Rival's Challenge

by Abby Green

  The lift came to a halt. The doors slid open. People were waiting outside and Orla’s open mouth closed as she pasted a bright smile on her face and stepped out. Antonio followed. She was stalking down the hall to a door at the end. Vaguely Antonio took in the details of pleasant furnishings, muted classic colours. But he was far more interested in the sway of Orla’s shapely bottom in that tight skirt.

  She had opened the door to the suite and was holding it for him, and hating every second by the look on her face. He walked in and her scent tickled his nostrils. Fresh but with a hint of earthy muskiness. Like her. All cool and collected on the outside, but hiding an inner tigress.

  He walked in and surveyed the lavish spacious penthouse suite, complete with a terrace patio. It wasn’t as obviously luxurious as the Chatsfield but something about its classic simplicity appealed to him. He heard her cool voice behind him. ‘You know very well that I did not mean that you should come and stay here.’

  Antonio curbed his own temper and turned to face her. Still those arms crossed over her chest. He could see a hint of cleavage now though, in the V of that silk material. He gritted his teeth to control his body.

  ‘If this is how you treat all your guests, then it’s no wonder your business is going down the tubes.’

  She flushed at that and Antonio had the bizarre urge to apologise. He noticed again that she looked tired. He knew she was holding the fort as her father hadn’t yet returned from his Asia trip.

  Smiling sweetly now, sweetly enough for something to kick in Antonio’s gut, she said, ‘Don’t worry, you’re getting very special personal treatment. If you would be so kind as to let me know how long you’ll be staying we will, of course, ensure that your visit is as pleasant as possible.’

  Antonio wanted to scowl at her seasoned impersonal managerial patter. ‘I’m playing it by ear.’

  She flushed again, deeper this time, but obviously bit back whatever she really wanted to say. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have appointments to attend to. I’ll send up one of my junior managers to give you a tour.’

  Antonio rejected that outright. ‘Orla …’ he said warningly.

  She turned from where she’d been walking back to the door. Her eyes flashed and there was steel in her tone. ‘Don’t push it, Chatsfield.’ And then she turned and left the suite and Antonio had to admit to a grudging rise of respect. He wasn’t used to people standing up to him.

  He went to the French doors and opened them and walked out to the patio, feeling constricted. He had to battle this feeling on a regular basis, still not fully used to being back in a bustling metropolis. He had to get it together where Orla Kennedy was concerned. He put his hands on the stone wall, and looked out over the famous London skyline, soaring into the sunshine.

  He’d once had a reputation for being charming and urbane. Along with being a renowned playboy. He’d lived hard and worked hard, intent on keeping his family together, before all his efforts had proved futile. Even then, he’d still been whole—before he’d seen the worst of humanity and had become twisted and blackened inside along the way.

  His hands tightened on the stone. Surely there was a sliver of that man left inside him? He smiled grimly. He’d drawn on it the other night when he’d seduced a beautiful sexy stranger in a bar. Maybe it wasn’t so far beneath the surface after all…. He needed to change tactics with Orla and the tactics he envisaged were going to be every bit as low-down and dirty as anything he’d done as a soldier, but infinitely more personally pleasurable.

  Orla was tired. She’d spent the whole day yesterday reeling from the shock of having Antonio Chatsfield check into the hotel, terrified he’d appear around a corner at any moment. But there had been no sign of him. One of the junior managers had told her that they’d helped him to set up an office space in the suite, so clearly he was working.

  And she’d just managed to get through another day without seeing him. Orla didn’t like to admit that her primary emotion wasn’t relief. It was something far more ambiguous.

  Already envisaging taking off her shoes and running a hot bath with lots of bubbles, Orla walked into her office and came to a complete standstill. Antonio Chatsfield was behind her desk, sitting in her chair, reading the weekly report she hadn’t yet had time to read herself, with his feet propped up on her desk, crossed at the ankle.

  He didn’t even look up, just said, ‘Your figures aren’t that bad, you know, for a business that’s on its way under.’

