Isabelle could handle him when he was fighting with her…when he was angry. But this compassionate side was something that ambushed her defences. She didn’t want to like him. She didn’t want to respect him. She wanted to hate him. She needed to hate him, otherwise he would unravel her tightly bound emotions. She could not allow him close. To see the needs she had hidden for so long.

She tucked her hair back over her left shoulder with a sweep of her hand. ‘Please leave. I don’t want to talk to you right now.’

‘This isn’t just about the takeover, is it?’

She rolled her eyes as she turned away. ‘As if that wasn’t enough.’

He came up behind her and planted his hands on the tops of her shoulders. It was a gentle anchoring touch that made her want to lean back against him for the support she secretly, desperately craved.

But what if he had another agenda? What if he was only coming in close to exploit her further? Hadn’t he exploited her enough? He would woo her to his side, make her say and do things she might later regret.

Her beloved hotel was no longer hers. Her life was being taken over by a man she didn’t know how to handle. Had never known how to handle. He was too powerful. Too sophisticated. Too everything.

Billionaire’s Ultimate Acquisition

Melanie Milburne

www.millsandboon.co.uk

An avid romance reader, MELANIE MILBURNE loves writing the books that gave her so much joy as she was busy getting married to her own hero and raising a family. Melanie has won several awards, including The Australian Readers’ Association most popular category/series romance in 2008 and the prestigious Romance Writers of Australia R*BY award in 2011.

She loves to hear from readers!

www.melaniemilburne.com.au

www.facebook.com/melanie.milburne

Twitter @MelanieMilburn1

To Nas Dean. I am so grateful we met at RWA in Anaheim. My life would not be the same without you! Thank you for all you do to make my writing life run as smoothly as possible. xxx

Table of Contents

Cover

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Extras

Endpage

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

NOWHERE ON ISABELLE’S list of things to do before The Meeting was there any mention of cleaning up a fur ball. She looked at Atticus in dismay. ‘You do this to me now?’

Atticus purred as he indolently lifted a front paw to groom as if to say, What is your problem?

Isabelle blew out a flustered breath. ‘Why didn’t you do this yesterday when I had time to take you to the vet? Why today, when I’ve got a hundred people filing into the boardroom—’ she glanced at her watch and groaned ‘—like in about five minutes. Argh!’

She pictured the Chatsfield clan striding in—Gene and his eight adult children…and Gene’s nephew Spencer Chatsfield and his two younger brothers. Even thinking Spencer’s name made her blood boil. As if what he’d done ten years ago hadn’t been enough. How could she have fallen for someone so hard and so fast when he’d only been playing a game? That was what made her veins throb and pulse with rage. She had been too stupid to see him for what he was. Too gullible and naive to see he was toying with her because he could, not because he wanted to.

Seven months ago he had come breezing back into her life with a takeover offer. A takeover offer! As if she would ever sell anything to him.

But he was up to his old tricks, somehow in the interim gaining forty-nine per cent of the Harrington shares. But at least they were equals now. She had the other forty-nine so he would have his work cut out trying to get them off her.

To get anything off her, including her clothes—especially her clothes.

‘I should’ve brought home the smooth-haired tortoiseshell,’ Isabelle said as she gingerly picked up the fur ball in a tissue. ‘What was I thinking getting a hair machine like you?’

Atticus blinked his green eyes and then lifted his back leg into a position Isabelle as a wannabe yogi could only envy.

‘Or a dog.’ She flushed the fur ball in the ensuite toilet. ‘One of those cute little yappy purse ones. That’s if dogs were allowed at The Harrington.’ She quickly checked her reflection in the mirror, grimacing at the way her layered hair hadn’t sat quite the way she’d wanted it to. ‘Or any pet for that matter. You should think yourself lucky I bent the rules to sneak you in.’

She came back out and looked down at her blue-grey Persian cat again. ‘Are you sure you’re not going to choke to death while I head downstairs?’

Atticus blinked again and mewed. ‘Purrht.’

Isabelle snatched up her bag and phone. ‘I hope to God that wasn’t a yes.’

Isabelle saw him as soon as she entered the boardroom. He was sitting to the left of his brothers, Ben and James. Dressed in a sharply tailored designer charcoal-grey suit, with an ice-white shirt and black-and-silver-striped tie, he looked every inch the corporate player. Wheeling and dealing was his forte. He thrived on the challenge of the game, be it in the boardroom or the bedroom…especially in the bedroom. Damn him.

