He had indulged himself in a four-week affair, kidding himself it would simultaneously end with her business studies. It was his get-out clause. The fact she got out first irked him. But rather than show her he was disappointed he’d let it slide. It wasn’t as if he’d been ready to settle down at the age of twenty-four.
But it had been years before he forgot the scent of her signature fragrance and the silky feel of her hair against his skin. The feel of her soft mouth as she gave herself to him, the way her tongue shyly tangled with his, the way her teeth scraped along his jaw in little playful bites.
Flirting with her was entertaining. It made the blood tick in his veins. Excited him. Aroused him. But could he risk another affair with her? He was here to work. He had a punishing task ahead of him to convince his family he had what it took to make this takeover successful in every way possible. A fling with Isabelle Harrington could work against his goals. Distract him from them in a way he could well do without.
But then he remembered she’d said she had a boyfriend. Was it serious? How serious? Clearly not serious enough for her to have a ring on her left hand. Wasn’t that the goal of every woman over thirty? Was she casually dating or committed? Was she in love or in lust? Why did he even care? It was none of his business who she saw. He had enough on his plate right now without adding Isabelle Harrington as a garnish.
His gaze took in the plush furnishings of his suite. Apart from the accessories Isabelle had strategically positioned, the suite was tastefully and elegantly decorated. Top-quality fabric for the festooned curtains and pelmets. Ankle-deep finely woven wool carpet on the floor. Italian polished marble in the bathroom with shiny brass and gold fittings. Antique furniture, crystal chandeliers, wall lights and table lamps that gave the suite the atmosphere of Old Money and class. The sort of place the super-wealthy came to in order to retreat from the frantic pace of the modern world. It was like stepping back in time, to an era when service was personalised and respectful, not generic and resentful as in some of the larger chain hotels. Choosing staff that perfectly reflected a hotel’s mission statement was paramount and it was something Spencer wanted to discuss with Isabelle.
In his discussion with Liliana earlier he had found out Isabelle had personally interviewed the front-of-house staff. She had high standards and expected total commitment from the people who worked at The Harrington. She surrounded herself with people she could rely on to maintain the respectable and sophisticated reputation of the hotel. No one could ever question she wasn’t dedicated and driven and yet he couldn’t help feeling she was using her career as a shield. Hiding behind it like a suit of armour, not allowing anyone close enough to see the warm passionate woman behind the cool and distant professional façade.
Spencer picked up the velvet mask she had placed on his pillow. A flicker of remorse beat like moth wings trapped inside the chamber of his heart. He hadn’t exactly charmed her to his side with how he’d gone about things. He could blame her wastrel brother but Spencer knew he had to accept some responsibility for how things had panned out. Maybe he should have called her and asked for a meeting before he’d come in with the takeover bid. Even if she’d rejected the offer at least it would have shown he was prepared to negotiate with her. Maybe he should have apologised years ago for how things had ended between them.
Maybe he should have told her...what? That he’d fallen for her? Like that was going to happen. He didn’t know if he would recognise love if it whopped him on the head. He had never fallen for anyone. He wasn’t sure he was capable of that once-in-a-lifetime love novelists and filmmakers portrayed. He didn’t trust his emotions given how they had let him down in the past. He had loved his parents only to find one of them wasn’t his own flesh and blood.
How could he ever trust anything or anyone after that?
He put down the velvet mask and looked at the mirror on the ceiling and on the wall at the foot of the bed. Isabelle had gone to a lot of trouble to remind him of what she thought of him—a time-wasting playboy who was just playing at hotels. She had no idea of the drive that motivated him. It wasn’t about money. It wasn’t about prestige. It wasn’t even about his reputation because that was one thing that had never concerned him. He didn’t care a fig what the press said about him personally. Most of the time they made up stuff to drum up sales. He went along with it. Mostly. He didn’t court scandal but neither did he actively avoid it. If it happened it happened. But his professional reputation was a different matter entirely. His motto was Results Speak. No one could argue with numbers. If he could take The Harrington to the top of the boutique market in New York, then maybe he would be satisfied.
