of the waiters dared to protest, leaping to his feet, ignoring a warning glance from one of the chambermaids. ‘You can’t do that.’

‘I think I can,’ replied Bruno mildly. ‘Who wants their sheets smelling of stale tobacco? Where’s Caragh?’

‘Um . . .’

There was a panicky exchange of complicit glances. Bruno raised an eyebrow, looking from one to another. One of the chambermaids looked down at her fingernails in confusion, obviously not wanting to split. Bruno analysed her. She was a pretty little thing. She didn’t look much older than fourteen. He peered at her name badge.

‘Molly?’ he asked gently.

The girl blushed, self-conscious at being picked out.

‘Sorry. I don’t know. I saw her first thing, but . . .’

She trailed off. Bruno, secretly admiring her loyalty, turned his gaze to Hannah.

‘Hannah?’

Hannah glanced momentarily at her colleagues, then squared her shoulders.

‘It’s her coffee break.’ She straightened her cuffs before looking up defiantly. ‘So you’ll probably find her in one of the Tower Suites.’

Raising an eyebrow, Bruno nodded his thanks, pulled a pass key off one of the hooks and was gone as quickly as he’d arrived. The others turned on Hannah.

‘What did you go and tell on Caragh for? She’ll go ballistic!’ exclaimed Molly.

Hannah bit her lip, slightly worried about the consequences now she had let the cat out of the bag.

‘Because it’s about time somebody knew. She can’t get away with the way she behaves for ever. And he ought to know . . .’

‘Who was that bloke, anyway?’ Ed, the young kitchen porter, pink with acne and confusion, was flummoxed by the exchange.

One of the waiters looked at him witheringly.

‘Keep up, Ed. That’s Bruno Thorne. He owns this place. And the chip shop. And the arcade. And the caravan park.’

‘Oh. Roight.’

‘Looks like he’s on the warpath. I don’t fancy Caragh’s chances if he catches her with her pants down.’

Hannah looked pleased. Ed looked worried.

‘Shall I phone up to the suite and warn her?’

Hannah leaned forward.

‘You do that, Ed, and I’ll shut you in the walk-in freezer.’

Ed blanched – as much as a boy with chronic acne could blanch – while the others fell about laughing. Except Molly, who looked rather pale.

‘You OK?’ asked Hannah.

‘Yeah.’ Molly bent down to tie up her shoelace, letting her hair fall over her face so Hannah couldn’t see her confusion.

‘You don’t fancy him, do you?’ The other chambermaids were already preening themselves, slapping on lip gloss.

‘Course not.’ Molly stood up straight and pushed back her shoulders. ‘He’s way too old.’

‘Who cares, if he’s rich? And he’s well fit.’

Across the room, Hannah looked in the mirror on the back of the door and sighed. She was an ungainly girl, with a large nose and small eyes rather too close together, giving her a sly, untrustworthy look, although she was actually perfectly honest. In fact, she had a reputation for plain speaking – you didn’t ask Hannah if your bum looked big if you couldn’t cope with the truth.

‘He’d never look at me, would he?’ she sighed. ‘It’s no good. I’ll have to try and get some overtime. I’m never going to save enough at this rate.’

Molly put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

‘I think you’re crazy, Hannah. You don’t want to go having plastic surgery. It might not look right. Anyway, it’s personality that counts.’

‘Oh yeah. That would be why Frank’s shagging Caragh. Because she’s got such a great personality. Not because of her looks.’

Hannah sounded bitter. Molly bit her lip. It was true. Caragh was gorgeous, and an utter cow, whilst Hannah had a heart of gold underneath her bumptious exterior. But the truth of it was, life wasn’t fair. If anyone knew that, it was Molly.

There were two Tower Suites, east and west, one at each end of the hotel. The laundry trolley was outside the second. Bruno took out his pass key, unlocked the door and walked straight in. He didn’t bat an eyelid as Caragh, skirt round her waist and stockings round her ankles, squealed and wriggled out from underneath Frank, the head chef.

‘Haven’t you heard of knocking?’

Bruno ignored her. Instead he tossed her a set of keys.

‘I want you to open up my house. I want it cleaned from top to bottom. Fresh linen on all the beds. Towels, toiletries, light bulbs – everything double-checked and replenished. And the fridge and the freezer filled. I’ll get you a list. And I want somebody to come in every day from now on to clean.’

Frank was fumbling, pulling up his trousers and tucking his shirt in. As Bruno turned to walk back out of the room he pointed a finger at him.

‘And you’re fired.’

‘What?’ Frank looked at him in outrage. ‘You can’t do that!’

‘I just did.’

‘I’ll take you to an industrial tribunal.’

‘See you there. As far as I’m concerned, having sex on my time on my premises is a sackable offence.’

Moments later the door clicked shut. Bruno was gone. Frank looked close to tears.

‘He can’t sack me, can he, Caragh?’

‘He can do what he likes. He’s the boss.’ Caragh had an overwhelming sense of self-preservation and no compassion whatsoever. She smoothed her skirt down over her hips and inspected her appearance in the mirror, patting her auburn bob into place, then picked up Bruno’s keys, suddenly the professional. Totally ignoring Frank’s mews of panic, she ran down to the reception area, where Hannah had installed herself back behind the desk.

