‘All I’m saying is let’s not jump the gun. Casa D’Or isn’t the only house in the South. Let me put out feelers and see what else there is. Omari properties have to be the absolute best in class.’
‘Precisely,’ said Simon, putting the phone back in his pocket. ‘Best in class, and if Casa D’Or is being mentioned in the same breath as Hearst Castle and the Biltmore, that excites me.’
Jim could feel his control slipping away.
‘Look, the place has history,’ he said cautiously. ‘There was an accident there once. Someone died . . .’
Simon looked at the younger man directly, unbothered by the concerns he had just heard, the look in his eyes indicating he was only concerned with getting his own way.
‘Where do you see your future in this company, James?’ he said evenly. It was a straight question, but one loaded with meaning. Simon was a fair employer, but no billionaire got to the top of that golden pyramid without having a streak of ruthlessness. And while Jim had carved out a personal niche in the Omari property portfolio, the first rule of business was that no one was indispensable.
‘I love working for Omari,’ he said after a moment. ‘It’s my life.’
Simon nodded. ‘You’ve been here from the start, grown the Omari business. And I want to reward you for your vision and your loyalty.’
‘I’m flattered, but—’ began Jim.
‘No buts. I want to open the best hotel in the Deep South and I want that hotel to be Casa D’Or. Make it happen and I will make you CEO of Omari Hotels.’
Jim could feel his eyes opening wide.
‘CEO?’
Simon looked at him, his gaze intense, and for a moment Jim’s own eyes sparkled with desire. Then there was a whoop and a cheer from the terrace and the moment was gone. Simon smiled and raised his glass.
‘Well, I think you’d better go and find the piper, don’t you?’
Chapter Two
He needed new curtains: that was
his first thought. Sunlight was leaking in over the top of his Swedish drapes and straight on to his pillow, rousing him much earlier than he had planned. Turn off your phone: that was his second. Jim scrabbled for the mobile buzzing on his bedside table. ‘M’ read the screen. ‘Not now,’ he groaned, clicking it off and shoving it under his pillow. He pulled the duvet over his head, but he knew it was too late: he was awake. So much for his idea of sleeping till noon, reading the paper: finally a couple of hours to relax.
Brrring.
Jim groaned again. The doorbell now.
He rolled out of bed, grabbed his dressing gown and shuffled towards the front door, jabbing a finger against the intercom button when he got there.
‘What?’ he growled, his voice still craggy with sleep.
A voice. Impatient, annoyed.
‘Jim, it’s me. Let me in.’
Shit. Melissa. He glanced across at the clock above the hob in his open-plan kitchen and rubbed his eyes. Five o’clock? Could it really be that late?
‘Crap,’ he muttered, pressing the door release. Working over New Year was one thing, but still being in bed when your girlfriend came to see you? Jim was no expert at relationships, but even he knew that was considered a big no-no.
Footsteps coming up the stairs. No time to think of excuses.
‘Don’t you ever answer your phone?’ asked Melissa, striding into the flat.
‘I got the late flight from Inverness last night,’ replied Jim, stifling a yawn. ‘Didn’t get home until one, couldn’t sleep.’
‘Really? You could have fooled me.’
‘I’m knackered, Mel. Munroe, the launch . . .’