Bound by Their Lisbon Legacy, page 1
Quinn was frowning, shaking her head. “I just don’t know if I can—”
He cut across her, relieved. “See, Edward. She can’t do it anyway—”
“She isn’t saying she can’t do it. She was going to say that doing it inside six months is going to be a stretch.”
He felt a flamethrower blasting his ears. Putting him in his place, which, even looking through his jaundiced lens, he could see he totally deserved. He inclined his head by way of apology, which she accepted with her eyes.
He forced out a smile, opening his hands to seem reasonable and calm, which he wasn’t. “I’m just saying that if you were to turn the project down on the basis of being too busy, then—”
“It won’t make a blind bit of difference.” Edward’s voice was sharp as glass. “For the third time, William, the terms of the will are this: you inherit Anthony’s estate only when the Lisbon Hotel has been up and running for three months; you must take personal charge of the project from here on in; and Quinn is to be your interior designer. It isn’t negotiable.”
Dear Reader,
Welcome to my Lisbon story! I was lucky enough to visit this gorgeous city last year and was struck by how many once beautiful but now sadly neglected buildings there are—a consequence of complicated inheritance laws apparently! Of course, I immediately began to think about how I could create a story centered around one such building.
After a few false starts (it happens!), I devised an inheritance story of my own, wherein my tortured hotelier hero, Will, and kindhearted interior designer heroine, Quinn, are forced to take on the renovation of a dilapidated Lisbon building and launch it as a hotel. Not such a hardship, surely, considering all that warm Lisbon sunshine, fabulous seafood and those delectable Portuguese custard tarts! Sadly, since Will and Quinn aren’t exactly the best of friends, they don’t see it that way. But soon, as the old animosities start to collide with an undeniable, growing mutual attraction, they find they’ve got more to wrangle with than rotten floorboards and cracked pantiles...
I hope you enjoy reading Will and Quinn’s journey to their happy-ever-after as much as I enjoyed creating it.
Love,
Ella x
Bound by Their Lisbon Legacy
Ella Hayes
After ten years as a television camerawoman, Ella Hayes started her own photography business so that she could work around the demands of her young family. As an award-winning wedding photographer, she’s documented hundreds of love stories in beautiful locations, both at home and abroad. She lives in central Scotland with her husband and two grown-up sons. She loves reading, traveling with her camera, running and great coffee.
Books by Ella Hayes
Harlequin Romance
Her Brooding Scottish Heir
Italian Summer with the Single Dad
Unlocking the Tycoon’s Heart
Tycoon’s Unexpected Caribbean Fling
The Single Dad’s Christmas Proposal
Their Surprise Safari Reunion
Barcelona Fling with a Secret Prince
One Night on the French Riviera
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com.
This one goes out to my sons, James and Matthew, who will probably never read it but will hopefully get to Lisbon one day and enjoy it as much as I did!
Praise for Ella Hayes
“Ella Hayes has surpassed herself with this delightfully warm romance. It keeps a reader on their toes with its twists and turns. The characters are believable and you can actually visualize the scenes through the exquisite descriptions. This book ambushes your senses and takes the reader on a beautiful journey with heart-stopping moments. A wonderful relaxing read.”
—Goodreads on Italian Summer with the Single Dad
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
EPILOGUE
EXCERPT FROM SLOW DANCE WITH THE ITALIAN BY SCARLET WILSON
CHAPTER ONE
WHAT THE HELL was Edward saying to Will? Because Will was exploding off his chair, gesticulating at the solicitor so hard Quinn could practically feel the waves of his fury pulsing through the soundproof glass. And then his head whipped round, his eyes seeking hers, locking on.
She felt her blood draining. Why was he looking...no, glaring at her like this? She was only in line for some small token of Anthony’s affection: a keepsake or maybe a donation for the homeless shelter where she volunteered. That was why she’d been asked to come, to be ‘on hand’ at the reading of Anthony’s will. That was why she was waiting out here while he was in there for the important business.
Outside the family. Outside the boardroom. Waiting for a small bequest. Made sense. Nothing else did. Could! Because Anthony had more than done his legal duty by her already. Giving her a home when Dad died. Caring for her, supporting and guiding her, even granting her the interiors contract for the Thacker Hub hotel in Kensington when she was just starting up her business, still wet behind the ears. She owed Anthony Thacker big time, and he owed her precisely nothing. But now Will was bruising her with his eyes, and he wouldn’t be doing that without a reason, would he? Not when, for years, he’d barely looked at her at all.
She cut free, forcing her gaze to the floor. What was going on? She didn’t know Will, had never quite got the chance to get to know him, but it didn’t take a microscope to see he was bleeding hard, wounded by whatever Anthony had put in that will.
But why would Anthony do that—hurt his son—when he’d loved him so fiercely, respected him for the great job he was doing as Thacker’s Head of Business Development? Anthony had admired Will’s drive, his sharp intellect. Not so much his gambling and his casual sexual encounters, admittedly. They’d used to fight about that apparently, but the fight was because of the love, because Anthony wanted better for Will.
