Master Of El Corazon. Sandra MartonЧитать онлайн книгу.

      CHAPTER THREE

      A NIGHT’S fitful sleep and the bright dawning of the Costa Rican sun combined to change Arden’s perspective. Last evening’s despair gave way to indignation and then to fury. She had been treated shabbily—although there had to be a better word than that to describe what Edgar Lithgow had pulled on her.

      And he’d never have been able to get away with it without the help and support of that damnable drifter. It was amazing how quickly the two men had joined forces against her. Arden’s mouth turned down as she zipped up the skirt of her blue gabardine suit. Apparently, you didn’t have to travel in the same social circle to come to the aid and assistance of a brother rat!

      But Lithgow would be on his own this morning. He wouldn’t have the stranger to back him up. God, how she despised that man! She grimaced as she brushed her hair back from her face. Lithgow was bad enough, but the other man—how dared he take Lithgow’s side, all but calling her a slut and a liar?

      Rashomon, indeed, she thought as she slammed the door to her room and set off down the hall. Not all the clever literary references in the world could disguise the simple truth. The man was an arrogant bastard, a male chauvinist of the worst sort. He’d shown what he thought of women during their first encounter, when he’d tried to pick her up. What had come later—his incredibly easy switch from rescuer to accuser—had only proved it to be true.

      And he’d probably got an extra kick out of coming to Lithgow’s assistance. After all, she’d spurned his advances, hadn’t she, and probably wounded that delicate male ego of his—

      Arden caught her breath. The door to the stranger’s room swung open just as she reached it—but it wasn’t he who stepped into the hall, it was the chambermaid, dragging her cleaning cart after her.

      ‘Good morning,’ Arden said with a little smile of relief.

      The girl nodded. ‘Buenos dias, señorita.’

      Arden glanced into the room as she walked past it. It was empty, the bed made and ready for the next guest. He was gone then, she thought, and thank God for small favours.

      She had no wish to ever lay eyes on his face again. If she did, she might well finish what she’d started last night and punch him right in the jaw.

      There was a lilt to her step as she marched towards the lift. More to the point, his absence was her ace in the hole.

      It meant that, today, Edgar Lithgow was strictly on his own.

      Arden’s counter-attack was carefully planned. She’d spent the hour before dawn plotting it from start to finish. She would get to work a little late, just late enough for Lithgow to be lulled into thinking she’d accepted his growled command that she not show up at the office again. The nerve of him! She had done nothing to be ashamed of, and the very first thing she intended to do was make that point—forcefully—to her former boss, for that was exactly what he’d be, as of this morning, after she’d made her short but pointed speech.

      ‘You’re right,’ she’d say, after she’d marched into his office and shut the door, ‘I won’t press charges—assuming you arrange immediately for my transfer back to the New York office and for my immediate promotion to administrative assistant.’

      If he gave her one moment’s argument—if he did, she’d—she’d...

      She’d what? She’d collapse like a deflated balloon, that was what, because the only thing worse than the prospect of letting Lithgow get away with this was the thought of having to stand up in a courtroom and describe the humiliation of what had happened. Even worse would be having to explain things to Lithgow’s bosses. They were all the same, his kind of people; she could almost see the knowing little smiles of disbelief they’d give each other.

      But things would never get that far. Lithgow wouldn’t call her bluff; he wouldn’t dare. Late last night, after she’d calmed down enough to think, she’d realised that her boss had as much reason to want to keep this quiet as she. Hell, he might even have more! He’d ticked off his sterling qualities for the stranger’s benefit, his community and church affiliations, his status in the company—none of them would change him from the lowlife he was into the decent man everyone believed him to be, but that was all the more reason he wouldn’t want a charge of sexual harassment hanging around his neck.

      ‘Buenos dias, señorita.’

      Arden looked up from the menu. ‘Good morning,’ she said, and then she hesitated. Was the waiter looking at her strangely? Come to think of it, had the chambermaid given her this same off-centre smile, as if she knew something Arden didn’t?

      She gave a little laugh as she set the menu aside. That was just what she needed now, a touch of paranoia to top things off.

      ‘I’ll have the melon,’ she said briskly in Spanish, ‘and toast. And a pot of coffee, please.’

      She wasn’t hungry, despite having never had supper last night, but there was still time to kill and besides, she’d need all the strength she could garner for the confrontation that lay ahead. Methodically, she ate everything that had been served her, washed it all down with three cups of strong black coffee, then pushed back her chair and rose from the table.

      The waiter materialised from out of nowhere and held out a small silver tray bearing the bill for her meal. Arden sank back into her seat and sighed. He wanted her to sign her name and room number, which was fine. It was just that the ritual was never the same. Sometimes you were asked to sign, and other times whatever bill you’d run up was automatically charged to the company’s account.

      ‘I’ll need a pen,’ she said. The waiter shrugged. ‘Una pluma, por favor, so I can sign for my breakfast.’

      He gave her an embarrassed smile. ‘I am sorry, señorita, but I cannot accommodate.’

      Arden sighed. ‘No problem,’ she said, opening her bag and digging into it. ‘I have a pen in here somewhere, if I can just—’

      ‘I meant that I cannot permit you to charge the meal to your room.’ She looked up, startled. ‘It is not my decision,’ he said quickly. ‘It is the decision of Senor Arondo.’

      There it was again, that peculiar little smile. A chill of premonition danced along Arden’s spine, but she told herself she was over-reacting. Arondo was the hotel manager, but he’d only been here a couple of weeks. A screw-up was more than likely.

      She dug some