He laughed. He couldn’t help himself.
‘You think this is funny?’ she demanded in fury.
‘Not in the least,’ he admitted. He was impressed.
‘I’m leaving,’ she said.
‘For good?’
‘This isn’t a joke, Xavier.’
He cut her off at the door. Planting his fist on the smooth wood above her head, he kept her trapped in front of him. ‘My office will send the documents through again. May I suggest you sign them next time?’
‘You’re not listening to me,’ she gritted out, meeting his unblinking stare fearlessly. ‘I’ve no intention of signing your wretched documents.’
For just an instant he wanted to kiss her again. Then the wall he lived behind snapped back into place. It was time for Señorita Clifton to hear some hard truths. ‘Your job here is done,’ he said evenly. ‘You need an income to live on, and that has to come from somewhere.’
‘But not from you,’ she said. ‘Or do you think I’m incapable of earning a living?’
Pulling his fist from the wood, he stood clear of the door as she straightened her clothes and walked out.
Leaning back against the wall, he closed his eyes. Rosie Clifton was the most infuriating woman he’d ever met, but at least he now understood why his aunt had liked her—loved her, he amended. It had to be love that prompted such a generous bequest, unless his aunt’s sole aim had been to torment him.
He decided not. His aunt had been spiky, but never vengeful. And Rosie Clifton’s spirit had been forged under circumstances of extreme difficulty, which was why she had no trouble standing up to him. She might be naïve in many ways, but she was courageous and resilient. He guessed his aunt had seen something of herself as a young girl in Rosie.
* * *
‘Xavier...’
He turned at the sound of Rosie’s voice. She stood framed in the doorway. She had brushed her hair and washed her face. She looked a lot calmer.
‘I came to say I’m sorry.’ She lifted her chin. ‘I haven’t been very businesslike.’
‘Neither of us has been very businesslike.’
‘We were a little overheated,’ she admitted carefully.
Putting it mildly, he thought. Even now he wanted her. He wanted to see that furious fire light again in his arms.
‘I’ve been thinking how this place could look,’ she said, glancing around, ‘if I could persuade you to restore things, rather than to knock them down and rebuild. Maybe we could work together? I was angry before, after reading those documents, but I can’t let my pride stand in the way of improvements.’
‘And?’ he prompted.
‘And I’ve got a proposition for you.’
It had taken courage for her to come back and confront him. There was nothing to be gained by frightening her away—if anything could frighten Rosie Clifton. ‘I’m listening,’ he encouraged.
‘It’s not a long-term plan,’ she explained, frowning as if the words wouldn’t come easily. ‘We’d have to see how it progressed year by year.’
‘Not long term, then?’ he observed dryly.
‘I mean not permanent,’ she said, refusing to be diverted from her thoughts with humour. ‘With your money, and my understanding of the island and the people who live here, you could fund improvements, while I undertake the project management for you. I’d draw up proper accounts—’
As if that were all it entailed, he thought as she went on. Her intentions were good, but the island needed more than a few light touches, it required major renovation work, both to the house, and to the infrastructure. Architects and engineers—a whole raft of specialisms would have to be employed. ‘All my projects are money-making schemes.’
‘Then, you can afford one that isn’t.’
‘This sounds like a vanity project to me. You’re asking me to pour my money into a house and island so that you can live here in comfort.’