Книга - Rival’s Challenge

Rival's Challenge
ABBY GREEN


When one night with a stranger turns to more . . .Orla Kennedy doesn’t take risks. But, on the eve of a business deal, nerves lead her to share a drink with a handsome stranger, which results in a night of passion she’ll never forget. Then Orla discovers that the man in question is Antonio Chatsfield — her biggest rival!Antonio might be a war hero to his family, but his life feels as empty as his recently vacated bed. He never wanted to return to The Chatsfield, London, but his sister needs his help. And he’s more than willing, until he meets the woman who came apart in his bed just hours before! Now Antonio’s sights are set on a merger of a different kind…Welcome to The Chatsfield, London!










‘You can give upMr Chatsfield—that became redundant right about the first time I brought you to orgasm last night.’

Orla gasped at his crudeness even as a hot flush seemed to sweep her from head to toe. ‘You’re doing us no favours, Chatsfield. You’re interested in taking my family’s hotel business over purely because it suits some purpose of yours. And I’m going to find out what that purpose is.’

Antonio’s eyes flashed at her continued use of Chatsfield and bit out acerbically, ‘Perhaps if you’d spent less time indulging that wickedly wanton siren you’re so desperately trying to hide underneath that virginal suit today, then you might be a little closer to figuring it out.’








Step into the opulent glory of the world’s most elite hotel, where clients are the impossibly rich and exceptionally famous.

Whether you’re in America, Australia, Europe or Dubai, our doors will always be open …

Welcome to






Synonymous with style, sensation … and scandal!

For years, the children of Gene Chatsfield—global hotel entrepreneur—have shocked the world’s media with their exploits. But no longer! When Gene appoints a new CEO, Christos Giatrakos, to bring his children into line, little did he know what he was starting.

Christos’ first command scatters the Chatsfields to the furthest reaches of their international holdings—from Las Vegas to Monte Carlo, Sydney to San Francisco … but will they rise to the challenge set by a man who hides dark secrets in his past?

Let the games begin!

Your room has been reserved, so check in to enjoy all the passion and scandal we have to offer.

Ref: 00106875

www.thechatsfield.com (http://www.thechatsfield.com)


ABBY GREEN deferred doing a social anthropology degree to work freelance as an assistant director in the film and television industry—which is a social study in itself! Since then it’s been early starts, long hours, mucky fields, ugly car parks and wet-weather gear—especially working in Ireland. She has no bona fide qualifications, but could probably help negotiate a peace agreement between two warring countries after years of dealing with recalcitrant actors. Since discovering a guide to writing romance one day, she decided to capitalise on her long-time love for Mills & Boon


romances and attempt to follow in the footsteps of such authors as Kate Walker and Penny Jordan.

She’s enjoying the excuse to be paid to sit inside, away from the elements. She lives in Dublin and hopes that you will enjoy her stories. You can e-mail her at abbygreen3@yahoo.co.uk (http://abbygreen3@yahoo.co.uk).


Rival’s Challenge

Abby Green






www.thechatsfield.com (http://www.thechatsfield.com)




Family Tree (#ulink_aae65870-d038-5113-94c0-2f9b4eacce55)








This is for Suzanne Clarke—editor extraordinaire. One of the best ones. Thank you for your wisdom and guidance!

This is also for Dermot Cosgrove, who gave me invaluable insight into the French Foreign Legion—thank you! Any mistakes are purely my own.




Table of Contents


Cover (#u80d493e6-6222-58cb-a7ce-7502fb1e15dd)

Excerpt (#u6717aef2-9908-51e6-abe6-370e5efaa6f6)

About the Author (#ud3cce7fd-a69e-56d7-9408-83aede1dc801)

Title Page (#u0469addc-3255-5568-8f6e-00e2b4b165fb)

Family Tree (#ub5c5825f-0388-59ac-87f9-d72011aed5e0)

Dedication (#u814c190a-6b1e-5157-81d7-2c7670d052f8)

Chapter One (#ulink_9f3c8399-cbf9-530e-bade-01d6e60fbcb9)

Chapter Two (#ulink_1f17539d-a77e-5489-9230-fb2148c46555)

Chapter Three (#ulink_da3d5db1-e88a-5729-88c5-9b2273b39eed)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Readers’ Extras (#litres_trial_promo)

Discover The Chatsfield (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_52930eac-4180-5d01-903e-0735b6ee1954)


ANTONIO CHATSFIELD SENT silent not interested vibes to the lustrous dark-haired beauty sitting at the bar with her breasts displayed to prominent advantage in her low-cut dress, her kohl-enhanced eyes firmly on him.

Everything about her jangled at his sensitive nerve ends. She was too obvious. Too smooth. Too polished. This whole place was too polished. He cast a jaundiced glance around the dark and sensual bar space of his family’s London flagship hotel. For the past decade he’d been used to surroundings that were more likely to be made of rubble and scented with the stench of chaos, death and panic. But he pushed those thoughts aside. Not now.

He’d chosen to come here for the dark corners and dim lighting as opposed to drinking himself into a stupor in the hotel suite which he currently called home. He smiled grimly to himself: at least he could appreciate the functionality of wanting to numb himself while in the presence of other humans. His therapist would undoubtedly approve.

That functionality had been hard fought for but even now the familiar feeling of skin-prickling clamminess was never too far away for him to forget completely—the stomach-churning terror that used to grip him at random moments, sparked by something as minor as a dog barking or a loud noise, wrenching him out of the present and back to the cataclysmic past.

But the drink wasn’t having much of an effect this evening. It was as if the acerbity inside him was diluting the effects. Even the woman lost interest now, turning her attention to another man who had just arrived at the other end of the bar. Antonio saw them exchange glances and saw the man indicate for the bartender to order her another drink.

Mentally he saluted them. He’d had enough encounters like that in his time. He just wasn’t in the mood for one right now. Something spiked in his gut; he hadn’t been in the mood for longer than he cared to admit, preferring to bury himself in work to avoid the gaping chasm inside him that he used to fill with meaningless encounters and high-octane danger.

He’d only been back in London for a couple of months, after years in exile, albeit punctuated by trips home. He was back because his family was in a state of crisis. His father had installed Christos Giatrakos as CEO to take charge of the family business—a worldwide string of eponymous luxury hotels that had been the byword in glamour and luxury since the 1920s.

The crisis was one of reputation and potential damage to the exclusive Chatsfield brand. Antonio’s younger siblings, with the exception of his sister Lucilla, who had begged him to come and help, were all seemingly hell-bent on various forms of self-destruction amidst screaming headlines and lurid paparazzi shots. God knew, Antonio had indulged in his fair share of self-destruction along the way. He’d also left home when a lot of them were on the cusp of adulthood, so he could hardly judge them now.

Antonio had turned his back on his inheritance a long time ago and had had no intention of taking up the reins again, especially not when the autocratic Greek CEO wanted him to utilise his military and business expertise under the position of head of strategy to orchestrate the resurrection and expansion of the Chatsfield brand.