That was how she’d read it anyway, from the distance of her own life, and it tallied with all the things Anthony had said during those long chemo afternoons: that he loved Will more than life itself, wished he’d handled things better, drawn him in closer, especially after his mother left, drawn him in and held him there instead of losing his grip, messing up...
Confessional talk. Out of character for Anthony. She’d said to him that it was Will he should be talking to, that it wasn’t too late, but he’d said it was, that Will would see it as a selfish act, just a father trying to salve his own conscience before the inevitable happened. She hadn’t known what to say then because what did she know about the way Will saw anything?
That was the thing about Will. Everything about him was a guess. Like guessing he’d gone from being shyly kind to her when she’d first moved in, to being distant, because she’d been grieving too hard for Dad at the time, feeling too displaced in the strange house to respond to him properly. And like guessing that the reason he didn’t hang around for long during his uni holidays was because he really did have better places to be than the Cotswolds house, better things to do than joining her and Anthony for pub lunches and mad rural hikes.
And of course, Christmas at home couldn’t possibly compete with skiing in Chamonix, staying at his friend Jordan’s family ski lodge, could it? Easter? Guess he did the right thing there, never coming home at all, staying ‘up’ so he could revise, because it paid off. He got a First, not that she went to the graduation. There were only tickets for family. Nothing she didn’t know, but when Will said it to her, it had felt like a stone sinking in her chest.
That was the stone she could feel again now, sinking lower. And it was so stupid, so wrong for them to be distant like this when they had Anthony in common, this terrible grief to share. And no, Anthony wasn’t her father, and no, he hadn’t been the easiest person, but was it any wonder after losing his eldest son to a speeding white van like that, then losing his wife eighteen months later to some hedge fund manager with a place in Jersey, all while steering Thacker Hotels to ever greater success? He wasn’t perfect. He’d made mistakes, especially with Will, but he’d been good to her, and she loved him, missed him, wanted to talk about him. But Liam the Scumbag had gone, found some other girl to love, so she couldn’t talk to him, and Sadie was a diamond, always a good listener, but she hadn’t known Anthony, whereas Will...
Her heart twisted. Talking to him made sense. And she’d thought he’d see that, want to talk to her too, but when she’d touched his arm at the funeral, trying to build a bridge, all she’d got back was the same curt nod he used to give her when he arrived at the hospice—dismissive. Hurtful! And then he’d stepped back, turned a cold shoulder.
And she didn’t deserve that, didn’t get it, because Will wasn’t heartless. If he was, he would never have hovered in her bedroom doorway all those yea
‘Quinn?’
Edward... Standing in the open doorway, holding the door she hadn’t heard opening. Could he see her mouth going dry, her blood trying to march backwards? If so, it wasn’t showing on his face, and it certainly wasn’t changing anything because he was opening the door wider, stepping aside for her.
‘Could you come in now, please?’
* * *
Quinn was shaking her head, frowning. ‘I don’t know if I can—’
He cut in, relieved. ‘See, Edward. She can’t do it anyway—’
‘No, Will!’ Cutting right back in, pinning him hard with her clear gold-brown gaze. ‘She isn’t saying she can’t do it. She was going to say that doing it inside six months is going to be a stretch.’
He felt a flame thrower blasting his ears. Putting him in his place, and rightly so. He’d been rude, letting the old wounds bleed too freely. He inclined his head by way of apology, which she accepted with her eyes.
Her eyebrows drew in again. ‘The problem is I have other work scheduled, other commitments...’
‘Which I understand...’ He forced out a smile, opening his hands to seem reasonable and calm, which he wasn’t. But he’d thrown his toys out of the pram with Edward once already and that hadn’t got him anywhere, so calm and reasonable was the only option. In any case, whatever he thought about Quinn Radley, this one wasn’t on her; this was on Dad, one hundred fricking percent. He gave a little shrug. ‘I’m just saying that if you were to turn the project down on the basis of being too busy then—’
‘It won’t make a blind bit of difference.’ Edward’s voice was sharp as glass. ‘For the third time, William, the terms of the will are this: you inherit Anthony’s estate only when the Lisbon hotel has been up and running for three months; you must take personal charge of the project from here on in and Quinn is to be your interior designer. It is not negotiable since Quinn’s personal bequest is contingent on her doing the work...’ His gaze shifted to Quinn ‘Work which you were already discussing with Anthony, I believe?’
She gave a strange sideways nod. ‘We talked about it...’ And then she was closing her eyes, evidently reining in some emotion. ‘When Anthony first bought it, I mean, before he was diagnosed...’
In other words, before the project rolled into the long grass. Why couldn’t it have died there instead of coming back to bite him? Blasted hotel! He’d told Dad it was going to be a massive waste of time and money.
