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  Lacy’s Billionaire Boss

  Beach House Memories, Book 4

  Francesca Lane

  Lacy’s Billionaire Boss

  Beach House Memories, Book 4

  Copyright © 2020 Francesca Lane

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.

  Cover Design by Tugboat Design

  FRANCESCA LANE writes sweet beach romances ... for any time of year. For a free eBook, visit: FrancescaLane.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Sneak Peek of Bella’s Reluctant Cowboy

  Also by Francesca Lane

  One

  Lacy almost let the call go to voicemail. She glanced out to sea, the brim of her hat shading her skin from the sun’s afternoon glow, the lounge chair comfortable against her back. Her time at the family beach house had come, just as it had for three of her siblings who had already put their month of labor into the place. But with all the excitement surrounding Maggie and Luke’s sudden re-coupling and the impending wedding-of-the-year for Jake and Daisy, no one seemed to notice that she had arrived.

  Well, except for her boss, Adrian, who kept barking orders from the next state over. The man was likable enough, but rather wimpy, too—he whined a bit much for her taste. Poor guy had a weak heart, she was told. So she tempered her bite whenever she responded to his outlandish requests. No sense in aggravating the man’s precarious medical condition.

  Still, he threw so many requests her way: Could she make a few calls on prospective clients while out there? Do a secret site inspection in Santa Barbara? Snoop around when the President’s motorcade arrives in Los Angeles and find out what dessert they’re serving at lunch?

  Her answers—maybe, probably not, and no.

  But all she had actually said was, “I’ll look into it.”

  Her cell phone rang again, the name “Wren” splashing across the screen. Lacy took a long sip of her sangria, gave the sea another glance, and answered the phone.

  “Oh! You are there, dear.”

  Lacy sighed. “Hello, Wren. How may I help you?”

  “I’m in a bind,” the elderly woman said, her voice nearly frantic. “I do hope that you’ll help me.”

  Lacy frowned. Wren Mcafee had been one of her mother’s closest friends in this beachside town. She’d had a stroke, but survived it, thanks to Lacy’s sister and husband, who swooped in and saved the poor woman. Now she was on the mend and living right next door, like she always had. Pretty soon, her daughter, Daisy, would be marrying Lacy’s brother, Jake. And just like that, they would all be related.

  “I will certainly try.”

  “Wonderful. It’s a rather delicate matter and I’m hoping, well, I am pleading with you to keep a secret. You will, dear, won’t you?”

  A tickle of a smile found Lacy’s mouth. What kind of secret could a near-invalid have? “Scout’s honor.”

  Wren hesitated. “Were you ever in scouting?”

  “For about a day and a half.”

  Wren chuckled. “You sound like my Daisy. Of course, I would have asked for her help if she was home. But since you are the daughter of one of my dearest friends, God rest her soul, I just knew you’d help me.”

  Lacy held her wineglass lazily, swirling the liquid in the glass, her mind wandering back. She vaguely recalled the pie Wren would bake and bring over soon after her family would roll into Colibri Beach for their summer stay, and that her mother would pull a knife out of the drawer to slice it up. There was coffee, too. Always so much coffee. She could almost smell it.

  Lacy licked her top lip. “What is it that I can do for you, Wren?”

  “Oh! You see, the Sullivans next door to you rent out their house and I try to keep an eye on things for them.”

  “The Sullivans?”

  “You remember them, don’t you? Young couple with hoards of money who own the house on the other side of your family’s? Well, they are quite a bit older now. Off living in New York, I believe. Or is it Long Island?” She released a breathy little sigh along with laughter. “I suppose it really doesn’t matter, now, does it?”

  Lacy nodded her head, as if the motion would somehow encourage Wren to wrap this up. She had some serious navel gazing to do.

  “Anyhoo, the Sullivans now use their spare home as a vacation rental and, boy howdy, do people complain about that. That’s the secret, dear, by the way.”

  “That the house is being used as a short-term rental?” What did she care? For all intents and purposes, she was on vacation too. Except for that bothersome little detail regarding her parents’ will and her obligation to fulfill her part in all of that.

  Wren broke into her thoughts. “Yes. The Colibri Coastal Association is all in a twitter about short-term rentals. Says they’re for addicts and partygoers.”

  “And yet there’s no law against it, correct?”

  “That is true.”

  “So if there’s no law preventing STRs, then there is no way to prevent anyone—the Sullivans, you, me—from renting out our property should we like to do so. Right?”

  “So does this mean you will help me?”

  Lacy shrugged, though there was no one around to see it. “Sure.”

  “Well then, what I need you to do is run the key over to the vacationers when they get here. I also have a map of the area you can give them.”

  “A paper map?”

  “Now don’t you try to tell me they’ll use their smart phones.” Wren tsked. “I want these people to feel welcomed in Colibri, not as if they have to muddle around and try to find things on their own.”