  Orla walked in and reached across her desk to pluck the report out of Antonio’s fingers. He appeared completely unperturbed. Dressed in an open-necked shirt and dark trousers, the smart clothes still couldn’t hide his virile potency.

  Orla had been feeling weary. Now she was zinging with energy. She gritted her teeth and forced herself to stay calm. ‘Can I help you? I trust you’re settling in well?’

  Antonio brought his feet down and sat up straight. ‘Your staff have been most solicitous … no doubt instructed well by you.’

  Orla counted to ten and said evenly, ‘We treat everyone here the same, Antonio, from the person staying in the budget single room to the VIP guest in the penthouse.’

  Antonio stood up and immediately Orla’s breath got choppier.

  ‘Very commendable.’ His voice held no mockery but Orla stared at him suspiciously. She felt self-conscious even though she was dressed smartly in a cream shirt dress, cinched in with a wide leather belt, and nude heels. Hair pulled back into a low ponytail.

  Antonio put his hands in his pockets and regarded her for a moment until Orla started to get hot and said tetchily, ‘What is it? Have I got dirt on my face?’

  Antonio’s voice sounded slightly rough around the edges. ‘You could pass for twenty-one.’

  Heat zinged through Orla’s pelvis at the lazy sensual look in his eyes, making her grow damp between her legs. She cursed herself and said briskly, ‘Well, I’m a long way off twenty-one. Nine years to be precise. Now if you don’t mind, it’s been a long day and I still have work to do.’

  It was a white lie but she wanted this man who was too big, too masculine, too much, out of her space before he saw how brittle he made her feel. He moved around her desk into the office and that only made Orla feel even more tetchy. And then with absolutely no warning, he delivered the bombshell.

  ‘I’d like to buy you dinner tonight.’

  For a second Orla couldn’t compute Antonio’s words. And then she parroted back,

  ‘Dinner? Tonight?’

  He crossed his arms across his massive chest, drawing Orla’s helpless gaze to the bunching of his biceps under the material of his shirt.

  ‘Yes … it’s a common concept—a social event indulged in by people who wish to spend time together over food.’

  Orla’s gaze lifted and clashed with a very dark one. She could see humour dancing in the depths and her belly swooped dangerously. Reminding her of the other night. Reminding her of the stranger who had seduced her so easily.

  She opened her mouth to say something acerbic but Antonio cut her off, saying silkily, ‘Don’t waste your breath, Orla. I checked your diary and you’ve nothing on. I’ve booked a table at the Kilkenny restaurant downstairs for 8:00 p.m. Don’t be late.’

  And with that, he walked out, leaving his scent in the air, exotic and spicy. Male. Orla’s hands curled to fists and she wondered helplessly just what it was about him that made her feel so threatened?

  Her inner conscience laughed itself silly. Where did she start? He’d threatened her equilibrium as soon as she’d laid eyes on him. But she’d ignored that to jump into bed with him within an hour of meeting him.

  This man, who was her adversary, had seen her at her absolute worst. Behaving so out of character that it made her feel ill to think about it. But what was even worse—it hadn’t been just a clinical emotionless one-night stand, not that she’d even know what that felt like. Not for her anyway. She still remembered all too well those raw feelings she’d had the next mor
ning. The raw feelings she’d had when he’d joined their bodies.

  She still remembered the assertion that she’d never felt so intimate with another person … when he’d been a complete stranger! And the regret she’d felt walking away. Not even knowing his real name.

  Orla’s mouth thinned and she walked around her desk and sat into her chair, which felt bigger, as if he’d stretched it with his masculine bulk. Well, fate had laughed in her face at that feeling of regret. Fate had given her precisely four hours of believing she was still in control of her life after behaving like a lust-obsessed groupie.

  She’d known what lay ahead of her in terms of negotiating this takeover by the Chatsfields. And that it was going to be an uphill struggle at the best of times, because it was only for the fact that it suited the Chatsfields to buy them out that this deal was even being discussed. There was every possibility they’d start to think it wasn’t worth the trouble and walk away. And Orla was doing nothing to help that from happening. The fact that Antonio Chatsfield, the architect behind the deal, was the man who’d seen her at her most wanton and uninhibited had turned this from an uphill struggle to a nearly impossible one.