His sapphire-blue eyes met hers across the space that divided them, making something punch against her heart like the jab of an elbow. His expression was inscrutable. But he’d always had the amazing ability to cloak what he was thinking behind a mask of marble or an enigmatic smile. Unlike her. Over the years she’d trained herself not to be so transparent. But it took so much energy to contain her emotions. Controlling them was like trying to bail out a wave-swamped dingy with a thimble.

She raised her chin and shifted her gaze to encompass the assembled family and hotel management staff. ‘I’m sorry I’m late. I was held up with a…a housekeeping issue.’

Leonard Steinberg, the business manager who was chairing the meeting, gave her a smile. ‘All sorted now, I hope?’

‘Absolutely.’ Isabelle looked at the one vacant chair on the other side of the table from Spencer. ‘Who are we waiting for?’

‘The mystery shareholder,’ Spencer Chatsfield said, clicking his pen on and off as his gaze tethered hers.

Isabelle suppressed a shiver as that cultured baritone with its English accent moved down her spine like a caress. She had to focus. This was the moment the Chatsfield family were waiting for, the moment when the final two per cent would be brought back to the table. She knew exactly who was going to walk through that door. Had known for quite some time. Had known and wondered how no one else had put the pieces of the puzzle together before now. The blowout in the press would be monumental. The Chatsfields were good at attracting scandals but this one was going to top the lot.

The door opened and in came Isabelle’s stepmother, causing no less of a shock to the assembled family than if a vaporous ghost had appeared.

‘Mum?’

‘You?’

‘How could you?’

‘Liliana?’

Isabelle felt sorry for all of them, all except Spencer. How Liliana had kept her identity a secret for so long was part miracle, part luck, especially in the digital age of camera phones and social media tagging. But Isabelle had always found her stepmother to be a secretive, elusive type, hard to get close to, even harder to know.

The Chatsfield siblings had been young children—Cara, the youngest, a tiny baby—when their mother had left after suffering postnatal depression, but Liliana never made contact again. Isabelle found it hard to understand how Liliana could have remained incommunicado with her own flesh and blood but she knew her stepmother to be a complicated personality who kept very much to herself. How did it feel for the Chatsfield family to see their mother sweep in like a reclusive Hollywood celebrity who had suddenly decided to reclaim the limelight?

‘I know this must be a terrible shock to you,’ Liliana said. ‘I know you can’t possibly forgive me but I would like to explain. But business first.’ She turned to Spencer. ‘I’m giving you my two per cent.’

Isabelle shot to her feet so fast her chair rolled back and hit the wall behind. ‘What?’

Liliana turned to look at her. ‘On the condition you remain as president of the Harrington chain.’

Isabelle opened and closed her mouth but she couldn’t access her voice. She felt the colour drain out of her face like one of those cartoon characters she had watched as a child. All of her extremities fizzed as if her blood pressure was dropping. This couldn’t be happening. Those shares were meant to be hers. It was her dream. Her life’s goal was to own a majority share in The Harrington. She’d been working in the hotel since she was in bobby socks. She was a Harrington, for God’s sake. The staff were her substitute family. They relied on her to keep things ticking over like clockwork. How could the hotel be handed to someone else who didn’t love and nurture it the way she did?

It was her hotel, not Spencer Damn-his-eyes Chatsfield’s.

‘As majority shareholder Spencer will now be CEO of The Harrington, New York,’ Liliana said.

Isabelle ignored the rumble of voices from the Chatsfield siblings and their father, Gene, who looked like he was about to have a conniption. Spencer remained composed and silent. Coolly composed. How he must be enjoying this, she thought as a knot of resentment twisted hard and tight in her belly. How he would be getting off on seeing her hopes dashed. He must have known this would be the outcome of the meeting. Why else would he be sitting there as if butter wouldn’t melt in his blistering-hot mouth? Had he done something to win over Liliana? Isabelle knew all too well how skilled he was at getting what he wanted by fair means or foul. Look how he’d showered her with gifts and romantic attention in the past. She had tried not to succumb but in the end she had fallen and fallen hard. But then, how could she not? Back then she had lacked street smarts while he had graduated from the school of charm with first-class honours.

‘I’m not working with him!’ she said, flashing him a livid glare.

Liliana gave her a placating look. ‘I’ve given this a great deal of thought. Believe me, Isabelle. I know this is the right thing to do. I think it’s what your father would’ve wanted.’

‘My father?’ Isabelle choked. ‘How can you say that? He’s the one who gave Jonathan forty-nine per cent to throw away in a stupid poker game. Those shares should’ve been given to me in the first place.’

Liliana let out an impatient-sounding breath. ‘Look, I know this is difficult for you to understand but I think it’s the best way forward.’