  Tension began to creep up Lacy’s neck. The sooner she ended this call, the quicker she could get back to, well, doing absolutely nothing. Just the thought of an unencumbered moment was … divine.

  “Yes, Wren. I will take care of that for you. I will be over shortly to pick up the key.”

  “Wonderful! Please meet Mr. Johnson at the property at five p.m. I so appreciate this, dear.”

  Lacy swirled the glass in her hand, thinking. How many times had Wren called her “dear”? She frowned, tilting her head. “Wren, before we hang up, I need to ask you something … do you know who I am?”

  “Why, yes. You are one of the Morelli sisters.”

  “Hm. Which one?”

  “Um, let me see.”

  Lacy stuck her tongue into her inner cheek, her frown increasing. “My hair is long and dark and rather straight,” she said. “I used to carry around my camera and take photos of sea life in the mornings. Do you remember now?”

  “Ah, yes. I do. You’re … you’re the one in the middle!”

  Lacy downed the last of her drink. She shut her eyes, released a sigh, and disconnected the call.

  The first time Finn noticed Lacy she was standing in a trade show booth debating a sommelier about the finer points of Syrah, a red wine that she called both assertive and elegant. It was not lost on him that the banner over her booth advertised a hotel with the word “budget” in its name.

  She was better than that.

  He moved closer, intending to surreptitiously pick up her business card from the draped table and be on his way. As he did, she broke free from the rat
her cross wine connoisseur’s stare down, flashed him a sociable smile, and offered him her hand.

  “Lacy Morelli.”

  “Finn Hastings.”

  Her smile, though firmly professional, grew warmer. “A pleasure. How may I help you?”

  In those few minutes of conversation, Finn learned all he needed to know. She was experienced and under-employed, flexible, and savvy. As CEO of Hastings Resorts, Finn knew she would be perfect to take the reins from his brother, Adrian, when he was ready to let them go. For Adrian’s health, Finn hoped that would be sometime soon. Very soon.

  The following week, Finn handed Adrian, who ran his flagship resort property in Las Vegas, Lacy’s card and said, “Hire her.”

  Finn glanced out the tinted window of the Escalade that sped north along the coast, the driver occasionally pointing out spots of interest along the way. “Lots of evening surfers out tonight, sir,” he said at one point. And later, “If you are feeling hungry, I could drive you to a restaurant for a bite.”

  Finn flicked a glance at his wristwatch, anxious to settle in for the night. He’d eaten on the plane, though it was against his usual judgment. At the moment, his gut sank like a boulder. “No, thank you, Robert.”

  He released a sigh. The flight had been uneventful enough, but long, giving him too much time to think. In the end, he was left with a mountain of “what if” scenarios.

  When he had met Lacy, what if …

  He had not recently been through a brutal breakup?

  His mind had not been clouded with doubt and uncertainty?

  He had seen her as a woman, one who wore her Porsche red dress like it had been crafted for her and not just the next person to run his Vegas resort?

  What if … he had not given his little brother time to fall for her so that he could claim her first?

  Finn shut his eyes, the sun still bold, though it was nearly evening. He tried to shut out the cacophony of road sounds punctuated by the occasional musical note coming from the driver’s radio. He could have told him to cut the sound, but why bother? He was only half aware of it anyway, his mind too ensconced in work and past errors in judgment.

  “We should be arriving in Colibri Beach soon, Mr. Hastings. Shall I call ahead?”

  “Call ahead?”

  “To your concierge.”

  Finn scowled. He was headed into a question mark, an area that by the looks of it on a map was a mix of Mayberry and fog. How had his brother learned about this blip of a place and what made him think it would be perfect for a resort like one of his? He preferred the anomaly of sprawling land in an urban setting. Give city people a place to come and unwind in their own backyard. A place that gives tourists an oasis in the middle of madness. He glanced out the window again. This town looked like a different kind of madness: boredom.

  “Sir?”

  Finn startled. “One moment.” He scrolled through his phone looking for information on where he would be staying. He frowned. Only an address and a note that someone would meet him with a key. No contact name at all. Finn sighed. He would have to talk to his new assistant, Helene, about this for the future. “No need to call ahead.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The slip-up from Helene and his failure to notice it until now was the tip of a mountain of issues that needed dealing with, but who could blame him? Six months ago, he’d had the ring and the plan. He would propose to Paige on the anniversary of the night they had met: New Year’s Eve. He had assembled the same friends and associates who had been there that night. Would she notice? Or would her dazzling eyes be on him alone, as his would be on her, so that all other sights were invisible?

  A sarcastic groan left him.

  He never had a chance to find out. Instead, he had walked in on them in the middle of the day, as if he had landed the part of a hapless supporting actor in a two-bit movie of the week. He had given her the key to his penthouse because it was closer to the restaurant than her own place. He thought she might like to change her dress after work and splash on some perfume. He wouldn’t have demanded it—she always looked refreshing and beautiful to him. But he knew her. Or thought he did. So he had made the offer.