Finally.
* * *
Isabelle printed off a list of ideas she had for the ball, grinding her teeth as the printer spewed it out. She tucked it in a Harrington vellum folder and made her way to Spencer’s office. It was well past five p.m. but she didn’t care. He thought he could throw his weight around and she would jump out of the way. More fool him.
His door was closed but she could hear him talking to someone on the phone. She gave a brisk knock and then she heard footsteps and the door opened. He jerked his head against his phone and signalled for her to come in, continuing his conversation. ‘How much damage are we talking about?’ There was a small pause as the person on the other end of the line answered, and then he said, ‘That much? Who are these people? One hit record and they think they’re gods? Get on to our lawyers. Slap these idiots with a damages suit. And get them out of there. Got it?’
He put the phone down on his desk and scraped a hand through his hair. ‘What a bloody nightmare.’
Isabelle had never seen him so rattled. ‘What’s going on?’
His eyes collided with hers. ‘A boy band—that new one that’s just been launched off one of those reality talent shows—just trashed a suite at The Chatsfield, London. A hundred thousand pounds’ worth of damage and still counting.’
She gripped the back of the chair in front of his desk. ‘That’s terrible.’
He gave her a black look. ‘Tell me about it. I so don’t need this right now.’
Isabelle pulled her lower lip inside her mouth. He so rarely showed his human side, the man behind the mask of steely control. The stress of his job as CEO of all the Chatsfield hotels was huge and it would have an effect on him even if he put steps in to guard against it. She had only seen him as the enemy, an obstacle to her goal. But he had an enormous responsibility to make sure everything ran smoothly and professionally. She understood that more than anyone. It was a daily pressure to keep everything under control. And while no one—no matter how dedicated and professional—could prepare for something like this, it still caused speculation about how well the hotel was being managed, which in turn would reflect on him. As newly appointed CEO, everyone would be looking for him to fall at the first hurdle.
Isabelle pulled away from her compassionate side. What did she care what happened to his professional reputation? The only thing she cared about was her hotel. Boy bands could trash every single one of the Chatsfield hotels and she wouldn’t lose a wink of sleep over it.
‘The press will make a huge thing about it, which will damage the brand we’ve worked so hard to improve,’ he said. ‘Who in their right mind would want to stay in a hotel where drunken orgies take place?’
‘Groupies?’
His harsh frown softened and he even affected a twisted smile. ‘Let me guess. You’ve downloaded all of their songs.’
‘Not all of them. But I do have a favourite. I do my workout to it every morning.’
He narrowed his gaze in mock reproach. ‘Do you have posters of them on your wall?’
She gave him a look. ‘I’m not twelve.’
He put his hands on his desk in a bracing manner. ‘What have you got for me?’
Isabelle slid the folder towards him. �
��A black-and-blue theme or we could do black and pink. Black and white’s been done to death. Hefty price tag all donated to charity.’
‘Which charity?’
‘Do you have a favourite?’
He drummed his fingers on the desk as he glanced over her proposal. ‘Too many to count.’
‘What’s closest to your heart?’
He looked up at that and meshed his gaze with hers. ‘What’s yours?’
‘I asked you first.’
He held her look for a beat before looking back at her proposal. ‘Kids.’
A sharp stabbing pain caught her under the ribs. If her little baby had gone to term she would be nine years old. Isabelle could picture her in her mind—a skinny, leggy little girl with dark hair and blue eyes. Would she have been intense and uptight like her or laid-back and casual like her father? Would her smile be tentative like hers or enigmatic like Spencer’s? She thought of Spencer holding their baby as she had so longed to do but was cruelly robbed of the chance. She thought of him playing with their little girl as a toddler, walking her into school on the first day. Helping her with her homework, teaching her how to ride a bike. All the things good fathers did with their daughters.