But his closest sibling, Lucilla, had begged him to reconsider, indicating that it would be the perfect position from which to help her topple the CEO. Apparently Giatrakos didn’t know better than to let the enemy in through the front gate. And Lucilla’s entreaties had called to that part of Antonio that still wanted to make things better. He felt that he’d left it too long to step in and offer to help his other brothers and sister, who were all fully fledged adults by now, but Lucilla had expressly asked him to help her. She wanted to prove to Giatrakos that they could restore the somewhat tarnished Chatsfield name by covertly taking over a rival hotel business, the Kennedy Group, before the shareholders’ meeting in August, demonstrating that they had no need of an outsider. And if that meant coming back to a place he’d have preferred never to see again, then so be it.

A familiar ache grew in Antonio’s chest to think of his siblings and how none of them, including himself, had ever really had a chance, let down by their parents long ago. He’d done his best for a while, but it hadn’t been enough.

The old wounds of the blazing row he’d had with his father more than ten years ago were still vivid. That was when he’d realised how futile his efforts were and that perhaps the best thing he could do for his family was to walk away and let them get on with it. As his father had reminded him all too succinctly, Antonio wasn’t his brothers’ and sisters’ father and never would be, so he might as well give up trying.

A mirthless smile touched Antonio’s mouth. His sister Lucilla knew him well. She sensed the guilt he felt for having left his family when he had, even though she’d been the one to urge him to go. She also sensed his restlessness, his rootlessness. But perhaps most of all she was counting on his well-ingrained sense of responsibility still being partly intact. They’d been united in a heavy burden the day their mother had left their home, never to be seen from that day to this.

Antonio, despite all of the other mental images he’d accrued over the past decade, each one more horrific than the last, would never be able to erase the image of teenaged Lucilla holding their newborn baby sister in her arms, tears running down her cheeks. Antonio, she’s gone … just left us here. Alone.

Antonio had been too angry and overwhelmed and scared to say anything, so he’d just pulled Lucilla and their baby sister into his arms, vowing to himself that he wouldn’t let the family fall apart. Whatever it took. He was fifteen at the time.

Disgusted to find his thoughts deviating down that unwelcome path, Antonio downed his drink, telling himself he’d be better off in his suite after all and not infecting the clientele with his surly presence. After all, he was trying to help his sister….

But just when he was about to make a move from the stool, the door opened and a woman walked in and Antonio’s head blanked of any intention except to stay where he was.

He wasn’t sure what it was about her that arrested him so powerfully. Maybe it was that she immediately stood out with her paler than pale colouring, made even more noticeable against the stark black of her dress. Maybe it was her long, slim, shapely bare legs and the classic black high heels. Whatever it was, Antonio couldn’t move, his eyes tracking her graceful movements with a precision that had come from years of practice tracking targets that were far more lethal.

She came to the middle of the bar and waited patiently for the bartender to attend her. She had vibrant bright red hair, caught up in a high bun, showing off her delicate neck. A heavy blunt fringe was swept a little to one side; her eyes looked blue, but dark. Her dress was all at once discreet and sexy. It was silk and draped her from neck to mid-thigh, cinched in at the waist.

She had slender arms and delicate wrists. Short functional nails painted with clear polish. A black clutch bag. Diamond stud earrings and no other jewellery. Antonio realised that she wasn’t as tall as he’d imagined—he’d guess about five foot four without the heels. Petite.

Instantly that awareness of her inherent feminine fragility caused a slow burn in his groin, sending blood to his penis, thickening and hardening the shaft of flesh. Antonio had to move slightly to accommodate his body, mildly frustrated that he was being so easily stimulated when he’d felt dead inside at the other woman’s far more obvious charms.

From what he could tell under the loose-fitting silk of the dress, this woman’s breasts were small. Maybe small enough not to wear a bra. Just then she moved slightly and Antonio realised that there was a slash in the front panel of her dress from the neck to just under her breasts, so discreet you mightn’t notice, but he did. He also noticed a tantalising curve of one pale breast, pert and firm.

Desire engulfed him, swift and debilitating, as he imagined sliding a hand into that gap of material and cupping her breast, feeling the scrape of her hard nipple against his palm.

Orla Kennedy stood at the bar and tried not to let the prickle of self-consciousness make her run back out the original Lalique-panelled door of the seriously intimidating dark and decadent 1920s bar. She reminded herself stoutly that she was here for Dutch courage and to gain precious inside knowledge ahead of her meeting, so she couldn’t give up just because she felt as if every single pair of eyes was on her, singling her out as a sad woman drinking alone. Or worse, she realised when she saw a man and woman obviously flirting at the other end of the bar, that she was here to pick up a man!

Orla glanced furtively around her, picking out some more couples at the intimate tables and a group of city boys in suits sitting at a table along the wall near the back of the bar. She breathed a sigh of relief that no one seemed to be laughing and pointing at her and decided to sit on a stool at the bar, noting that she could take in what was happening through the antique mirror on the opposite wall.

The handsome bartender put her drink in front of her with a wink and Orla thanked him, signing it to her room. She took a sip but still felt that slightly uncomfortable prickling sensation, as if someone was watching her.

Maybe it hadn’t been a good idea to book a room at the Chatsfield Hotel ahead of her meeting with them tomorrow. She’d thought, in a light-bulb moment of inspiration, that it would serve her to get a measure of the people who seemed to be intent on taking over her own family’s ailing hotel business. Not that she needed to stay at the hotel to know of its well-documented luxuriousness and exclusivity.

However, its reputation had taken a dent in recent times, thanks to the scandalous exploits of the Chatsfield heirs and heiresses. Orla’s soft mouth firmed to think of how they seemed determined to acquire chains in distress. Namely, the Kennedy Group, started up and owned by her father. He’d begun in Ireland in the sixties with a small hotel in the west of Ireland and through sheer grit and determination had built up an empire—helped along by the famed boom years. By then Patrick Kennedy had moved operations to England with his wife and young daughter, Orla.

Unfortunately the economic downturn hadn’t been kind to them and a series of hotel closures had severely diminished their overall worth, making them vulnerable to takeover bids. They were nowhere near the league of the Chatsfield empire, but Orla could see how they would be an attractive prospect to add to the Chatsfield portfolio, as they weren’t too far removed with their good reputation and discreetly exclusive clientele. Which was why she was here now, trying to get a feel for their adversary. And, she realised with a sinking feeling, all it was doing was driving home just how intimidating a task she was facing.

The feeling of being watched was so intense at that moment that Orla looked to her left and the breath left her mouth in a gasp when she saw a man deep in the shadows, at the corner of the bar, watching her intently. He didn’t look away. And, to her rising mortification, neither could she.

It was the shock of colliding with that dark unsettling gaze, of not noticing him before now, that held her enthralled. She wondered how she could have missed him. He commanded the space around him. He was dark and broad. Short thick hair. Dramatic masculine features. Almost harsh. An unsmiling grim mouth, but full lips, his top one slightly fuller, and suddenly Orla was fixated on his mouth, and wondering what it would feel like to have those unsmiling lips touch hers.

The realistion of what she was doing—staring at a complete stranger’s mouth and wondering what it would be like to kiss him—hit Orla squarely in the chest and she almost fell off the stool she was so embarrassed. Cheeks flaming, she swung her guilty gaze back to her drink and then knew she couldn’t stay there spotlit under the bar’s lights, dim as they were.

