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"But," Emma interrupted. She stepped around the island to close the distance between them, but misjudged the space. She stopped so close her boot bumped Victoria's expensive leather shoe.

Neither of them stepped back. The scent of vanilla and that cheap hotel soap wrapped around them, making the air in the kitchen feel suffocatingly thick.

Victoria arched an eyebrow, ignoring the sudden spike in her pulse. "I am listening."

"You don't get to sit in a huge penthouse in the heart of Manhattan and wait for me to fail," Emma said. Her voice dropped, carrying that same commanding weight it held in the dark. "If we do this, you are actually doing it. You want to prove this place doesn't work? You get your hands dirty."

Victoria stared at her. "Explain what you mean."

"I mean you share the workload," Emma challenged, stepping into Victoria's space. The scent of lavender and vanilla wrapped around them. "You deal with the guests. You help with the breakfast service. You plunge the temperamental toilets in the east wing. You work the shifts. If you are my business partner, you act like one."

Victoria almost laughed. The idea of waking up at dawn to wait on retired couples was ridiculous. She managed billion-dollar portfolios; she didn't play maid in a drafty house. She opened her mouth to tell Emma she would be managing the UK branch from her laptop in New York.

But Emma tilted her head, a familiar, mocking glint flashing in her eyes.

"What's wrong, Victoria?" Emma whispered, her gaze dropping to Victoria's mouth before snapping back up. "Afraid you can't handle the pressure? Or do you only follow instructions when you're lying on your back naked?"

The sheer audacity of the insult hit Victoria like a physical blow. A surge of adrenaline flooded her system. She actually forgot how to breathe for a second. The urge to grab Emma by the collar and kiss the arrogance right out of her mouth was nearly overwhelming.

Any thought of catching a Friday flight to New York evaporated instantly. If she had to stay in this rainy country for six months to ensure Vance got his land and Emma learned exactly who she was dealing with, she would do it.

Victoria stepped closer, invading the last inch of personal space. She looked down into Emma's defiant eyes, letting the icy composure drop.

"I can handle anything you throw at me," Victoria murmured, letting her voice scrape low. "Do we have a deal, Ms. Hayes?"

Emma held her ground, though she had to fight the urge to step back. A muscle feathered in her jaw. "We have a deal."

"Perfect." Victoria stepped back, letting the distance between them settle like a barrier. She straightened the lapel of her coat, fighting to keep her hands steady.

Emma let out a tight breath, rubbing a flour-dusted wrist across her temple. "I expect you here at six tomorrow morning to go over the inventory. And stop calling me Ms. Hayes. It's Emma. You know my damn name."

Victoria didn't miss the sharp edge in her voice, or the dark flush creeping up Emma's throat. The formal address had hit a nerve, deliberately peeling away the intimacy of the hotel room and replacing it with a wall.

"I'm aware of your name," Victoria said mildly. "There is also no need for me to commute."

Emma paused, her brow furrowing. "What?"

Victoria allowed herself a faint, satisfied smile.

"I'm canceling my room at the Oakbridge tonight," she said, turning toward the kitchen door. "As half-owner of this estate, I’m moving in. Have the master suite in the private wing aired out, Ms. Hayes. I'll need a hand carrying up my bags."

Emma’s jaw dropped, the color draining from her cheeks as the full weight of the demand hit her. Not just working together. Sharing the same hallway, the same quiet walls, the same roof.

Before Emma could find the words to swear at her, Victoria pushed through the scullery door, barely resisting the urge to look back, and walked out into the cool night air.

Chapter Eight

Victoria

Victoria Sterling did not wake up peacefully. She was dragged from a perfectly adequate sleep by what sounded like a dying accordion.

She blinked, staring up at the dark ceiling of the master suite. It was exactly five-thirty in the morning. The accordion was quickly joined by a painfully upbeat fiddle, and then, filtering through the floorboards with horrifying clarity, came the muffled sound of someone singing loudly, and entirely off-key, to Shania Twain.

Victoria closed her eyes and took a long, slow breath through her nose.

It was bad enough waking up knowing the woman who’d left bruises on her hips was just down the hall. Having to process that while someone butchered Shania Twain at five-thirty in the morning was cruel and unusual punishment.

She threw the heavy quilt back. The air in the room was biting, but she didn't allow herself to shiver. If Emma Hayes thought a little noise and a drafty house were going to send her running back to Manhattan, making her lose the bet, she was severely underestimating her opponent.