  He had forgotten his briefcase that morning, preoccupied by the events of the night ahead. He could have sent his valet back for it. Why hadn’t he? He still remembered the shock of finding Paige with … Brad. Even more than that, oddly, he remembered how he had been smiling idly as he unlocked the door of his apartment and stepped inside, as if he were dwelling on a secret that only he was privy to. That stupid, slaphappy smile. Was that the image she still recalled at the moment their relationship died?

  Finn had learned a huge lesson that day. He had not become a billionaire by ignoring his due diligence! And from now on, that would apply to his love life, if he were to ever pursue one again. Until then, he would use this time to focus on what mattered most: his corporation and its future. This next few weeks, though he still was not sure what could come of it, would be a welcome respite from the usual mania of his life. He hoped that it would do him some good.

  Lacy glanced at the clock, her face twisting into a grimace. It was nearly five. She had picked up the key—and the map Wren had insisted on including—and now she waited. Annoyed. Though she had chosen sales as a career, the draw of introversion had been strong since the moment she landed on the weathered old porch of her parents’ beach house. She had regretted having to come here, to being forced into fighting for her sliver of an inheritance. But now that she was here? She owned it, as in, she suddenly began to wish that she could curl up in a blanket on that old ratty couch and contemplate her life for days.

  Her cell rang and she groaned. Adrian again. “Yes?”

  Adrian grunted. “You sound bored. I’m glad to hear it.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Not bored, just … busy.”

  “Staging? You’re busy staging an old beach house.” His laughter was coarse, loud. “You could do that in your sleep.”

  Lacy stiffened. She wasn’t used to bantering with the boss, her need for professionalism rising. She glanced around at the house’s old decor, the lumpiness of the couch, that ancient map above the scarred-up dining table. Maybe the old homestead was causing her to lose her edge.

  “I apologize, Adrian. What can I do for you?”

  “No apology necessary, but I’m glad you asked what you can do for me.”

  She clamped down on her back teeth, waiting.

  “I’d like you to scout your home town for a new resort.”

  Lacy laughed.

  “Why the laughter? I’m serious.”

  “Um, I don’t need to scout, I can already tell you that this town doesn’t fit the Hastings Resorts aesthetic.”

  “Do it anyway.”

  “Why?”

  Adrian grunted. “Because my big brother is breathing down on me like a hot-aired dragon trying to find new sites, that’s why.”

  How rich. Lacy’s grimace grew deeper. Didn’t Finn Hastings know that Adrian had a heart condition? That he didn’t need his big brother to constantly stress him out with orders to undertake impossible tasks? She seriously needed to end her obsession once and for all with … Finn. So what if he was hot … smoldering, actually. And that every time they were in the same room together, which sadly, wasn’t often enough, she’d had to will herself not to tremble or stare like that first time they’d met.

  Thankfully, when she had met him at that trade show, she’d had the presence of mind to treat him with the same respect and professionalism that she had everyone else. Doing so had become her habit, something she fell into naturally. Keeping her cool had also kept Lacy from melting into a fan girl right there in that trade show booth. She needled her lip as she thought back to that day, a flush of embarrassment catching her by surprise. Good thing she was alone right now.

  Lacy forced herself to exhale. “I’m sorry to hear that, Adrian. Sure. I’ll take a look around and see what kind of properties are available here, if that
would help you.”

  “It would. Immensely.” She could almost hear the smile in his voice.

  If only he would finally take early retirement—due to his medical condition—so she could move into his Director of Sales and Marketing position, as she had been promised. That would be something they could both smile about.

  After the call had ended, Lacy thought more about Finn Hastings and his unreasonable requests. No wonder Adrian had been bothering her so much lately. Must be difficult to be the brother of a billionaire.

  She wrinkled her nose. Technically, she had a billionaire for a brother too—a good guy by all accounts—but who knew how that might change if she were to work for him?

  The roll of tires onto gravel caught her attention. She snapped a look at the clock. Five after five o’clock. Duty called. Lacy found the key and the map, put on her sandals, and slipped out of the door and around to the other side of the house.

  A black Escalade sat in the driveway next door and she wasn’t surprised. The house had been added onto and remodeled, unlike many of the other homes surrounding it, including her family’s. The outside looked more like a Spanish villa than a beach home, with white smooth stucco siding, a gabled turret, and a tile roof.

  A man in a dark suit stepped onto the porch. Middle-aged with a full head of grey hair, he stood poised to knock on the front door.

  “Excuse me,” she said, once she had reached the bottom step. “Mr. Johnson?”

  The man turned around, his gaze registering confusion. Or perhaps it was surprise. Whatever it was, he recovered quickly and flashed her a smile.

  “Yes,” he said. “The house will be for Mr. Johnson. I would like to enter the home and make sure it is suitable for my client before he enters.”