Aghast that the man might have misconstrued her look, she gathered up her bag and the drink and moved to one of the tables against the wall which was covered in dark opulent velvet. She chose to sit at the wall, on the banquette seat, and breathed a sigh of relief to be slightly more hidden, cursing herself that she hadn’t had the sense to just come in and choose a seat and let her order be taken.

She noticed her heart was thumping harder than usual, a queer fluttering low in her abdomen, and looked over to where the man was again, confident that he wouldn’t see her now. But she could see him and he was still looking at her. Orla’s pulse raced. She’d never experienced this before. It felt earthy, wicked, sexy.

Against the silk of her dress, her bare breasts peaked, making tremors of awareness shoot up and down her body. She’d only realised when she’d unpacked that she hadn’t brought the bra she had to wear with this dress. And she’d had to wear the dress as she didn’t want to look too conspicuous in the bar in the trouser suit she’d brought for the meeting tomorrow.

She’d figured that the loose material would hide the fact that she was braless as she was lucky enough, or unlucky enough, that her breasts were on the small side. But now, she felt as if she might as well be naked and was acutely aware of the gap in the material which usually showed only a discreet glimpse of the bra but which would now show skin if someone looked hard enough. Like the man. He’d been looking hard enough. Instant heat moistened between Orla’s legs and she squirmed.

She resolutely diverted her gaze from the man and looked down, hunching her shoulders slightly for fear of giving anyone else the slightest bit of encouragement.

On top of all of the awareness coursing through her body which she couldn’t seem to dampen down was the disbelief that she had even attracted the gaze of such a man. From what she’d seen he looked like the type who would go for the far more busty lady who was now practically sitting in her partner’s lap. Any minute now they would leave and Orla felt a twinge of something like envy for a second before squashing it with disgust.

OK, so it had been a while since she’d had sex. More than a year to be precise. And it had been a good while before that, if ever, that she’d had any kind of sex to write home about. And maybe she had never had a relationship that lasted longer than a few weeks. But the men she met didn’t seem so enamoured when they found out that her passion for her family business came first.

Orla had contented herself that her career was her bedfellow. And up till right now it had been perfectly satisfactory. If a little lonely and frustrating when she saw amorous couples come into her hotel for romantic weekends and then leave a couple of days later looking sated and dreamy-eyed. So why was she thinking of this all of a sudden and feeling hot and unsatisfied inside?

Because of a stranger’s blatantly interested gaze. God. What was wrong with her? He was probably the type of guy to hook up with anything with a—

‘Do you mind if I join you?’

Orla’s head snapped up so fast she heard a bone crack in her neck. For a second it was as if someone had just hit her. Everything receded and then rushed back. The man was standing there. In a dark suit and white open-necked shirt. He was astonishingly gorgeous up close, and he was enormous. All over. Ridiculously tall … six foot three? Six foot four?

Orla was so stunned that she couldn’t speak. He clearly took that as encouragement and sat down opposite her, in the velvet upholstered bar chair. She could only gape at him. His sheer nerve. The fact that he was right there in front of her.

He put his drink on the small table and that seemed to jolt Orla back to some kind of reality. She looked to the left and right and then hissed in his direction, ‘I did not say you could sit down.’

Her heart was beating so fast she was breathless. Giddy with a rush of something that felt disturbingly like excitement. Disgusted at herself for this rampant reaction, she went to stand up but the man just said urgently in a deep and mesmerising voice, ‘Please don’t leave.’

His voice tugged at her nerve endings, making them tingle. Orla stopped and looked at him. She felt breathless all over again. He really was huge. Broad and powerful. Even more arrestingly masculine up close, his features defined and stamped with virility. And then she realised his accent wasn’t foreign. She frowned. ‘You’re from here?’

He nodded. ‘Yes. Why?’

‘You just …’ Orla went hot in the dim light when she realised she was giving away the fact that she’d thought about him for more than a fleeting moment. ‘You look foreign.’

His mouth tipped up on one side, drawing Orla’s eyes to it.

‘I’m half Italian, half English.’

‘Oh …’

‘And you?’

Almost slightly stupefied, Orla answered, ‘Irish … born there but brought up here.’

‘That would explain your red hair.’

Orla looked into his eyes and wondered what colour they were. They appeared black in this light and she shivered slightly, suddenly aware of a hardness to this man she’d not noticed before. A latent sense of danger.

And then she remembered where she was and stiffened again. ‘Would you please leave? I did not ask you to join me.’

There was a taut silence between them and he didn’t move. Huffing, Orla made to move again. ‘Fine, well, if you can’t have the courtesy to move, then I will.’

But his hand snaked out and wrapped around her wrist and Orla felt as if a lightning bolt of heat went straight to her groin.

‘Please … you’ll be doing me a huge favour if you can just pretend that we know each other for a minute.’

Orla looked at him. Speechless and not just because of his hand on her wrist that felt hot and big. She pulled free and held her arm to her chest in an unconsciously defensive gesture. She narrowed her eyes on him. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘See that woman at the bar?’

Orla glanced over to where he had inclined his head slightly and saw the woman who had been wrapped around the other man like a vine. He was gone and she was alone again.

‘Yes, I see her,’ Orla supplied somewhat reluctantly.

‘Well, I’m afraid that I was going to be next on her hit list.’

Orla looked at the man and her eyes widened. He had a look on his face that was downright … pathetic. Big eyes, all innocence. Orla felt a very scary falling sensation inside her chest. He was flirting with her. Outrageously. Her nipples tightened into hard tight buds and Orla crossed her arms for fear they’d stand out like beacons against the thin silk of her dress. She put on her most severe expression. The one that usually had staff scurrying in all directions.

‘And you’re trying to make me believe that you’re not strong enough to stand up to a little bitty woman?’

He lifted a brow and that elevated his face from gorgeous to downright sexy. ‘Not working, no?’

Orla shook her head and couldn’t stop her own mouth twitching ever so slightly. She saw movement behind the man and observed dryly, ‘I think you’re safe now—her current victim looks like he was just on a toilet break.’

The man didn’t look behind him, but Orla realised when he looked up that he could see through the reflection of the venetian glass over the banquette seat as it was tilted slightly down towards the seating area. He looked back at her and smiled. ‘There goes my cunning ruse to have an excuse to talk to you.’

Butterflies exploded in Orla’s belly. She could insist on getting up to go, but right now she was curiously loath to. This man was a smooth charmer, but he also had an intriguing rough edge too, and there was no doubt about it, but something deeply feminine within her felt like it was blossoming in the heat of his regard. Coming back to life.

As if sensing her weakening, he said, ‘Can I buy you a drink for disturbing your peace?’

Orla hesitated. She had the funny sense that her peace was about to be disturbed in a very profound way. And that if she pushed for him to leave again he’d go. There was something innately proud about him.

But what harm was a drink? Feeling sensitised and more alive than she could remember feeling in a long time—if ever—she uncrossed her arms and shrugged minutely and took a mental step over a line. ‘Sure, why not?’

As if like magic, to prevent her changing her mind, an immaculately clad waiter appeared to take their orders. The man didn’t take his eyes off Orla and the waiter left. She was feeling breathless again, all hot and liquid inside.

