Page 24 of Christmas at Sturcombe Bay (Sturcombe Bay Romances #3)

“Hi, Dad. How’s things?”

“All good, son. How’s your grandad?” Alex smiled at the sound of his father’s voice echoing from his phone’s speaker from three and a half thousand miles away across the Atlantic. “Did he enjoy his birthday party?”

Alex laughed. “He was in his element — King of the World. He got loads of presents, mostly brandy! The hotel put on a great do for him, and the cake was something else. I’ll send you the photos.”

“Thanks, son. I’d have liked to have been there.”

“You were here just a couple of months ago,” Alex reassured him. “And you’ll be over in the new year.”

“That’s right. And what about you? Have you got any plans yet?”

“I do.” He took a brief pause. “I’m thinking of buying the hotel.”

“What, the Carleton?” His dad was startled. “Why?”

“It’s being sold off to some investment fund — Lytcott Capital Management. The hotel has already been warned that they’re likely to be offloaded, as they’re not making enough profit. And if they can’t find a buyer, the place will just be closed down.”

“Ah, now that’d be a crying shame, eh,” his dad protested. “It’s a grand old building. The trouble is that no one’s spent any money on it for years. I was sad to see how run down it was when I was over in July.”

“Exactly. Did you know what it was used for during the war?”

“Well, Dad told me it was something to do with the military — a convalescence home for injured soldiers.”

“Airmen. With burns injuries.”

“Ah . . .”

Alex had known that his father would understand at once the connection he felt — that almost mystical bond between anyone who had served in the military.

It made no difference whether they were airmen, army or navy, what flag they had served under, even if they were generations apart. It was there.

“It’s not only a sentimental thing,” he explained. “The place has a lot of potential. I was talking to some of the people here and they have some really good suggestions.”

“Well, it’s certainly in a very attractive location.”

“It is.” He had wandered over to the window to gaze out at the bay, looking tranquil in the moonlight. The coloured lights strung from the streetlamps along the Esplanade reflected like shimmering jewels in the sea, which at high tide had come right up to the sea wall.

The amusement arcade was a neon-lit circus of reds, blues and greens, the fish and chip shop was a bright white glow, the windows of the pub on the corner were a warm amber.

Behind the seafront, the town was a star-scape of streetlights and house lights. On the far side of the bay, Cliff Road climbed to the roundabout where it met Haytor Avenue and the entrance to the caravan site.

It was a small town, caught in the paradox between catering for tourists and second-home owners which were virtually its only source of income, and the lack of affordable housing for the local people along with the lack of jobs during the winter months.

If the hotel closed, the place would be reduced to a shell.

“The trouble with Sturcombe is that it’s a bit off the beaten track,” his father pointed out. “That’s always been against it.”

“So we give people a reason to want to come here. I’m thinking wedding packages, an upmarket spa, corporate events . . .”

“Sounds good. How will you finance it?”

“Frank’s been talking about retiring, so it seems like a timely moment to sell. The real-estate market’s pretty buoyant, and he’s had a couple of offers he’s considering. If I sell my share of the company with his, as one unit, we could probably get an even better offer.”

“Well, good luck with it, son. I hope it works out.”

“Thanks, Dad. How’s Mom?”

“She’s fine. She’s out at her book club this evening, but she sends her love.”

“Tell her the same. Speak to you soon.”

“Sure will. ’Bye, son.”

“‘Bye, Dad.”

He closed the call and put the phone down on the coffee table. Buying the hotel, renovating it, taking it upmarket, was going to be a huge undertaking, but it was a very interesting challenge.

And a challenge was just what he needed. Not the challenge of flying fighter jets in war zones — he was done with that — but he was never going to settle for a quiet life, fishing or tending his garden.

Money wasn’t an issue. He’d been investing in real estate almost since the beginning of his air-force career. Initially, he’d just bought a plot of land, intending to build a house for himself at some point.

Then the area had been re-zoned, and the larger adjacent plot had been bought up for housing development. Frank Beaumont, the developer, had offered him a good price for his land, or the alternative of a share in the new project.

Due for deployment overseas, he’d opted for the gamble, and it had paid off handsomely. The partnership had been so successful that they’d agreed to continue it with Frank’s next project, and every one since. And over the years they’d become good friends.