‘Why are you doing this?’ Isabelle said. ‘Why give the shares to him?’ She jerked her head towards Spencer without looking at him. She couldn’t bear to look at him and see him sitting there gloating over his prize. The prize that belonged to her. ‘Why not to me? You know how much this hotel means to me. You know how hard I’ve worked to—’

‘Sort it out between yourselves,’ Liliana said. She turned to her family—her bewildered and shell-shocked family. ‘I can only imagine what you’re thinking. But I need to tell you my side of the story…the reasons I left the way I did.’

Gene got up and stalked out with an embittered curse, slamming the door so loudly the surface of the water in the glasses on the boardroom table rippled.

Liliana let out a sigh and faced the stunned and hurt and shocked faces of her adult children. ‘And there goes reason number one.’

Isabelle watched as each Chatsfield sibling dealt with his or her mother’s presence after such a long absence. Anger, disappointment, loss, despair and frustration swirled in a torrid whirlpool that was palpable in the air.

But before she could do or say anything Spencer was at her side with a firm hand placed on her elbow. ‘I think it’s best if Liliana and her family have some privacy right now,’ he said.

‘But—’

‘We have our own business to discuss.’ His look was indomitable, his touch on her elbow electrifying, reminding her of the sensual power he’d once had over her.

Still had over her.

She could feel the latent strength of the cup of his hand. Pull away. Pull away, her brain insisted. But her body was following another script entirely, one that was firmly anchored in the past. Her body recognised his touch. Responded to it. Reacted to it with a maelstrom of excitement. His touch stirred deep longings, needs she had stoically ignored or blanked out with work. The physical contact with him, as idle as it was, awakened them, activated them into a frenzy of anticipation.

He led her outside and closed the door on the ruckus that had started inside. ‘Gotta love a family get-together.’

Isabelle whipped out of his hold before her senses went haywire. ‘Get your hands off me.’ His brows lifted as if he found the notion of her anger mildly amusing. ‘That’s not what you were saying ten years ago,’ he drawled in a husky undertone.

Isabelle curled her fingers into her hands so tightly she felt her nails embed themselves into her palms. Hatred swelled in her chest so rapidly and so thickly it was suffocating. She snatched in a scalding breath, glaring at him so furiously it felt as if her eyeballs were on fire. ‘I thought I’d made it clear what I thought of you and your business propositions seven months ago.’

He lifted a hand to the left side of his face, stroking it pointedly. ‘Slap me again if you dare, but I should warn you that this time there will be consequences.’

Isabelle felt a frisson pass over her flesh at the gauntlet he’d thrown down. She had never been the sort of person to resort to violence. She hadn’t hit or slapped anyone or anything in her entire life. But that meeting seven months ago had made something in her snap. She had flown at him like a virago. She could still hear the loud crack of her palm as it connected with his jaw and the way his head had snapped back. In her mind she could still see the crimson print of her hand starkly outlined on his lightly tanned face. He had shown nothing in his expression other than a steely glint in his eyes that had made something deep and low in her belly tremble. That same glint was in his eyes now, warning her, goading her, challenging her. It was having the same physical effect on her. Making her quiver, that shifting-sand feeling behind her knees and between her thighs. How could he still have this effect on her? She could not allow it. It must stop. She had to get control of herself.

She swung away and stalked down the corridor in the direction of her office, tossing dismissively over her shoulder, ‘I have work to do.’

He caught up to her in two strides and placed a restraining hand on her forearm. ‘We have work to do,’ he said, and all but frog-marched her into her office and closed the door with a spine-tingling click as the lock fell into place.

His take-charge manner annoyed the hell out of her and she had a feeling he knew it. What was with all this touching, for God’s sake? What did he hope to prove? That she was the same weak little pushover she had been as a naive twenty-two-year-old?

Even though she was wearing silk sleeves she felt his touch sear through her flesh like smouldering coals. She held his glittering gaze as she unpicked his hold, finger by finger, dusting off her sleeve as if it had been contaminated by something disgusting. ‘I don’t think you heard me, Spencer,’ she said through tight lips. ‘I want nothing to do with you or your business. If you want to play hotels go find yourself a Monopoly board.’

The corner of his mouth lifted in a crooked arc. ‘Ten years on and you’re still mad at me?’

Isabelle ground her teeth in an effort to disguise her tumultuous emotions. How dare he ridicule and mock her for still feeling betrayed? How could she not feel betrayed? He had deliberately set about seducing her only so he could boast to his friends about ‘doing’ stuck-up Isabelle Harrington. She could just imagine the ribald laughs they would have shared over a few drinks. Thank God she hadn’t told him he’d been her first lover. Deflowering a New York virgin would no doubt have won him some serious bragging rights.