A very feminine dampness was growing between her legs and she crossed them in a moment of self-consciousness. His eye immediately went to one pale thigh and Orla cursed her choice of dress. She put her hands on her leg and he looked back up, a smile making his mouth quirk again as if he knew exactly how awkward she felt.

He sat back. ‘So … tell me, you’re here on business?’

Orla nodded. She really didn’t want to get into anything that reminded her of the reality she faced. The inevitable takeover of her family business. So she said, ‘I’m in sales …’

Which was pretty much true. Along with marketing, management, PR, entertainment, travel, diplomacy …

The man grimaced and said, ‘I’m in acquisitions. It’s a grind, isn’t it?’

Orla regarded him suspiciously. This man looked no more like a banal businessman caught up in the daily grind than Santa Claus in full flight with all the reindeer. But she sensed intoxicatingly as if they’d both tacitly agreed to pretend to be something, someone, else.

She was about to respond when something unpalatable occurred to her. She glanced at his left hand and didn’t see a ring, but that didn’t mean anything. ‘Are you married?’

He shook his head and the faintly sick expression that passed over his features assured her even more than when he said, ‘No …’

Then he frowned. ‘Are you?’

Orla shook her head quickly and repressed a shudder. No way was she ever getting married so that some man could come and take half of the business she’d worked so hard to build up with her father. She’d seen the detrimental effects a marriage had on a business. ‘No,’ she said quickly, emphatically.

‘Well, as we’ve established that we’re both free and single … where were we?’

Orla repressed a shiver of awareness, of pure physical longing, and the feeling that she wasn’t in control of what was happening at all. She forced her mind to operate. ‘We were in sales and acquisitions, I believe.’ And why did that suddenly sound so … suggestive?

‘Ah, yes …’

The waiter returned then with their drinks. Whisky for both of them.

The man lifted his glass and tipped it towards her. ‘To chance encounters.’

Orla lifted her glass too, and said, ‘To very forward men with pathetic chat-up lines.’

He smiled. And so did she. They took a drink and Orla relished the smooth feel of the liquid running down her throat. Warming her up. She felt unbearably sensual all of a sudden. Languorous.

‘Perhaps we should exchange names?’

Orla’s chest tightened. Names were real. They would root this in reality and she suddenly didn’t want that.

Far more lightly than she felt, she said, ‘I think introductions are overrated. We’ll most likely never meet again. What’s the point?’

His eyes glinted in the dim light. A tiny smile tipped up one corner of his mouth. ‘We don’t have to divulge real names if you don’t want to. But I would like to call you … something.’

Orla went hot again. So that he could call her something in the throes of passion? The wicked thought made her pulse spasm between her legs.

He held out a hand then, a mischievous look in his eye. ‘I’m Marco.’

Orla put her hand in his and for a second her mind blanked when his big one enclosed hers completely. When she felt the calluses on his skin.

‘I’m … Kate.’

‘Nice to meet you, Kate …?’

Orla smiled at his obvious query as to her second name and pulled her hand free. ‘Just Kate.’

He nodded. ‘Kate Kate, it is. And I’m Marco Marco.’

Lord. No man Orla had ever met came close to this man. He enveloped her in sexual awareness. She felt energised. Alive.

‘You have a meeting here tomorrow?’

Immediately Orla rejected another reminder of reality. She shook her head. ‘Let’s … not talk about tomorrow.’

He went still and his eyes narrowed on her face. She could see him look at her mouth and she imagined she could feel it tingle.

He said with a rough edge to his voice, ‘No real names and no tomorrow. You’re right. The present is so much more interesting.’

He leant forward, glass in his hand. ‘I was about to leave when you walked in.’

Orla’s heart hitched. ‘You were?’

He nodded. ‘But then I saw you and I stopped.’

Mesmerised by his dark gaze, Orla asked faintly, ‘Why did you stop?’

‘Because you captivated me.’

‘Oh …’ For a long moment she said nothing, could only look at his mouth as a tight wire of need seemed to link to the insistent throbbing between her legs.

‘This is where you say you noticed me too …’ Marco supplied helpfully.

Orla’s eyes rose. She felt dizzy. She was losing it. No longer herself. ‘I didn’t see you at first…. I don’t know why.’

The man’s mouth flattened for a second. ‘I was hidden. In the shadows.’

Orla nodded slowly. Something touched her—as if what he was saying had a deeper resonance. ‘You were…. That’s why I didn’t see you. At first.’

Orla couldn’t stop talking. ‘And then when I did … I couldn’t look away.’

She blushed now and clasped her drink in two hands. ‘But I didn’t want you to think I was encouraging you.’

‘Don’t worry,’ came the dry response. ‘You gave a fairly frosty signal to stay away.’

She looked up, incensed. ‘I’m not frosty!’

He got all heavy-lidded. ‘I know …’

Orla went hot all over. Her nipples ached now they were so tight. Her belly clenched with need. She’d never been this turned on in her life.

The bar space was like a dark decadent cocoon. Orla glanced around and noticed that the table of men had left. So had the amorous couple at the bar. There was only one other remaining older couple, and she hadn’t even noticed. She felt a jolt of shock.

Marco lifted his glass and downed what was left of his drink in one go. For a second Orla had the wrenching sensation that he was going to leave and the feeling of rejection of that idea stunned her. She didn’t even know this man!

He put his glass down and Orla took a quick fortifying sip of hers. He looked at her for a long intense moment and she couldn’t even break the tension because it resonated within her. She wanted this man with an urgency that was completely alien. And thrilling.

His voice was deep. ‘I wanted you from the moment you walked in. I want you so much I ache with it. And I can’t remember the last time I wanted a woman this badly.’

Orla’s mouth went dry. The sum total of their physical contact so far had been his hand on her wrist to restrain her from leaving, but she knew that if he put his mouth anywhere near hers she would go up in flames.

Something about his brutal honesty connected with her. It was so much more seductive than if he’d insisted on some meaningless patter for another half an hour when they both knew that what was happening between them was crazy. Unreal. Unprecedented.

Feeling shaky at the thought of even contemplating what she was contemplating, Orla said, ‘I … I want you too.’

His eyes flashed and the throbbing heat between her legs intensified and she had to fight to stay still when she wanted to move around and ease the ache somehow.

She blurted out, ‘But … I didn’t come down here to meet someone, for a one-night stand.’

He looked deadly serious. ‘I know.’

His eyes on hers, hypnotising her, he said, ‘I’m going to get up and pay for these drinks at the bar. If you want to leave, I won’t stop you. But if you don’t …’

He didn’t have to finish. If she didn’t … she would spend the night with this man. In his bed. After a long charged moment, he stood up, reminding Orla of just how powerful and tall he was, calling to that deeply feminine part of her that exulted in the sheer biology of a potentially strong and virile mate. She’d never met someone so intensely masculine who made her feel so female.

Then he turned and went to the bar with a fluid grace that made Orla stare after him helplessly. Her mind went into turmoil. She had so much to think about—papers for the meeting tomorrow that she should go over. The reality of facing the demise of her family business. And yet, right here, right now, it all seemed very far away and not that important.

