Chapter One
Oliver Perry-Warnes stirred sugar into his coffee, hoping it might improve it, and glanced across the road at the reason he was drinking inferior coffee in a down-at-heel hotel in a village far from his usual city haunts.
Tall, slender, platinum-blonde hair cut into a choppy bob, she was nothing like he’d imagined.
From the tone of her emails, he’d conjured up a battle-axe of a woman. Loud, ferocious and unrelenting. Someone with uncompromisingly short hair, hacked into shape around a face that could kill at ten paces.
He checked her again. Make that three.
Apart from the battle-axe face, he’d got the details right. But he’d been wildly wrong about how they came together. Because the owner of the Perching Parrot Café, Miss Lucy MacLeod, was exceptionally sexy and had the face of an angel. And he considered he had sufficient expertise in this area to back up his judgement.
It also appeared she ran a very popular café — another detail he hadn’t imagined. But then, he didn’t think anyone could have imagined the mural painted over the façade of the antiquated premises, least of all him. He’d always prided himself on his excellent taste. He grimaced at the crude painting of enormous, brightly coloured parrots. It looked like something a school kid had done — a school kid who wasn’t very good at art.
Why on earth would someone with clear business sense run a successful café from such premises? Because the packed tables beneath the awning, the queue at the door and the fast-moving waiting staff all told him that this business was doing very well indeed.
Meanwhile, the Old Colonial Hotel served coffee that ought to be illegal.
Lucy MacLeod remained a puzzle — but one he was determined to solve. Not least because he’d invested too much in the purchase of the decrepit hotel in which he now sat. And it wasn’t only money. His reputation — and the future of the next project, the one he’d been working towards his entire life — depended on it. Oliver Perry-Warnes did not fail.
And yet, with the Old Colonial, he hadn’t even cleared the first hurdle. Public consultation.
The notice he’d arranged to be pinned on the community board had vanished. Local Facebook groups had refused to share the information. Even the local paper had barely mentioned it. Only one person had turned up for the official consultation meeting — the hall’s caretaker.
Which meant he had to deal with the person whose frequent emails and social-media comments suggested she was the ringleader. That that person should have the face of an angel amused him.
He tapped his fingers on the stained Formica as he watched Lucy MacLeod move through her café. She wove between tables, stopping to chat as she served meals. The place was bathed in sunshine, the patrons sheltered beneath the garish awning. The café’s only competition was this hotel and its disgusting coffee, which probably explained everything.
Even commuters paused for takeaways. The staff barely stopped moving. Plates of muffins here, eggs Benedict there. His stomach betrayed him at the smell of bacon even as he automatically calculated her profits. They’d be good.
He’d go over soon enough. But first, he wanted to see what she’d do with the second consultation notice.
He didn’t have to wait long. A few moments later, the dairy owner emerged into the sunshine and beckoned to her. Lucy shaded her eyes and read the noticeboard. Immediately she reached into the bag slung across her body, withdrew a set of keys and unlocked the glass case.
Then — in a performance worthy of a consummate entertainer — she turned to her diners and said something that made them all look up. Whatever it was, brought smiles and a few cheers from her audience. The cheers rose to a crescendo as she took his notice, tore it from top to bottom with so much flair that even he felt like cheering, turned the pieces in her hand and then tore them again. Even the dour couple a few tables away from him smiled and nodded their approval.
Oliver’s jaw clenched. She had them all in the palm of her hand.
He scraped back his chair, pulled out his phone and sent a single message to his assistant.
Initiate Plan C.
By the time he’d finished, Lucy MacLeod had disappeared inside, leaving the dairy owner to pick up the pieces — literally. He recognised her style and, despite everything, respected it.
He pocketed his phone, paid for his untouched coffee and stepped into the sunlight.
While his assistant worked on Plan C, he’d move to Plan B. No one else could help with Plan B because that was all down to him. Charm her. He’d never failed yet.
* * *
He’d moved.
The stranger with the dark hair, dark suit and impenetrable sunglasses was paying his bill. From the look on Brenda’s face, he hadn’t impressed her. That alone intrigued Lucy.
She turned back to the teenagers, who were telling her about a band they’d seen in Wellington the night before. She liked listening to them. She wasn’t much older, in years at least. In experience she felt a lifetime away.
She glanced back across the road. He stood in the sunlight now, checking the street before crossing. Interesting.
Her curiosity had been hooked the moment she’d emerged from the kitchen that morning, flour still on her hands after hours of baking, and spotted him at the hotel window opposite — nursing the same cup of coffee he clearly wasn’t enjoying.