Once he knew how things stood with the hotel, he’d ring Frank and discuss it with him. In the meantime, he had dinner with Shelley to look forward to.

* * *

Alex had guessed that Shelley wouldn’t want to dine in the sort of restaurant she’d call ‘posh’, but he wasn’t going to let her think he thought so little of her that he’d take her to a greasy spoon.

An internet search had given him several options. He’d chosen a place on the edge of the moor. On the website it had looked cosy and unpretentious, with cream painted walls, a plain wooden floor, and lots of leafy green plants in terracotta pots.

He made sure he arrived at the hotel a few minutes early as he didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable having to wait for him. He had a feeling that she’d never been on what she’d call a ‘proper’ date before.

It was ten minutes past seven when she appeared, and he smiled to himself, guessing that the timing had been deliberate. A test. Just long enough to keep him waiting, but not so long as to justify him being impatient.

She’d always be one to test the limits, always prepared for something to blow up in her face.

She’d pushed the line just a little with her outfit too. Navy-blue trousers and a chunky cream sweater with brown ankle boots. Smart, but a bit too casual for anywhere ‘posh’ — a message, if he’d needed one.

He climbed out of the car and went round to open the passenger door for her. She smiled up at him, but hesitated before getting in.

“Where are we going?”

“A place called the Old Mill. It’s not far.”

“Oh, yes.” The slight tension in her shoulders visibly relaxed. “Some of the hotel guests have been there for lunch or dinner. They’ve said it’s nice.”

“It looks it on the website. I hope you like it.”

She slid into the passenger seat and smiled at him as he slipped in behind the wheel. “This is a nice car.”

“It is.”

“I’ve never ridden in a Jaguar before,” she confessed.

“There’s a first time for everything.”

“Lisa’s brother’s got an Aston Martin — like James Bond.”

He laughed. “I saw it. Now that is a nice car.”

“Better than this one?”

“Hmm. Probably. I’ve never driven one.”

They turned onto Church Road and drove up the hill. The car was smooth and quiet, a pleasure to drive. If he was going to stay in England, he’d need to buy a car instead of hiring one. Should he buy a Jaguar or an Aston Martin, or something else?

He glanced across at his passenger. Maybe he wouldn’t mention the car purchase to her. Some women might be drawn like magnets to a man who could afford to buy one of the most expensive cars on the road, but he suspected that it would have the opposite effect on Shelley.

For the same reason, he wouldn’t tell her about his plans to buy the hotel. At least, not yet. He didn’t intend to tell anyone until the deal went through.

* * *

In spite of her wariness, Shelley was enjoying herself.

The car was beautiful; sleek and comfortable, and smelling of new leather.

She’d already guessed that Alex was quite well off.

Cleaning his room, she’d seen his clothes — mostly casual but of very good quality.

His shoes and his luggage were too — always a good tell.

Which meant that the gulf between them was very wide indeed. She’d known that from the start. So, as Jess had said, she should just enjoy this while it lasted. He’d said he might be staying in Sturcombe for a month or so, and then he’d be gone.

Okay, that was fine. Nothing in her life had lasted much longer than that, except for her time at the Carleton. And now that was coming to an end too. Oh well . . .

She hadn’t meant to sigh, but it had slipped out, and Alex glanced across at her, one dark eyebrow raised in question.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She managed a smile. “Just admiring the sky. It’s so pretty, with all the stars coming out.”

“Ah, yes. It is pretty.”

“Do you think there really are people on other planets up there?” she mused, hoping to distract him from questioning whether she was all right or not.

“I don’t know about people, but there are so many billions of stars out there that it’s quite likely there’s some form of life.

But I doubt if they’ll be landing on Earth any time soon, unless they’ve got some weird sort of propulsion system that we don’t know about. The distances are just too great.”

She laughed. “Well, that’s good to know, anyway!”

They had turned onto the main road. Alex accelerated smoothly, overtaking a caravan and tucking back into the left-hand lane.

“Music?” he suggested.

“That would be nice.”

“What would you like?”

“You choose.”

He smiled and tapped the screen, and a soft female voice filled the car.

“Who’s this?” she asked, curious. “It isn’t Adele.”

“K.D. Lang — a fellow Canadian.”

“She’s got a lovely voice.”

“She has.”

Shelley leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes, listening to the soft, melancholy music, relieved at not having to try to keep up a conversation.