Somehow she got up and grabbed her bag. She was struggling to hang on to sanity, elusive as it was. She felt hot, feverish. Excited, scared. She couldn’t just let this man take her to his room. It was crazy, ridiculous. Dangerous.

Determined not to be led by her suddenly out of control hormones, Orla intended to leave the bar so that when he finished paying she’d be gone.

But just when she drew level with the tables nearest the bar she couldn’t help looking up and her gaze clashed immediately with a dark one reflected in the mirror behind the bar. Her heart stopped. Her breath got short and choppy.

His face was unreadable, those eyes so dark that she couldn’t make out the expression, but she couldn’t look away. Much like when she’d seen him first.

She realised that he’d already paid. He’d been watching her for the past couple of minutes, waiting to see what she’d do. Giving her the chance to go if she wanted to. And suddenly, something deep inside her rebelled. Broke free. She wanted this man so badly she ached all over. So she stood there. Didn’t move. It passed between them, unspoken but there. Yes.

Slowly he turned around and the full force of his physicality hit her between the eyes. Without a word he came towards her and took her free hand in his. Then he led her out of the bar.

In a daze, Orla let him lead her to the lift. Once inside they were alone. To her surprise, he let her go and leant back against the opposite wall. In the brighter lights of the lift he was even more intimidating. His skin was a dark olive, his eyes a very dark brown. For a second sanity threatened to return and then as the lift ascended he said in a low rough voice, ‘Show me your breast.’

His voice was commanding and any remaining sanity melted away and was replaced with heat. For a second Orla couldn’t take in his words and then she followed his gaze and looked down to see where her dress was gaping open slightly, showing skin.

Infused with a heady and hot sense of something very wicked, Orla lifted her hand and slowly pulled one side of the silk dress open, revealing one pale breast. Her fingers brushed against her tingling nipple and she had to bite her lip to stop a sound of reaction coming out of her mouth.

She stared at him, her cheeks burning with a mixture of shame and intoxification. His eyes were black, smouldering, cheekbones darkening with a rush of blood. Her nipple tightened, the aureole puckered.

The lift shuddered lightly to a halt. Marco’s eyes glittered as he dragged his gaze back up. Orla dropped her hand and the dress went back into place. The doors opened and he took her hand again, tightly, leading her out. She almost had to jog to keep up with his much longer stride.

He stopped at the end of the corridor and opened the door with a key card. They went in. Orla dimly registered that the room was palatial and had an astounding view. As soon as the door closed behind them, Marco let Orla’s hand go to rip off his jacket, throwing it in the direction of a chair.

Her back was against the door. He turned to face her and she looked up at him, in awe all over again at his sheer size. He made her feel tiny, delicate. Desire pounded through her in waves.

He stopped for a second and asked tautly, ‘Are you sure you want this?’

Orla had made her decision back in the bar when she’d met that black gaze in the mirror. She swallowed and tried to inject her voice with as much insouciance as she could muster considering this was the boldest thing she’d ever done in her life.

‘I’m here, aren’t I?’




CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_0626aa9f-f06c-5078-bf1a-7e3e64d2d0a0)


I’M HERE, AREN’T I? The sparky husky words washed over and through Antonio, ratcheting up the exquisite knife-edge of arousal in his body. He’d never been brought so close to the edge before, when he’d barely touched this woman!

For a split second something inside him contracted when he realised just how far out of his zone of control he already was, but he couldn’t focus on it. All he could see was this woman’s, Kate’s, mouth, plump and kissable.

He put his hands on the door over her head, caging her in slightly, angling his body forward. She was looking up at him, eyes huge. Lashes long and dark.

‘Take down your hair.’ He wanted to see it fall around her shoulders.

After a slight hesitation she lifted her hand and huffed slightly. ‘Has anyone told you you’re awfully bossy?’

Antonio’s mouth quirked when he thought of the platoons of elite soldiers he’d commanded. ‘Frequently.’

She pulled at something and then her hair was falling down in soft silken skeins around her shoulders, its colour vivid even in the dim light. Antonio dropped a hand and took some strands between his fingers. He’d never felt anything so fine, so soft. A dim and distant damaged reflex of his memory wanted to break this moment apart but he wouldn’t let it rise. He utilised the exercises that had brought him back from the brink of madness and focused on her, on her smell. Musk and roses. All at once ethereal and earthy.

Unable to resist the torture any longer, he let her hair slide through his hand and trailed his fingers across the delicate line of her jaw. He saw the pulse quicken at the base of her neck and felt his body throb in response.

Tipping her chin up with only the slightest of pressure from his fingers, he dropped his head and his mouth touched hers. Sensations exploded behind his eyes. Hers were still open too, dark blue. He’d noticed that in the lift. Like dark violets. Emitting a growl at his own restraint which was barely hanging on by a thread, he closed his eyes and deepened the kiss, feeling that lush mouth soften even more under his, opening to him, inviting a deeper intimacy.

When their tongues touched it was like an electric shock. He felt small hands reach out to grab his shirt; his chest shuddered at even that fleeting touch. Unable to hold back from what he’d wanted to do all evening, Antonio dropped his other hand and found the gap in the front of Kate’s dress. He slid his hand in and cupped her bare breast, feeling the hard nub scrape his palm, and he felt feral with need, cupping, squeezing that flesh, fingers pinching at the peak, making it harder. Her skin was like silk. Warm and soft.

Through the roaring of blood in his head, he could feel her body moving closer to his, hear her moans coming from deep within her. He caught her round the waist with his arm; she felt tiny and fragile and it called to something deeply masculine within him, a primal part that had gone long unused. The material of her dress was slippery and he pulled her into him, against where his flesh was so stiff and hard.

Orla dragged her mouth from Marco’s and gazed into glittering eyes. She was breathing hard. She was plastered against him, on tiptoe, and she could feel him, long and hard and thick, against her belly. Her mind blanked. She knew he was a big man. But he felt huge. An explosion of damp heat made her even wetter.

He was breathing harshly too, his chest moving rapidly. His hand was still on her breast.

Feeling completely wanton, Orla got out roughly, ‘I want to see you.’ She could give orders too.

Marco drew his hand out from under her dress and Orla had to bite her lip not to grab his hand and put it back on her hot flesh. Slowly he started to undo his buttons and Orla’s eyes followed their progress as his chest was slowly revealed bit by bit. Her eyes widened when he pulled his shirt off completely and it fell to the floor.

Magnificent was too banal a word for the perfection in front of her. He was a warrior. Surely descended from ancient warriors. His chest was massive. Rock-hard. Muscles clearly delineated and rippling. Dark hair dusted his pectorals and descended in a line under the belt of his trousers. Orla’s gaze dropped farther and she saw the bulge pushing against the material. She gulped.

‘Now you,’ came the throaty command.

Orla looked up again. Mouth dry, she reached behind her for the small button at the top of the back of her dress. She released it and held the dress in place for a moment before taking a deep breath and letting it fall forward and down, held in place now only by the belt.

Marco’s gaze felt hot on her skin. Her breast that he’d touched still throbbed.

‘You’re so beautiful.’ He reached out a hand and traced the aureole of her other breast with a finger. Orla bit back a groan, her eyes closing because it was sensory overload to take in both the sight of him and the feel of him. Her skin puckered tight.