  That was why he made her feel so threatened. And that was just for starters. And there was no way that she had a choice about dinner. Sighing deeply, Orla relegated the image of a relaxing bath to the back of her head. For as long as Antonio Chatsfield was in her life there would be no relaxing.

  ‘Good evening, Miss Kennedy. Your guest is waiting for you.’

  ‘Thank you, Brendan.’ Orla acknowledged their maître d’ and cursed the fact that she already felt breathless as she made her way across the dining room of the Michelin-starred Kilkenny restaurant. One of the reasons why their London hotel in particular was so attractive to the Chatsfields.

  The lighting was dim in the wood-panelled dining room that had a library feel. Its discreet booths and tables attracted politicians, writers, artists, A-listers escaping the paparazzi and a general moneyed exclusive clientele, and Orla couldn’t help but be proud of it now. It was a testament to her father’s hard work and dedication.

  Suddenly Orla felt very emotional to think of all of this being taken out of their hands and fought it down as she came closer and closer to the booth table at the back wall where she could see a familiar broad-shouldered figure. She cursed Antonio for picking such a private spot. She’d prefer a table right in the middle of the restaurant.

  Instinctively she smoothed down her midnight-blue silk dress. It was knee-length. Completely demure—long-sleeved, with buttons running from waist to neck, not a peephole in sight.

  She’d teamed it with matching slingback heels and a small silver clutch bag. She’d twisted her hair up in a chignon, determined not to give Antonio the impression that this dinner was about anything but business. Even if treacherous nerves that would be more appropriate if she were going on a date were jumping around in her belly.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ANTONIO SAW ORLA approach him, winding through the tables with that innate grace he’d noticed when he’d first seen her. He also saw the firm set of her jaw and the hard line of her mouth. Her dress sent out serious Sunday-school teacher vibes but was all the more sexy because of that.

  And clearly Orla believed she was sending out the message she wanted to because her chin had a definite hitch to it that screamed, I’m here for business only, as she finally arrived and Antonio stood automatically to greet her.

  She slid into the booth, making sure to stay firmly on the opposite side to Antonio. Eyes sliding away from his. Taking the menu being offered by the waiter who had sprung into action as soon as she’d sat down.

  Orla smiled warmly at him. ‘Thank you, Thomas. How’s your mother doing?’

  The young man blushed. ‘She’s grand, Miss Kennedy. She’ll be heading home from the hospital next week and please God that’ll be the last of the treatments, thanks to you and your father.’

  ‘I’m glad. It’s been a tough time.’

  The man murmured something and ducked away to let them peruse the menus. Antonio found that he was slightly stunned after watching that little interplay. He felt something dark grip him inside to see how Orla’s warm smile had faded as soon as the man had left. As soon as she’d smiled at the man Antonio had felt like grabbing him by the scruff of the neck.

  Goaded by that spiky darkness, Antonio prompted with a drawl, ‘Good evening to you too.’

  He saw her hands tense on the big leather menu and something in him got hotter. Not as unaffected as she’d like to appear. She lifted those long-lashed dark blue eyes to his. ‘Good evening.’

  Antonio inclined his head and tried to tamp down on the surge of lust in his blood. ‘You know the waiter well?’

  Orla nodded her head, her eyes losing that icy coolness for a second as if she couldn’t help herself. Her voice was husky. ‘Yes, his mother is from where my family are from in the west of Ireland. She’s worked for us for years in the accounts office but she’s been battling cancer for the past few months. Thankfully it would appear as if the treatment is working….’

  Antonio thought of something the man had said and asked curiously, ‘Has your family been paying for the treatment?’

  Orla immediately flushed and sounded defensive. ‘Most of it has been covered by the NHS…. We’ve just helped out along the way.’

  Something tightened inside Antonio at this evidence of caring for their staff. If there was one incident like this, how many more were there? Draining the business of valuable finances?