And then there was her other secret, the secret she had told no one but her friend Sophie.

Isabelle slammed the door in her brain where she had locked the pain of the past. She had every right to be infuriated with him and nothing he could do or say would ever change that. He could never undo the damage, even if he still to this day didn’t know the full extent of it. ‘I have absolutely no feelings where you’re concerned,’ she said.

Before she could move away he lifted his hand to a stray tendril of her hair and positioned it cosily back behind her ear. His idle touch triggered a frenzy of sensation, all the nerves beneath her skin quaking in reaction. She would have jerked away but she was determined to show him he didn’t have the same effect on her he’d had in the past…or at least that was what she rationalised. It was dangerous to allow him this close, dangerous and yet irresistible. He was a powerful magnet and she was a tiny iron filing. She could feel his force field every time she looked at him. It was there in his eyes, the tug of attraction that refused to be subdued. She held her breath as he trailed that same lazy finger along the line of her gritted jaw, back and forth, making her skin tingle with the thrill of his touch. It had been months and months since someone had touched her. Her skin craved the contact. Her whole body trembled and shivered inside the shield of her clothes in its hunger for more.

As if of their own volition her eyes went to his mouth. Something fell off a high shelf in her stomach as she looked at that slanted contour, the vermillion borders defining a mouth that could be hard and yet soft, salty and sensual and devastatingly addictive. She had been kissed since but no one came even close to his mesmerising expertise. No one else had shaken her to the core of her being, evoking a response from hers that was both terrifying and exciting. It was as if his mouth could unlock a part of her personality no one else had ever had access to. He could undo her. Unravel her. Topple her from the very foundations of her being, leaving her in a thousand tiny pieces like a carelessly scattered jigsaw.

His finger glided to the base of her chin and, with the tiniest amount of pressure, raised it so her eyes connected with his. ‘That’s probably a good thing considering I’m now your boss.’

Isabelle dipped out of his hold and folded her arms across her chest, glaring at him icily. ‘I’m not taking orders from you.’

His mouth came up again in that amused arc. ‘You heard what your stepmother said. I now have majority share.’

She unlocked her arms and clenched her fists instead. ‘How did you get her to give them to you? No doubt by spinning some fantastical tale to woo her to your side. She was supposed to give them to me.’

One dark eyebrow lifted. ‘Is that a sense of entitlement I can hear?’

Isabelle clenched her jaw so hard it felt like two tectonic plates grinding together. ‘I’ve worked for this hotel since I was a kid,’ she said. ‘I’ve spent most of my life learning everything about the business from the ground up. I’ve worked in housekeeping. I’ve worked in the kitchen. I’ve made it my business to understand every aspect of management. When your aunt captivated my father, I was the one who held the fort so the staff didn’t lose their focus. I was the one who worked ridiculously long days to keep things steady. I was the one who came up with the creative plan for the future. I’m the one who has put everything else in my life on hold so I can keep the Harrington brand alive and competitive in a constantly changing and challenging market. Liliana of all people knew that. She had no right to hand it to you.’

‘They were her shares,’ he said. ‘She could do what she liked.’

Isabelle let out a rude word. ‘Yes, that just about sums Liliana up, doesn’t it? She does what she damn well wants and expects everyone else to suck it up.’

His gaze studied her for a lengthy moment. ‘How long have you known?’

‘About her being the Liliana?’

He gave a single nod, his expression as inscrutable as ever.

‘A while.’

‘How long?’

Isabelle pursed her lips. ‘I take it you knew before she walked into that meeting?’

His eyes never wavered from hers. ‘I joined a few dots in the past twenty-four hours. It’s hard to hide your identity these days. A quick search on the internet and you can find out just about anything about someone, even if they’re doing their best to hide.’

Had he done a Google search on her? Isabelle wondered. She could hardly criticise considering she’d been cyberstalking him for years. Checking on who he was seeing—not that he saw anyone for long—what places he visited, where he holidayed. He was known as the Prince of Pickups. Maybe not quite as bad as his cousin Lucca Chatsfield had been before he married, but Spencer could easily install a turnstile in his bedroom.

She blew out a whooshing breath. ‘I confronted her about it a few months ago. I felt it was cruel to keep her family in the dark for so long. I understand someone wanting to be a recluse for a bit but what sort of person walks away from a six-week-old baby?’

‘Apparently she had postnatal depression.’

Isabelle gave him a cynical look. ‘For twenty-odd years?’