And then her eyes flew open and she gasped with shock when she felt the hot sucking heat of his mouth. Orla’s hand went to his head, fingers stabbing deep into thick hair. His skull was hard and his mouth was pure wicked torture. She sagged back against the door, her legs increasingly shaky.

‘Marco …’ she panted. ‘I don’t think I can keep standing.’

Her legs were wobbling in earnest now. He lifted his mouth off her breast and she cursed her weakness. But then he straightened and scooped her into his arms as if she weighed no more than a feather. She put her hand to his chest, the muscles bunching and moving under her palm. For a woman who prided herself on being strong and authoritative, being held like this struck at that deep feminine chord within her.

He carried her in through the suite to the bedroom where one small lamp was on by the bed. Orla noticed stuff around the place—books, clothes—but she barely took it in; the strength and power in the body that held her was awesome. She faintly wondered if he might be an athlete.

Marco put her down on the bed and trailed his hands down her legs, slipping her shoes off so they fell on the floor with a soft thud. Then those hands came back up her legs and he pushed them apart, standing between them, at the edge of the bed.

Orla’s breath quickened. His hands were on her thighs now, huge. His thumbs climbing higher and higher to where her body would tell him just how badly she wanted him too.

She felt embarrassed by what her body was about to reveal. Impetuously she said, ‘Don’t!’

He stopped. ‘Don’t what?’

Orla turned her head away, desire thick in her body, but feeling exposed in a way she’d never felt before. No man had ever made her feel this out of control.

In a small voice she said, ‘I don’t want you to know….’

‘Know what?’

She looked back at him, the words trembling on her lips—how much I want you—but she held them back, saying instead, huskily, ‘I don’t even know you.’

Marco’s hands didn’t move. He just stared at her in the dim light and then presciently answered her unspoken words. ‘I know…. It’s the same for me.’

He took his hands off her thighs and immediately Orla wanted them back on her. Instead they were on his belt and he was opening it, sliding it through the buckle with a sibilant hiss of leather through fabric. Now he was opening his trousers, hands disappearing under the waist, pushing them down, taking his briefs with them.

All the breath in Orla’s body seemed to disappear as she took him in. Massive and aroused. Moisture beading at the tip of his erection.

‘See …’ he said with a funny tight quality to his voice, ‘how much I want you? It’s mutual.’

He came between her legs again and Orla could only lie back and let him replace his hands on her thighs. They moved upwards until they formed a V at the juncture of her thighs. She fought not to squirm against them, as if to guide him to touch her more intimately.

And then, his eyes smouldering, he pulled aside her panties and stroked his fingers along her very damp cleft. He said something in a language she didn’t understand. It sounded guttural, French. But not like any French she’d ever heard.

She closed her eyes, her entire body going as taut as a bowstring as he stroked her and then slipped a finger inside her. Her back arched off the bed; she gasped out loud, hands clenching at thin air.

He came down beside her, the bed dipping with the weight of his big frame. One finger became two inside her and his mouth found her breast and suckled roughly. Orla wanted to scream. She was spiralling faster and faster towards the peak, her hips jerking against his hand. And without warning it broke over her and inside her, the most powerful orgasm she’d ever experienced. It was so mind-altering that she wondered if what she’d experienced before had even been an orgasm.

Marco’s hand stilled against her as her pulsating body came back to earth. Orla felt disorientated; she opened her eyes and saw him like a Greek god beside her. His hands went to the belt on her dress and he undid it, far more dextrously than Orla would have managed it right now. To her mortification, she knew she was trembling with the force of what had just happened.

Then he was pulling back and tugging her dress down over her hips and off. Now she wore only her panties and he slipped them off too. Orla saw him reach for something and heard a ripping sound. A condom. He was about to smooth it onto his erection and Orla felt a burst of desire. ‘Wait.’

He stopped and looked at her and she could see what pleasuring her had cost him when she could see the sweat on his brow, the strain on his face.

A wicked inner sorceress she’d not known she even had inside her said, ‘Let me.’

Tonight she was Kate. Tonight reality didn’t exist, or it did but it was part of a fantasy she wasn’t even aware existed in her mind. Tonight she could be someone else.

She came up on her knees, thankful that they didn’t collapse because all her limbs felt like jelly. She took the condom out of his fingers and came closer to the edge of the bed. He was so tall that all she had to do was reach out and roll it over that thick length, the veins standing out in bold relief under delicate skin.

Orla bit her lip when she hit the base of his shaft, and then his hands were on her arms and he was gently pushing her back down onto the bed, her legs folding underneath her.

‘Sweetheart, if you keep touching me and looking at me like that, this will be over before we’ve even started. I can’t hold on.’

Marco scooted her back onto the bed, and pushed her legs apart and lowered his body into the cradle of hers. Holding her breath, Orla felt that thick head push into her body, stretching her, impossibly. Even though she couldn’t have been more ready. She sucked in a breath and felt him thrust a little deeper.

‘You’re so small. I don’t want to hurt you.’

He was. Almost. But not quite. Orla was hovering on the threshold between pain and pleasure. She drew up her legs beside his thighs and said, ‘You’re not.’

Something about his concern and the gentleness of someone so huge made Orla feel quivery inside. She wouldn’t have expected it of him from that first intimidating sight of him in the shadows of the bar.

He thrust a little deeper and the pain flared for a second before being replaced with something more tantalising. Slowly, Marco started to move in and out, his chest rubbing against Orla’s breasts, making their sensitised tips tingle.

Her breath got quick again. She moved her legs to wrap them around his hips and he slid deeper. He still wasn’t in all the way though, and he moved his hand between them, his thumb finding that sensitive clump of cells and rubbing rhythmically against her, making her moan.

And then he slanted his mouth over hers, and as if a dam broke within her, Orla felt something release, and Marco slid deep inside her, touching every single nerve point in her body. Or at least that was what it felt like.

Her legs tightened reflexively around Marco’s lean waist, her body spasmed with a rush of pleasure and as he thrust in and out their tongues sucked and licked and tasted. They were joined at every possible point and Orla truly didn’t know where she ended and he began because it felt for the first time in her life as if she was whole, as if a missing part of her had slid home.

The tempo increased and Orla could feel her body clasping at him with the onset of another orgasm, even more powerful than the last. Their bodies grew slick with perspiration. Orla dug her heels into Marco’s hard muscled backside and with a strangled roar he thrust one final time, the tendons in his neck standing out as they both hovered on the brink of something earth-shattering. And when it hit them simultaneously, it was like a force of nature, sweeping everything aside, obliterating any previous experience in the blinding white heat of pleasure.

Antonio blacked out for a moment. Literally lost consciousness. And then came back to himself within seconds, breathing harshly, his body embedded in Kate’s … held in her tight clasp. He could still feel the spasmodic pulsations of her inner body around his length and extricated himself with a wince of pain and pleasure.

He looked at the woman under him; she was staring up at him with the same stunned expression that he figured was on his face.

He rasped out, ‘OK?’

Silently, she nodded. Her cheeks were flushed, hair a tangle of glorious red around her head. Antonio found it within himself to move so that he could pull the covers over her. And then he said, ‘I’ll be back in a second.’

