‘I do...’
And even if he didn’t, he would still be saying it, because she believed in it, wanted it—not even for herself but to honour Dad’s memory, to bring his Lisbon dream to life—and if she wanted it, then so did he—not for Dad but for her—to make her happy, to honour her.
The balance sheet didn’t matter. He’d only chafed at the cost with Dad to provoke him, to cause him grief, because that was the way things were with them. But Dad wasn’t here now. Now it was just the two of them and a broken building that needed all the TLC they could give it. Bottom line, whatever it cost, Thacker Hotels could afford it.
For pity’s sake, Thacker Hotels could take a hit like this a thousand times over and not feel a thing! And if that meant he was somehow chanting Dad’s mantra—fix the building just because—then it was all down to Quinn, because she was filling his well with that glow in her eyes, igniting something bright and kinetic inside him. And he wanted her to see it in him, feel it flowing through him, because she was the one who had put it there.
He took gentle hold of her shoulders. ‘I believe in you, Quinn, believe you can create a hotel like no other.’
Her eyes flared. ‘Steady on.’ But she was smiling with obvious pleasure, blushing, blinding him.
He felt his own face breaking apart, a ripple of pure happiness taking him over. ‘I think clients will be banging the door down by the time you’ve finished. Bespoke boutique! Quinn Radley exclusive design! All in the heart of Lisbon!’
‘Whatever you’re on, can I have some, please?’
Biting her lip again, drawing his eyes there, making his blood rise, his pulse hammer.
He turned her to face the view, leaning his arms on the rail to stop himself from wrapping them around her. ‘It’s just this place...’ And you. ‘I mean, look at it...’
Orange roofs...pastel buildings... Castelo São Jorge on the opposite hill, knee-deep in green trees and, to the south, like a blue hem, the mighty Tagus.
‘My, but you’ve got it bad, haven’t you?’ She was eyeing him softly. ‘Like your dad.’ And then she was turning to face him, her expression serious. ‘So, you’re absolutely sure about avant-garde?’
That doubt again. There was only one way to chase it away.
He contrived a solemn nod. ‘Absolutely. I’m completely, one hundred percent for avant-garde. I just have one question...’
‘Okay.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Hit me.’
He paused for effect, clamping down hard on the chuckle he could feel vibrating, then contorted his features into the same look of puzzlement that used to crack Pete up. ‘What exactly is it again?’
‘Whoa...’ Will was holding his arms out, clowning a tightrope walk across the undulating mosaic waves. ‘Trippy or what?’
She felt a fresh smile tugging, warmth filling her chest. ‘I did warn you!’
He flashed a boyish smile, making her heart skip and tumble, then he was off again, teetering on his way, drawing amused looks from everyone around him.
So funny! So gorgeous!
And so onboard with the exclusivity angle for the hotel. Onboard with jacaranda purple and tram-yellow and Tagus-blue. Giving her licence to do her creative thing, licence to talk about Anthony—not that she had much as yet since, for some reason, it still felt a bit sticky—and being the best company imaginable. Oh, and what about the way he’d taken her arm up there at the viewpoint? That warm, firm grip of his hand then standing so close that she could smell the soapy clean scent of his tee shirt...
‘You were right...’ He was coming up now, cargos hanging low on his hips, hair blowing in the slight breeze. ‘Rossio Square is insane!’ He grinned. ‘Literally the most fun you can have with your clothes on!’
Her stomach dipped. Way to send her thoughts barrelling in precisely the opposite direction, to a ‘clothes-off’ scenario! Imagining what those shoulders would look like naked, that chest, that torso. Abs, navel, snail trail...
Oh, God!
And now she could feel a flush spreading upwards from her chest, warming her gills. Could he see it? Was he feeling it too? This crackle on the line, this tingling static.
Maybe.
Maybe that was why he was turning, casting his eyes over the square again—to give them a breathing space, to let the air clear.
‘I guess you’re already considering mosaics for the bathrooms?’
Safe ground.
She felt her pulse steadying. ‘Yes. It’s an obvious way to reflect the city.’
He turned back, his eyes twinkling. ‘Get me—grasping the obvious! Maybe I’m catching on to this creative vision thing at last.’
‘Could be!’
He smiled, then smiled again, hesitantly. ‘So, I actually have an idea...’
And again, way to melt her heart. Trying so hard, being so sweet with it.
‘Go on...’
‘Okay...’ Another smile. ‘You know that funicular we went on?’
The rattle and clang. Warm air rippling through the carriage. Warm little jolts of his biceps against her shoulder, scorching jolts of his thigh against hers, jolts that sometimes lasted for more than a whole second. But there was something else too, tickling her behind her ribs, sparking mischief. She simply couldn’t resist.
‘Ahh... You mean Ascensor da Glória... Opened 1885. Electrified in 1912. Two-hundred and sixty-five metres long, ascending forty-four metres, which is, interestingly, an eighteen percent gradient.’
His lips set, though his eyes were smiling. ‘Are you mocking my guidebook again?’
‘No, I’m being nice.’ She touched her chest, fighting a jag of laughter. ‘Showing my appreciation. Without your guidebook, where would I be, not knowing all that?’
