The Saint's Devilish Deal Read Free Page A

knew his plans would work. He would win Constance’s little contest.
    Maybe that would free Magdalena.
    Maybe it would save Esmerelda.
    *
    Esme topped the slight rise leading up to Casa Constance and stopped short. A gleaming Porsche sat across the paved walk leading to the front door, and her temper flared. The vehicle was a new model of Santiago’s first car. The car he had in Napa. The car that, had there been a backseat, she would have lost her virginity in. But since there was no backseat, she’d instead lost it beneath an arbor filled with grapevines. Her twenty-first birthday. Less than two months later she was out of a job, Santiago had disappeared, and his family had taken over the Napa vineyard.
    She wasn’t mad at the Porsche—it was a lovely little thing—it was the assumption that the driver was more important than arriving guests. Her villa’s guests.
    She looked inside the beautiful machine, saw the keys still in the ignition, and slid behind the wheel. And sighed. The supple leather seats were wonderfully buttery, holding her body like a lover’s caress. She slid the seat forward, cranked the engine, and pulled the car around to the back parking lot. It looked out of place next to her rental.
    Well, that’s because it is out of place, Esme told herself, parking it in direct sunlight rather than beneath the shade of the large Parota tree. Porsche driving surfers don’t belong here. Certainly not as management. She clutched the keys, grabbed her bag, and strode into the villa.
    She was immediately swamped with nostalgia. The gleaming mahogany floors still smelled slightly of lemon cleaning solution, the walls painted a burnished red and the seating areas still filled with carved wooden benches and comfortable chairs. With the wisdom—or maybe hubris—of a teenager she’d informed Constance that white walls and white furniture made the villa look like a hospital ward. So Constance had redecorated, with Esme’s help, that first year after Esme’s parents died.
    “Two o’clock, no later,” came a voice from the office, followed by the sound of a phone hanging up.
    Tears rose in her throat, anger at the Porsche—or the Porsche driver, she couldn’t remember—all but forgotten. Constance loved this place. Esme found solace here. She’d turned her back on this beautiful, wonderful place for business experience? She sniffed but refused to let the tears fall. If she started crying now, she might never stop and she had work to do.
    A business to save.
    Santiago exited Constance’s office and Esme swallowed back the memories. Focused on the envelopes in his hand, he didn’t notice her until she stood before him across the antique front desk, a rescue from an eighteen-hundreds mission.
    “Pequeña, I see you made it home.” He grinned and winked. “I wasn’t sure you would remember the way.”
    Another stab to the heart. Had he meant that as an insult? From his expression, she assumed it was a joke. More of The Saint’s charm. Didn’t matter, she was over the charm factor.
    “I’ll never forget my way home, Santiago. Speaking of, this isn’t your home, not yet anyway. Employees park in the rear.” She dropped the Porsche keys on the desk between them and waited. He said nothing, only looked at the key ring. “The front spaces are reserved for incoming taxis and arriving guests.”
    His smile turned grim. “We have no guests, at least not today.” He snagged the keys and dropped them into his pocket. “But I’ll remember your tip about parking. I am too used to being a guest here, I suppose. Speaking of guests, I had Marquez take your things to Con’s suite.”
    Esme was off balance. Constance’s suite? Why not her familiar room? “Have him move them back, please, I would prefer my own room.”
    “That is going to be interesting.”
    Dread shivered down her spine. “Interesting? It’s a room with a bed, Santiago.”
    “A bed I’ve been sleeping in since Con took me in.” He