He stood up, and to his consternation, his legs felt distinctly weak as he walked to the bathroom where he dealt with the protection. He stood at the sink afterwards and looked at himself. His face was flushed too, eyes glittering brightly. But he felt altered in some indefinable way. Which was crazy. It had been sex. Just sex. The hottest sex he’d ever had, a small voice pointed out. Even so, it was just sex.

He’d hooked up with women like that many times before, preferring short encounters with mature, experienced, willing females with no strings attached. This was no different. They hadn’t even told each other their real names, for crying out loud! But it felt different. He rubbed absently at his chest where he felt an ache growing and frowned at himself. Splashing water on his face, he cursed this moment of introspection and went back into the room to see Kate on her side, curled up, facing away from the bathroom. And the ache in his chest intensified. Had he hurt her? She was so small.

He padded over and pulled back the cover, sliding into the bed. He saw her shoulders tense and something in him rejected that. He needed to see her. He put a hand on her shoulder, feeling the delicate bones, and tugged gently. After some resistance, she rolled over, holding the sheet over her chest.

She was pale now, biting her lip. Eyes huge. Antonio felt a punch to his gut. ‘Did I hurt you?’

She shook her head and said in a low voice, ‘No. It’s just … I’ve never … It’s never been like that. For me. So intense.’

Relief made the feeling in Antonio’s gut subside. He couldn’t help a small smile as he automatically reached out to push some hair back from her smooth cheek. ‘Me too.’

She narrowed her eyes then and said with a touch of acerbity, ‘I bet you say that to all the girls.’

Antonio looked at her. ‘And I bet you say that to all the guys.’

She shrugged a shoulder minutely. ‘Maybe.’

A lightness infused the atmosphere now, dispelling the intensity of a few moments ago, and Antonio growled softly, ‘You’ll pay for that.’

And then the implication of what she’d just said hit him and suddenly the thought of another man touching her made him see red. It made him gather her into his body and clamp his mouth to hers with a feral sound from deep within him. He didn’t want her to think of any other man after tonight. Only him. He wanted to brand himself on her.

With a soft sigh he felt her resistance melt away as their kisses got more and more heated, the fire in their bodies igniting again. The sheet was quickly dispensed with and Antonio drew Kate’s slim supple body over his, spreading her thighs either side of him.

Urgently before he donned protection he asked, ‘Are you too sore?’

Kate had her hands braced on his chest, her arms pushing her small pert breasts together and forward. Everything in Antonio was screaming for release. Already. Again. It made him nervous because he couldn’t remember ever feeling like this before, but he couldn’t think about that now.

She shook her head, tendrils of hair slipping over her shoulders like flames of fire. She moved back, teased him with her body. Antonio put on the protection, his hands uncustomarily clumsy, and then slowly, torturously, exquisitely, brought Kate down onto his aching shaft.

He saw stars as her tight damp sheath took him in. He saw the fierce concentration on her face, their eyes locked. And then she started to move against him and Antonio could do nothing but submit and surrender to the wild ride once again.

When Orla woke up, tendrils of the dawn light illuminated the room in a faint pink glow. Birds tweeted, and through the open curtains she realised there was a terrace outside the bedroom. A very opulent and luxurious bedroom. Not her bedroom. His bedroom.

A Chatsfield bedroom with its signature bespoke furnishings.

It all came rushing back. Along with the realisation that her body ached all over and she was tender between her legs. Very tender. She blushed to think of taking him into her body, how big he’d been. How good it had felt.

Orla held her breath and turned her head. Marco lay beside her; they weren’t touching. His huge body was in a louche sprawl, completely naked. Wide awake now, Orla came up gingerly on one arm, wincing as muscles protested.

They’d made love over and over again. And each time had felt like she was falling deeper and deeper into a vortex of need. Even now, as her gaze drifted over his face, she felt that need rising. In spite of the tenderness between her legs. She’d take that burn again.

A shadow of stubble darkened his hard jaw. He appeared no less intimidating in repose. Just as fierce. Orla’s eyes widened though as she looked down his body and saw a veritable patchwork of scars and marks. There was a bunch of very distinctive circular puckerings of flesh around his pectorals. She mustn’t have noticed them before because it had been dark—she blushed—and she’d been too intent on succumbing to the most intense desire she’d ever felt.

There was a tattoo high on the biceps of the arm nearest her. It looked like a coat of arms. He had the body of an elite athlete … or a warrior. Her impression of last night came back, even more forcibly in the light of dawn, gazing at his scarred body. Literally from neck to knee, there were all kinds of marks—healed cuts, stitch marks. Those mysterious circular shapes.

There was a particularly ugly gash around one muscular thigh that looked as if it had healed badly.

For the first time Orla had a very real sense of just how irresponsible she’d been. Maybe he was some kind of criminal? The thought sent shock waves through her body as she recalled how he’d been hidden in the shadows of the bar. How he’d come over and stopped her from leaving. How easily he’d enraptured her. She’d barely put up a modicum of resistance!

She gazed around the room. Something cold went through her as she took in details. It looked lived in. Books. An old edition of Aesop’s Fables stood out oddly amongst them. Clothes. Paraphernalia. More than an overnight visitor like herself. She’d noticed it last night but hadn’t really taken it in.

The assertion took root. He was living here.

Who was this man? A sense of urgency gripped her now. She had to get away. She’d almost forgotten entirely why she was even in the Chatsfield Hotel. How could she have forgotten? She’d never allowed herself to get so sidetracked from work before.

Ashamed and angry with herself for being so impetuous, so selfish, Orla slid off the bed as quietly as she could. To her intense relief, Marco didn’t move. She was terrified that he’d wake. That he’d open those dark compelling eyes and she’d be lost again. Orla picked up her dress and pulled it on with trembling hands.

She found her bag. No matter how hard she searched though, she couldn’t find her panties. Marco moved minutely on the bed and Orla’s gaze froze on that huge rangy body. With sick fascination she couldn’t help looking at the most potently masculine part of him. Even in sleep he was awe-inspiring. He moved again and panic took her breath. She had to leave now before he woke. Wrenching her gaze away from the sleeping man, she turned and went to the bedroom door.

Unable to help herself though, she stopped at the door and looked back. A fierce tug of something that felt awfully like regret made an emotion she didn’t like to name rise up within her. Before it could surface she clamped down on it and turned away again and left the suite. It was only as she was walking down the corridor that she realised she’d left her shoes and the belt of her dress behind, along with her missing panties.

Exactly four hours later Orla was tapping her pen impatiently on the thick blotting paper pad that sat in front of her on the table. Her legs were crossed under the thick varnished oak table in the conference room and her leg jigged back and forth nervously. Even though the room was modestly sized, there any comparison to a normal hotel conference room ended. It exuded plush luxury. Everything one might require for a meeting was there, but discreetly tucked away so nothing jarred. Orla’s nose wrinkled. She’d noticed a scent in the air when she’d checked in yesterday but then had forgotten about it when she’d been so effectively distracted.