‘I’ve got to go and open up your man’s house,’ she announced, jingling the keys Bruno had thrown at her. ‘Want to come and have a snoop?’

Hannah turned to face her, trying not to look guilty.

‘I don’t think I’d better. I’ve got to phone all the future bookings. Warn them about the noise.’

‘What noise? What’s going on?’

‘Sounds like we’re having a refurb.’

‘Nobody told me,’ said Caragh indignantly. ‘But then, why would they? I’m only the manager.’

‘Probably because you won’t be here.’

The deep voice behind her made Caragh whirl round. Bruno was standing there, gazing at her stonily.

‘Unless you stop gossiping and get on with the job. Here’s my grocery list.’ He handed her a list, handwritten in black capitals. ‘I want fresh flowers, too. No chrysanthemums, no carnations. And no yellow.’

Seconds later, he was gone.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Caragh. ‘He doesn’t take any prisoners, does he?’

‘He could tie me up any day of the week,’ sighed Hannah.

Caragh looked at her sharply for a moment, then looked down at the list she had been given. ‘Serrano ham. Ice cubes. Limes. San Pellegrino – what’s that?’

Hannah shrugged.

‘Haven’t a clue.’

‘Vine-ripened tomatoes. Fresh coffee – coarsely ground. Blueberries.’ She rolled her eyes in exasperation. ‘I’m not exactly going to get this lot around here, am I?’

‘You’ll have to go to the supermarket in Bamford.’

Caragh puffed herself up like an angry cobra.

‘I don’t think this is my job. I’m management. Not some skivvy. I’m going to tell him to shove his shopping list.’

‘I don’t mind doing it.’ Hannah stretched out her hand for the list, but Caragh suddenly thought better of it.

‘Actually, no. You’re right. It could be interesting.’

They both gazed outside, where they could see Bruno pacing up and down on the terrace, raking his hands through his black curls, talking into his phone. They both admired the broadness of his back, his athletic stride.

‘Has he got a wife? Or a girlfriend?’ asked Caragh casually.

‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen one. Or heard of one.’

‘Maybe he’s gay.’

The two of them surveyed his retreating figure, then looked at each other.

‘Nah,’ they chorused, grinning.

Later, Frank held court in the staffroom, complaining bitterly at his treatment. His jaw-length strawberry-blond hair looked the part when he was stripped to the waist with a surfboard under his arm, but at the moment the shock of the morning’s events had made his skin pale and his eyes pink.

‘What am I going to do if he really does sack me?’ Frank was filled with righteous indignation. ‘I’m not going to get another job round here, am I? Not without a reference, and he’s not going to give me a reference, is he?’

Hannah put her arm round him.

‘Listen, he can’t sack you just like that. Not without a written warning. And, anyway, if he sacks you he has to sack Caragh too. It would be sex discrimination if he didn’t.’

‘Sex discrimination,’ Frank echoed gloomily. ‘Maybe I should have had a bit of that before I shagged her.’

‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ answered Hannah briskly.

‘She’s just using me for my body.’

Hannah looked him up and down with hungry eyes and shuddered. She couldn’t bear the thought of the rapacious Caragh getting her claws into him.

‘Anyway, what are we all supposed to do while this place is being pulled apart?’ he demanded.

‘We’re still open for business,’ Hannah pointed out. ‘And there’s going to be staff training, apparently. And brainstorming sessions and stuff like that. All dedicated to putting the customer first.’

‘Blimey. There’s going to be big changes, then,’ said Frank in wonder. ‘I can’t remember the last time anyone gave a toss about what any of our customers wanted . . .’

Satisfied with his morning’s work, and mildly amused at the thought of the consternation he had caused inside the hotel – although he reminded himself that he must tell Frank that he was going to get a second chance – Bruno opened the boot of his Range Rover. Out trickled Hector, his Rhodesian Ridgeback, his sleek fur the colour of the golden sand, the ridge on his back that gave the breed its name bristling with the excitement of being released from his temporary jail.

‘Come on, boy.’

Hector shot joyously over the lawn towards the path he knew led to the beach, even though it had been several months since his last visit. Bruno followed after him. Hector was another reason why his decision to come back was a good one. It was madness having a big dog like that in London. Although Hector was better than a burglar alarm, and although Bruno paid a local girl to take him out for walks twice a day, then took him for a quick run in the park every night whatever the weather, Hector needed freedom.

Within a minute, they were on the beach. The tide was on its way in and a few intrepid surfers stood up to their chests in water, waiting for the waves to pick up, but apart from that there was no one to be seen. Bruno strode across the sands, enjoying the sensation as his calf muscles stretched themselves further than they were used to. By the time he reached the little path that led up the cliff to Higher Mariscombe, he was breathing heavily. Far more heavily than he would have liked. He determined to get up every morning and go for a run on the beach. By the end of two weeks he would be fit again. The extra few pounds he knew he was carrying, courtesy of Christmas and the dull weather of January and February that took the edge off one’s enthusiasm for anything involving exertion, would soon melt away.