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After a few more seconds of pretending to look at my calendar, I said, “I’m pretty much all booked up for the next month, but if you’re flexible in your timetable, perhaps I can work with you. That depends on what you need, of course.”
“I’m flexible.”
I waited, wondering if some double entendre was coming, but instead, he gave me an address. “Are you able to pull that up on your computer and look?”
Something about it rang a bell, and once the search result loaded, I saw why.
I swallowed.
He couldn’t be serious.
“You gave me the address for the old Biscayne hotel. Is that correct?”
“It is.” His voice was level and smooth, nothing like the rough growl I remembered from our night together. It had been just days ago. I’d swear I could still feel his hands on me. His mouth. “Are you familiar with the place?”
Despite the sensory echoes of his touch, I replied in an equally professional tone. “About as much as the typical Houstonian. Well, perhaps a bit more since I’m a bit of a history buff and enjoy doing historical renovations when they come my way.”
“I’m purchasing the hotel.”
Although the place was a derelict mess right now, it was in an area galloping through a revitalization. The price tag attached to that hotel wouldn’t be cheap—not to buy or renovate. And although the artist in me was salivating at the thought of bringing something so stately back to its former glory, I was also a realist.
“That place is an utter mess,” I said bluntly. “Renovation will probably cost even more than the purchase price. The Biscayne is amazing, in purely historical and architectural terms, but you’ll sink so much money into it, you may never see a profit.”
“I’ll see a profit.” He said it matter-of-factly, like there was no question of it. “The question is whether you want to be part of bringing the Biscayne back, not just to what it once was, but better?”
Huffing out a laugh as my incredulity temporarily overcame my anger at him, I said, “There isn’t an interior designer alive who wouldn’t drool at this chance, Maximus.”
I almost bit my tongue the second his given name escaped my lips, and I wanted to kick something, swear, hit, or bite something. Not something. Him.
Expecting him to comment, I held my breath. As much as I needed both the project and the publicity I’d get from such a job, I wasn’t sure my pride could take working with him.
“So, are you interested? I’d like to hire you to handle the lobby, and if I’m satisfied with the results, we’ll extend the contract for the entire hotel. What do you say about such a project?”
Closing my eyes, I rubbed my temple. How insane was this? The idea of working with him on anything, much less something so unique but also long-term, had my muscles knotting up with tension. And the bland, business-like way he was handling everything. Shit, it was like our night together had never happened.
I wasn’t sure if that made the possibility of working for him better or worse.
“I think it’s doable,” I said cautiously. “I have another client, but as I’m primarily handling the designing, hiring, and budgeting aspects, there’s no reason I can’t do both.” My mind was already running through the details, shuffling timelines and considering my contacts.
“I can be flexible,” he said, reiterating that point. “This is a... personal project, and I’m willing to invest enough time and money to make it happen. Meet me tomorrow at the hotel so that we can go over a few things. Inspect the lobby and put together a proposal.”
I had plenty of reasons to say no, but more reasons to say yes.
If he wasn’t so professional, saying no would be easy, but my business couldn’t afford to miss the chance of getting a project like this.
Besides, how likely am I to have to see him?
Sure, I might have to talk to him directly tomorrow, and maybe occasionally throughout the job...if he hired me. But he was the big man in charge of a multi-million-dollar company. He had his fingers in a lot of pies, and billionaires like him delegated work by necessity.
“I’ll be there, Mr. Maximus,” I said, pulling up the shield my professionalism offered. It was a buffer that should have stayed up from the first time I met James Maximus. I would not drop my guard again. “What time did you have in mind?”
Fourteen
Maximus
I’ve never beena social person. My few casual friends, even those from when I was younger, had been just that—casual. Little more than acquaintances.
There were many reasons for it, no doubt. A therapist would have a field day with me, but I didn’t need sixty minutes on a shrink’s couch to learn that I’ve unresolved anger issues, as well as problems with trust and commitment. All tied to the fact that my rich bastard father slept with every pretty woman who caught his eye, while my mom had to work two jobs to keep food on the table.