But now she noticed it again and suspected waspishly that the Chatsfield Hotels must pump their signature scent throughout their premises, thereby increasing the whole Chatsfield experience. It was a smart strategy. Smell was well known to be one of the more powerfully evocative senses, and so by having a scent that linked people’s memories indelibly to you was prime subliminal advertising. She’d looked into it for their own hotels but it would have been too expensive.

The Kennedy Group solicitor checked at his watch again and his counterpart across the table said smoothly, ‘I’m assured that Mr Chatsfield is on his way, and as I’ve said, he regrets keeping you waiting.’

Orla huffed. She just bet he did. No doubt this was part of the strategy to let them know how weak they were and who was the power player here. It didn’t help, of course, that she felt woefully underprepared considering her very out of character sexual adventures last night with a complete stranger who could very well be some kind of underground criminal or a mercenary.

When she thought of all those scars and markings on his body though, she didn’t feel scared so much as … hot.

She imagined her wanton behaviour must be tattooed on her face like a beacon for all to see but she hoped that the effort she’d put into hiding the ravages of the night before had worked. She’d asked her assistant to buy her some shoes on her way over that morning, claiming some feeble excuse that the ones she’d brought wouldn’t go with the dark navy trouser suit she wore.

So now she had brand-new shoes biting into her feet on top of everything else. She put down the pen and fiddled nervously with her white shirt and hoped that the frill detail down the centre where the buttons were didn’t appear too frivolous. She’d been more frivolous in the past twelve hours than in her entire life. And she was not frivolous. Her mother was frivolous. Flighty. Selfish. Orla was hard-working, serious. Frugal.

She’d pulled her hair back into a sleek ponytail and her heavy fringe offered the faint illusion that she could hide behind it.

Just then they heard voices out in the corridor and all the tiny hairs all over Orla’s body seemed to stand up on end for no apparent reason. The door opened slightly and a huge dark shape loomed just out of sight.

Then the door opened fully and a man walked in with another man in tow. A cold seeping horror spread through Orla’s body. Shock knocked the breath out of her chest. She couldn’t believe her eyes. He was striding in now, clad in a pristine three-piece dark suit that hugged his huge muscular frame. His jaw was clean-shaven. He was stupendously gorgeous. Arresting. Sexual charisma was a tangible aura around him.

Orla was dimly aware that her own assistant had straightened in the chair beside her. The unconscious action of a woman in the presence of a virile alpha male. In spite of being in her middle-aged years with a healthy brood of children and a loving husband.

Orla felt a surge of something that made her want to turn to her assistant, one of her best friends, and snarl at her.

And then the man’s eyes fell on the people waiting for him. And one in particular. Her. He stopped in his tracks on the other side of the table. That dark compelling gaze on hers. She saw the shock in their depths before it was quickly veiled.

Her lungs burned because she hadn’t drawn a breath. A million things seemed to lodge in her throat and in her belly: mortification, embarrassment, anger. Shock. Desire.

The Chatsfield solicitor was standing now and saying, ‘Antonio, I’d like you to meet Orla Kennedy of the Kennedy Group, her solicitor Tom Barry and her assistant, Susan White. Miss Kennedy, I’d like you to meet Antonio Chatsfield and his assistant, David Markusson.’

Orla was dimly aware of the people either side of them both standing to reach across the table to shake one another’s hands. She was paralysed. Her mystery lover was Antonio Marco Chatsfield. The eldest son of the notorious Chatsfield family. She had read up on him prior to this meeting. Ironically he was almost the only one of whom there were no recent photos as he’d been in the army and then the secretive world of private security for years.

If he’d joined the regular army Orla might have seen pictures. But he hadn’t. He’d joined the famed and mythic French Foreign Legion and had served with them for seven years. It was where one entered and assumed another identity. Highly secretive and closed to the outside world. Effectively Antonio Chatsfield had been a ghost until his recent return to the family fold.

But he was no ghost. He was very solid and very real and he was looking at her now and waiting for her to do something. Orla’s brain felt sluggish with shock.

Her assistant, Susan, discreetly nudged her with her foot, under the table. That physical contact seemed to jolt Orla out of her fog and she stood up and put out her hand, her training and innate manners dictating the automatic moves of social training.

After shaking hands with his assistant, her hand was clasped in his much bigger one—tightly—and the fire of his touch seemed to explode the memory box open in Orla’s brain and body. She was barely able to hold back the onslaught of a thousand lurid images: writhing underneath him, sobbing, panting, gasping. Clenching her legs tighter around his hips, begging him to go deeper, harder.

‘Miss Kennedy,’ he said in that deep voice. His eyes had darkened to black and Orla imagined she could see veritable sparks shooting her way. Something in her hardened as she pushed down those images to a deep place of personal shame. She gripped his hand back just as tightly.

‘Mr Chatsfield.’

He didn’t let her go. He drawled, ‘It’s funny but I could have sworn we’ve met somewhere before.’

Hot mortification threatened to swamp Orla but she refused to let it rise. If her eyes could have killed, he’d have been vaporised on the spot. She gritted out, ‘Believe me, Mr Chatsfield, we’ve never met. I think I would have recalled it, as your family are so memorable.’

Antonio Chatsfield’s eyes flashed at that none too subtle barb and his hand was so tight on hers now that Orla could feel her bones grind together. She bit back the need to cry out. And then abruptly he released her. Orla wanted to cradle her hand to her chest but didn’t, not wanting to show him a moment of vulnerability.

There were two of them who’d conspired to pretend to be someone else last night. He had no right to lambaste her silently for it, or allude to it in front of these people.

He said with a deceptive lightness which surely had to be meant only for her ears, ‘I must have been mistaken, then, because the woman I’m thinking of is called Kate.’

Orla’s face paled even more when she saw the curious look of her assistant from out of the corner of her eye as she sat back down. Her second name was Kate. They’d both used their second names. It wasn’t even funny.




CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_d537f486-2aa8-52aa-a4b7-d1a614d90834)


THE MEETING PASSED in a blur, with much of the discussion revolving around complicated legalese talk between the solicitors. In those instances Antonio sat back in his chair and regarded Orla steadily, forcing her to try and glare him out, refusing to be intimidated. She had nothing to be ashamed of, she assured herself stoutly. She always ended up looking away first though, as those eyes brought her back in time to only a few hours before and she couldn’t halt the lurid images from taking over.

He positively radiated hostility and at one stage Susan leant close and said sotto voce, ‘What’s up Chatsfield’s nose? I’d heard he was charming … but he’s looking at us as if we’re something he found on the bottom of his shoe.’

Not us, Orla replied silently, just me. And the more he sent out those silent vibes, the angrier she got.

The Chatsfield solicitor was looking at everyone around the table now. ‘Well, it would appear as if everything is in order for us to begin negotiations regarding a potential takeover of the Kennedy Group.’

Orla saw the smallest of smirks play around Antonio Chatsfield’s mouth and something inside her blew up. She stood up and put her hands on the table and stared straight at him. ‘With all due respect, I disagree. From what I’ve seen here today I’m not sure that I want to continue discussions of a possible takeover by the Chatsfields.’

Orla heard her assistant and solicitor gasp simultaneously. She felt quivery with rage inside. He was playing with her, punishing her. She hated this feeling of vulnerability and exposure.





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