  As if reading his mind, Orla said, ‘This was a special case—they’re personal friends of my father’s.’

  Antonio put down his menu and arched a brow. ‘And what about the special case of the eighty-year-old concierge who I noticed has to be shadowed at all times by a younger colleague presumably because he’s about to keel over dead?’

  Two spots of colour burned in her cheeks. ‘He’s training them in. He’s been with this hotel from the very start. He’s an institution. Loyal guests come back just to see Lawrence. He retired officially years ago but this is all he knows, so as long as he’s fit to work and wants to, we see no reason to let him go.’

  Antonio had to admit that he’d had quite an entertaining conversation with the old man today, finding him to be surprisingly alert and knowledgable. Still … it was hardly best practice hiring old-age pensioners to be at the front of house.

  Orla put down her menu, her voice tight and eyes flashing. ‘I’m not going to stay here and listen to you list off—’

  Immediately Antonio reacted. He reached across and stopped Orla with a hand on her wrist. Her pulse was throbbing fast against her skin. Cursing himself for losing sight of his game plan so quickly, Antonio said, ‘I’m sorry, OK? Let’s call a truce. No more talk of work, at least during dinner.’

  Let’s call a truce.

  Orla could feel her pulse beating like a caged bird against Antonio’s hand. Loath to let him see how much he affected her, she pulled free. The thought of a truce was almost as terrifying as the thought of the takeover but she had no choice.

  ‘Fine.’ And she took the menu up again quickly, seeing nothing of the words. Only feeling her heart thumping and her skin getting hot. He disturbed her so effortlessly and she hated it.

  The waiter came back and Orla asked for the special; Antonio asked for the Irish beef steak, a signature dish of the restaurant.

  She finally lowered her menu and Antonio looked at her. ‘Wine?’

  Acting on a reflex to deny that this was anything remotely like a date, she shook her head quickly and said, ‘Not for me, thanks. I’ll stick to sparkling water.’ Even though right now she felt as if she could do with a mammoth glass of wine.

  She looked to the waiter and smiled at him again, glad of the dilution of energy swirling between her and Antonio. When Antonio had given a wine order and she glanced at him, he was almost scowling at her, eyes fixated on her mouth.

  And th
en his gaze moved up and his expression transformed into something far more benign, so quickly that she might have imagined that scowl or his eyes on her lips. Damn her pulse. It wouldn’t calm down.

  Another waiter returned almost immediately with wine, and water for Orla. She watched as Antonio took his time tasting the wine. There was something so inherently sensual about the way he did it that her limbs turned to liquid and she thought she might just slide under the table altogether.

  Grabbing on to the table edge as much to root her in the room as anything else, she watched as Antonio nodded to the sommelier. When the woman had left, he stared at her and arched a brow. He lifted the bottle. ‘Are you sure you won’t have a little? It’s good.’

  Orla knew it was good; it was one of the wines she’d chosen for their cellar herself. She was about to open her mouth and say something frigid, again, but suddenly it felt like too much of an effort and a voice inside berated her. Truce. Giving in, she even smiled minutely and held up her glass. ‘OK then, just a small bit.’

  Antonio looked as if he was repressing a smile too, and something light cut through the tension. They both took a sip of wine and Antonio said, ‘I know the owner of this vineyard.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘The owner of the Piacenza vineyard? I didn’t think anyone knew his identity.’

  Antonio inclined his head. ‘He’s allowed his privacy. But they grow some fantastic local varietals. Malvasia, Barbera, along with some merlot and pinot noir.’

  ‘How do you know so much about wine?’ Orla was intrigued.

  ‘I did a master of wine course in my early twenties…. I came across the vineyard near Milan at the time.’

  Orla’s eyes nearly boggled out of her head. ‘You’re a master of wine?’

  Antonio looked mildly sheepish. ‘Yes.’

  Orla whistled softly. ‘That’s some achievement. There’s only a few hundred in the world.’

  Antonio mocked, ‘Careful now. You sound almost approving.’