What The Millionaire Wants...: What the Millionaire Wants... / Spencer's Forbidden Passion. Brenda Jackson

I know. To some company with a bird’s name.”

      “Hawke Industries,” Laura supplied and she certainly didn’t consider the man for whom the company was named to be some tame, feathered creature. Rather he was a predator—just like his name implied.

      “That’s right. I remember getting a notice from them, telling me they owned the note for my loan now.”

      “They own more than the note, Mother. You defaulted on the loan and now Jackson Hawke owns eighty percent of the stock in the Contessa.”

      Jackson Hawke sat in the penthouse suite of the Contessa Hotel late that evening and waited for the e-mail on Laura Spencer to arrive on his computer. Following his meeting with her, he had had the investigative firm he used compile a complete background check on her. He’d asked for everything—from her favorite flavor of ice cream right down to her shoe size. He frowned as he recalled his assistant’s remark that it sounded personal. It wasn’t, Jack told himself. It was business. Strictly business. And he intended to keep it that way.

      As he waited for the file, Jack took a sip of his wine and considered, once again, his earlier encounter with Laura Spencer. While he had anticipated her objections and could even understand her denial at losing the hotel, he hadn’t expected to find her outright defiance so stimulating. If he were honest, Jack admitted, the woman intrigued him. And it had been a very long time since anything or anyone had truly intrigued him.

      A beep indicated the new e-mail and Jack clicked onto the file document and began reading the investigator’s preliminary report. Much of the information he was familiar with already, having attained the data during his initial investigation of the Contessa and its principals. But he skimmed through the basics on Laura Spencer again anyway—noting the names of her parents, the schools she had attended, the places she had lived, her employment history. As he perused the information in the file, he paused at the newspaper and magazine clippings Fitzpatrick Investigations had included with the report.

      He studied a color photo that had appeared in a soap-opera magazine more than twenty years ago of a young Laura on the steps of a church following her mother’s wedding to an actor. Another photo showed a six-year-old Laura standing with her grandfather in front of the Contessa Hotel as the older man shook hands with the city’s mayor. Even then, there was no mistaking the stubborn tilt of Laura’s chin, the pride in her eyes, the promise of quiet beauty in her features. More clippings followed. Laura graduating as valedictorian from a high school in Boston. Laura in her freshman year at college in New Orleans. Laura making her society debut as a maid in one carnival ball and reigning as queen in another. Laura named as an assistant manager at the Stratton West Hotel in California. He paused at a more recent clipping of an elegantly dressed and smiling Laura on the arm of a man wearing a tuxedo. Jack clenched his jaw as he recognized her escort—Matt Peterson. Just the sight of his stepbrother’s face sent anger coursing through him. And along with the anger came the painful memories, the old hurt. Jack read the caption beneath the picture.

      Ms. Laura Spencer and Mr. Matthew Peterson at the Literacy Gala hosted by Mr. and Mrs. Edward Peterson.

      How had he missed this? And just how serious was Laura’s relationship with Peterson? he wondered. After dashing off an e-mail to Fitzpatrick Investigations, demanding answers, he considered how Peterson’s involvement with Laura might impact his deal. While his stepbrother didn’t have the money to bail Laura out, Peterson’s old man and stepmother did. And there was nothing the pair wouldn’t do for their golden-boy son.

      Bitterness rose like bile in his throat as Jack thought of Peterson’s stepmother—his own mother—who had left her family for her husband’s business partner and best friend. Whether Laura was seriously involved with Matthew Peterson didn’t matter, Jack told himself. All that mattered was the deal. If his stepbrother tried to play knight in shining armor for Laura, it would only make the deal that much sweeter when Jack foreclosed on the hotel and crushed Matthew in the process.

      Irritated, but not sure why, Jack shut off his computer. Deciding he needed to stretch his legs and clear his head, he pocketed his room key and exited the hotel suite.

      Twenty-five minutes later, he returned to the hotel, carrying a paper bag filled with a large cup of coffee and a chocolate éclair that he’d picked up at a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop located a few blocks from the hotel. While the crisp November air had refreshed him and tempered his restlessness, it had also awakened his appetite. One foot inside the tiny shop and he’d opted for the sugar-laden pastry.

      “Evening, Mr. Hawke. I see you found the place I told you about,” the doorman remarked as he approached the hotel.

      “I sure did, Alphonse. Bernice said for you to come by and have a slice of apple pie and a cup of coffee after your shift,” Jack said, relaying the message the waitress had asked him to pass on to her sweetheart.

      Alphonse grinned, showing a mouthful of even white teeth. “That little girl makes the finest apple pie in all of New Orleans,” he boasted. “You be sure to try some before you head home.”

      “I’ll do that,” Jack promised as he entered the hotel, his gaze sweeping over the lobby. He noted the magnificent chandelier, the marble floors, the artwork and massive urn of fresh flowers that spoke volumes about the hotel’s quality. As nice and lucrative as the newer chain hotels were, they couldn’t duplicate the old-world elegance and sense of history found in a place like the Contessa.

      Despite the toll time and the lack of funds had taken on the hotel, the Contessa still exuded an air of luxury and privilege to those who walked through her doors. It was on the promise of that luxury and privilege appealing to the discriminating traveler, as well as the movie community that had adopted the city, that he had banked fifteen million dollars. It was a good investment, one based on numbers, not sentiment, Jack told himself as he pressed the button for the elevator.

      After pushing the button again, he waited for one of the hotel’s two elevators to arrive. Two minutes turned into three, then four. When he hit the button a third time, he took another look at the large dial above the elevator banks that indicated the cars’ positions. He noted that one of the elevators remained on the eighth floor while the other was making a very slow descent from the twelfth floor. When it, too, stopped at the eighth floor, he frowned. Walking over to the front desk, he read the clerk’s name tag and said, “Charlene, I think there’s a problem with the elevators. They seem to be stuck on the eighth floor.”

      “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, sir. We’ve been having a little trouble with the elevators lately. I’ll notify maintenance right away and have them check it out. I’m sure they will be operational in a moment,” she advised him and picked up the phone to report the problem.

      Making a mental note to add servicing and refurbishing the elevators to his list of immediate hotel improvements needed, Jack headed for the stairs. When he reached the sixth floor where the executive offices were, he paused before opening the door. He told himself he was simply going to check the status of the elevators and find out if they were moving again. But when he reached the elevator bank, he angled his gaze down the hall toward the management offices, where the lights were still burning.

      A check of his watch told him it was after ten o’clock—long past quitting time, even for the hotel’s general manager. But as he approached the suite of offices, he didn’t have to wonder who’d be working so late.

      Jack looked to his left toward Laura’s office. The door was slightly ajar and he could hear music—a hauntingly beautiful piece that was one of his own favorites. Obviously, he and Laura shared similar tastes in music.

      Pausing in the doorway, he saw that Laura was seated behind the mahogany desk, her head tipped back against the massive black leather chair and her eyes closed. He used the moment to study her. The hair that he had classified as a color somewhere between red and brown that morning was a deep, rich red in the lamplight. Her skin was fair and had a smooth, creamy glow. Jack could just make out the faint dusting of freckles across Laura’s nose. His gaze dipped to her mouth. Her lips were bare—no splash of bright color, no slick of gloss—which made