Would he have loved their little girl even half as much as Isabelle had loved her? Would he have wanted her as she had grown to want her?
What was she doing?
She didn’t allow herself to think about babies and toddlers. Not anymore. It was a no-go area in her head. It was a barred zone in her heart. ‘Kids?’
He gave her a wry look. ‘You think I don’t like kids?’
‘You’re a playboy. I thought the general idea was to avoid making them.’
‘I don’t want to make them.’ His stress on the word made Isabelle’s stomach twist into a painful knot. ‘But I do like to help them. Especially disadvantaged ones.’
‘That’s...er...noble of you.’
He crooked a dark eyebrow at her. ‘You don’t see me as a philanthropist?’
‘It’s not something you’ve made public.’
‘I’ve always found I can get more done if I fly under the radar,’ he said. ‘Kids don’t buy into the rich celebrity stuff. Not the kids I work with anyway.’
Isabelle frowned in surprise. ‘You work with them? In what way?’
‘Teaching them life skills, confidence-building exercises, sporting programmes—that sort of thing. Even kids from wealthy backgrounds can lose their way. Become displaced and act out. My charity works on nipping that sort of behaviour in the bud. We redirect the negative energy into more positive outlets.’
Isabelle wondered what it was about his childhood that made him so motivated to help others in such an honourable way. He came from a good family, a seemingly stable family, unlike that of his cousins. At least his mother, Emily, and his father, Michael, had stayed together as they’d raised their three boys. Ben and James were now settled, Ben with her baby sister Olivia, and James with Princess Leila of Surhaadi. There was just Spencer who was footloose. What did he want for his life? Was he truly happy with the fly-by-night pattern he had adopted over the years? Or was he like her? Driven to succeed with little time to think of anything but work?
‘Right, well, I thought we could do a silent auction as well,’ she said. ‘With big-ticket items such as a portrait done by a famous artist or a sculpture. What do you think?’
He looked up from her notes as if he had forgotten she was there. ‘Sounds good.’
Isabelle frowned. ‘Is something wrong? Apart from the London stuff, I mean? Do you need to fly back home?’
His mouth slanted. ‘That would suit you down to the ground, wouldn’t it? I wonder what sort of mischief you’d get up to while I was out of town?’
She gave him a defiant look. ‘I can assure you I wouldn’t wait until you were out of sight if I wanted to get up to mischief. I would do it in your face.’
He gave a sudden grin. ‘You would indeed.’ He waited a beat before adding, ‘What are you doing for dinner?’
She blinked to reorient herself after the stun-gun effects of his disarming grin. ‘Pardon?’
‘We could discuss the ball over a meal. Fine-tune the details.’
She elevated her chin. ‘I have a date.’
‘Anyone I know?’
‘No.’
‘What’s he do?’
Isabelle arched an eyebrow. ‘Would you like me to email you a copy of his CV? Get a printout of his birth certificate, his vital statistics, his waist measurement and shoe size, the length of his—’
‘How long have you been seeing him?’
‘My private life is out of bounds.’
‘Is it serious?’
Isabelle narrowed her gaze. ‘Did you hear me?’
‘Don’t forget about our weekend.’
‘I’m not going with you.’
‘You can bring lover boy,’ he said. ‘Or wouldn’t he like sharing you with me?’
She turned on her heel and stalked to the door. ‘I’m not having this conversation.’
‘If he doesn’t work out for you let me know.’
She turned and gave him a contemptuous glare. ‘Do you really think I’d subject myself to being used by you for a second time?’
Something moved in his expression—a sudden tension in his jaw, a flash of irritation in his eyes— before he just as quickly masked it. ‘We could use each other,’ he said. ‘Scratch that itch we both feel around each other.’
Isabelle forced herself to hold his all-seeing gaze. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
He gave a low deep laugh. ‘Sure you do. You remember it all, don’t you, darling? That’s why you blush when I look at you a certain way. You remember how it felt to have me full to the hilt inside you while you thrashed and screamed—’
‘Stop it!’ Isabelle clamped her hands over her ears. ‘Stop it, damn you!’