Granted, Bairro Alto was a prime location, but the building was sprouting grass for goodness’ sake! Roof, walls—every nook and cranny. As for the interior, that was a whole other can of festering worms. And all for what? A paltry eighteen en suite bedrooms and one master suite! Payback period—for ever! Dad’s insane passion project, a little amuse bouche because he loved Lisbon and ‘fancied a challenge’. Maybe it didn’t say much for his sense of filial duty, but he’d intended to slap it back on the market the second it fell into his hands. So much for that plan!
‘I understand, Quinn...’ Edward was shuffling his papers together. ‘You weren’t expecting a rush job. If you’re tied to other clients for the time being, then we must wait.’
Except it wasn’t we, was it? It was he, Will, who must wait for Quinn, work with her. Her of all people, at Dad’s behest!
He felt his blood rising, a vice tightening somewhere. Had Dad not had eyes to see with? Had he not noticed him opting out of family life circa six months after Quinn arrived? Had he never asked himself why?
He ground his jaw. Of course not, because he wasn’t Pete. Pete, he’d have noticed. Every blink, every breath! But he’d never been captain of the rugby team, had he? Holding up the trophy, muddy and triumphant. He’d never had swimming medals to line up on a bedroom shelf. No bear hugs and back slaps for Will. Just the searing devastation of losing his brother, best friend. The light in the room; the light in the dark. All the dazzling light.
God, how he had missed him. The thump of his schoolbag going down on the hall floor; the rhythm his feet made walking; the different, leaping rhythm they made when he was bounding up the stairs. The sound of his voice, that rich chuckling sound of his laughter, that bright flash of his smile. He’d been everything. To him. To Dad. To Mum...
How he’d had to fight to fill a single toe of Pete’s shoes. To be seen. Noticed. Taking Mum cups of tea that she’d let go cold. Pulling the blanket up around her shoulders when it slipped. Rubbing her feet to win a pale smile. Pushing himself at school to make them both sit up. Top grades across the board—better than Pete ever got.
Not enough to stop Mum taking up with Gabe the hedge fund jerk though, was it? Not enough to stop her from leaving, making the hole he was trying to fill even bigger, but he’d banked the hurt and pushed on harder, faster, focusing on Dad. Duke of Edinburgh Gold! Maths prize! Science prize! Inching his way into Dad’s field of view. Working admin jobs at Thacker HQ in the school holidays to impress him, riding shotgun in the BMW like Pete used to. Weekends, he’d pitch in, working on the old convertible with Dad to please him, because that car was Dad’s pride and joy.
Jeez! He’d been smashing it six ways to Sunday, feeling pretty good about himself, so close to worthy that when Quinn first came, hollow-eyed and beautiful, aching with grief over her dad, he’d thought nothing of reaching out to her, wanting to be kind, because why wouldn’t he want to soothe her when he knew her pain, could feel it living inside him every single day that Pete wasn’t around. But she’d curled like a leaf, shutting him out, which he got too, because pain could be like that, wanting to keep you all to itself. He’d thought time would do its healing work. And he was going to uni, anyway, spreading his wings...
Oh, but he hadn’t bargained on coming home to find that Quinn was the new apple of Dad’s eye. Quinn this. Quinn that. Cooking together, laughing at their little in-jokes. He’d told himself it would be petulant to react, that Dad and Quinn were bound to fall into a rhythm since they were living in the same house. He’d reined in the negativity, tried not to mind, but then came that Christmas pub quiz, Dad’s friend coming in, wanting to join their team, Dad saying he could if Will didn’t mind moving to another team because of the numbers—Will, not Quinn by the way—saying it in such a way that he would have looked like an utter stick-in-the-mud if he hadn’t smiled and got up. Enough to turn a stomach, hollow it out. Heart too. That night he’d decided. No more fighting for his place. Easier to back off, leave them to it.
But now he couldn’t back off, make himself scarce. Heaping insult onto injury, not only had Dad saddled him with this hare-brained, budget-busting renovation project from hell, but he’d saddled him with the cuckoo in the nest as well—the cuckoo he’d spent the last decade trying to avoid! And all he wanted—all he wanted—was to move quickly, get the infernal thing done so he could get his life back, not to mention his inheritance. But now Quinn wasn’t even sure she could fit him in!
He inhaled to cool his blood, slid his gaze through the window to the sea of high-rise buildings bleeding shadows in the low February sun. There had to be a workaround. Some way of speeding things up. Roof, façade, walls, windows. Three floors, eighteen beds, bar, dining, reception. His stomach pulsed. Maybe...
He turned to look at her. ‘Could you work piecemeal?’
‘Piecemeal?’
She was looking at him as if the concept was alien. Well, he could relate! Everything about this was alien, the opposite of comfortable.
He licked his lips. ‘Look, I’m no expert on old buildings but I imagine renovation isn’t a linear process. Some areas are going to be ready for your input ahead of others. I’m just wondering if you could dovetail into the workflow so we can keep everything moving.’
She see-sawed her head, weighing it up. ‘It’s a possibility. The challenge would be keeping the finished areas clean.’
‘Would that be especially hard? I mean, have you seen the building?’