He pulled her hands down and encircled her wrists with his long strong fingers, his eyes blazing with the sensual heat she could feel engulfing her body. Desire ran red-hot inside her, like a lick of flame following a trail of fuel, his incendiary words triggering everything that was wickedly primitive in her. She could feel the hard wall of his body against her breasts, the erotic proximity—the temptation—suddenly too much to bear. Her pride got shoved sideways as she pushed up on her toes to meet his mouth halfway.
The collision of her lips against his was like an explosion inside her body. The first stroke of his tongue as it sought for entry to her mouth caused her knees to buckle. She would have fallen except his hands had left her wrists and were now on her hips, holding her so tightly against his pelvis she could feel the hard male imprint of his body against hers. It fuelled her hunger for him, ramping it up to a level that made her feel she would die if he didn’t possess her. Her insides contracted with need, seeped and wept and wailed with want, throbbing with an ache that was escalating with every commanding stab and thrust of his tongue as it sought to conquer hers.
Her hands went to the front of his shirt, her nails digging in for purchase as she fused her mouth to his in a ravenous consumption of the sensual delights he offered. He tasted of coffee and mint and something else unique to him. Her mouth remembered it like a favourite wine. She was drunk on it. A helpless slave to it. Addicted to it like a potent drug. One taste and it had the same unbreakable hold on her it’d had in the past. She feasted off his lips and tongue, playing cat-and-mouse and catch-me-if-you-can and tease-me-and-tame-me.
His hands moved from her hips to skim up her body to graze over her breasts. It was the lightest touch as if he was testing her response to him but it was as if he had set fire to her flesh. Her breasts swelled beneath her clothes, her nipples tightening so much she could feel them against the lace cage of her bra. She
slipped her hands through the gaps between his shirt buttons, not even caring that two of them popped off and pinged to the floor. His chest was hard and hot and with just the right smattering of masculine hair to make everything that was feminine in her shiver and shake and shudder and scream in want.
His fingers splayed through her hair as he played with her lips with his teeth in nibbling bites that made her whimper in breathless approval. He had always known just how hard or soft he could go with her—that delicate balance between pleasure and pain. He read her—played her—like a maestro did a complicated instrument. He had an intuitive sense of her needs even before she recognised or acknowledged them herself. That was perhaps the most unsettling thing about having him back in her life. He knew her. He knew the passionate wanton he had awakened a decade ago. She had wrestled that part of herself and locked it away, caging it like a wild animal not safe to be let loose. Now he had unpicked the lock, and who knew the damage that could do...
‘Told you this was dangerous,’ he said against her lips. ‘Want it here or upstairs?’
Isabelle stiffened as if frozen. Had he read her mind? What was she doing? Hadn’t she learned her lesson? This was a game to him. He had set out to prove a point and she had fallen for it.
But there was a way she could get the upper hand. She forced herself to relax, leaning into his aroused body, even going so far as to rub against him suggestively as her lips played against his. ‘Give me half an hour.’ She pressed another light teasing kiss to his mouth. ‘I’ll come to your suite. Someone might disturb us in here.’
His eyes glittered with raw desire and something else equally dangerous. ‘Make it an hour. It’ll be worth the wait. I guarantee it.’
CHAPTER FOUR
ISABELLE DRESSED IN a conservative little black dress with a scarlet silk wrap she draped around her shoulders. Her get-to-know-you drink with the man from the social media dating app had agreed to meet her in The Harrington bar. She figured it would serve two ends: it was a safe place to meet a stranger, and she would be sending Spencer a clear message that he couldn’t have her just for the asking. That she wanted him was immaterial. She would not allow herself to want him. She would discipline herself not to want him. If it took every ounce of energy she possessed she would resist him.
Chatsfield's Ultimate Acquisition (The Chatsfield: New York Book 1) Page 5