He shrugged as if it didn’t much concern him. ‘She must have known she couldn’t keep her identity a secret too much longer.’

A feather of suspicion lifted the hairs on the back of Isabelle’s neck. ‘Did you bribe her?’

He gave a deep rumble of self-deprecating laughter. ‘My, oh, my, you do have an appalling opinion of me, don’t you, darling?’

She ground her jaw again. ‘Don’t call me that.’

He leaned his hips back against her desk and casually crossed one ankle over the other as if he owned the place. But then he did, almost. ‘What was she like as a stepmother?’

Isabelle let out another tight breath. ‘She held us at arm’s length, as if she was frightened of what being a stepmother entailed. My father and her were a closed unit. Once she came into his life he had no time for us anymore—not that he had much time for us in the first place. Even work took a back seat, which is saying something, as he’d always put the hotel before everything. He worshipped her. She could get him to do anything for her. That’s probably why he never let on to anyone about who she was. It was their little secret.’

‘Until you put two and two together.’

She frowned at him in irritation. ‘I’m surprised it hasn’t come out before now. One photo would have outed her. But then she hated having her photo taken. She’d always pull back and say her hair or makeup wasn’t right.’ Her arms tightened across her body as if that would somehow contain her bitter disappointment at how her stepmother had betrayed her. ‘Of course it all makes sense now.’

‘Given your strained relationship with her, why did you think she might give you her two per cent?’

Isabelle wished she hadn’t told him all she had. It had come spilling out, revealing far too much of herself. How much she had sacrificed, how much she dreamed and hoped. He would use it to his advantage. Maybe he already had. Although she had never mentioned her stepmother by name during their brief fling ten years ago, he must have sensed her relationship with Liliana was strained. For years Isabelle had tried to connect with her father’s new wife but Liliana wasn’t the nurturing or confidante type. She kept very much to herself, serving her own interests without showing any interest in that of others, especially three grief-stricken young girls. ‘I foolishly thought she’d noticed how hard I worked for the hotel. Seems I was wrong.’

‘She gave you a compliment by insisting you stay on as president.’

Isabelle eyed him narrowly. ‘Was that her suggestion or yours?’

His expression gave nothing away. ‘You think I want you working under me?’

She clenched her fists again. ‘Beside, not under.’

A teasing glint sparked in his blue eyes. ‘We could make this grand old hotel rock. Give it a little facelift. Modernise it. Loosen it up a bit. What do you think?’

Isabelle stalked behind her desk, using it as a barrier. Damn him and his double entendres. He swivelled from where he was perched on the corner so he was facing her, his long legs cutting off her only exit. She would have to step over those lean but strong limbs if she didn’t want to scramble over the four-foot-high polished walnut filing cabinet on the other side. ‘You understand nothing of the class of The Harrington,’ she said. ‘You Chatsfields are all the same. You think all a hotel has to offer is a comfortable bed with a bunch of feather pillows and fluffy towels and an unlimited supply of alcohol.’

Something moved at the back of his gaze, a camera-shutter-quick movement she would have missed if she hadn’t had her gaze firmly locked on his. ‘What do you offer here that I can’t get at home?’ he asked.

She gave him a guarded look. ‘You mean in the hotel?’

The twinkle in his eyes reappeared. ‘What else could I mean?’

Isabelle flattened her mouth and crossed her arms over her body again. ‘I’m sure you’ve read The Harrington mission statement. We offer luxurious boutique accommodation to an elite and more dignified global clientele.’

The corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly at her emphasis on the word dignified. ‘So, no riff-raff.’

Her chin went up. ‘Absolutely not.’

His eyes kept hers prisoner. Watching, noting, measuring. ‘Your profits were down last quarter.’

Isabelle’s spine went rigid. ‘It was a colder than normal winter. Business always drops off a little in the low season. It’ll pick up now it’s spring.’

He released her gaze as he picked up her crystal paperweight and turned it over in his hands. She watched those long clever fingers as they moved over the smooth glass. It reminded her of how he had cradled her breasts in his hands. Even the way he was stroking his thumb over the top of the globe made her breasts tingle in memory. She could feel a blush rising on her cheeks as the traitorous heat in her lower body spread. How could he have such sensual power over her after all this time? Her body had never forgotten the pleasure he had evoked. The memory of it still thrummed in her blood. His electrifying touch, the caress of his lips and tongue, the way he moved within her, the way their bodies had been so in tune—it was like a symphony written exclusively for them.

But nothing about Spencer Chatsfield was exclusive. He’d had numerous lovers before her and numerous ones after. He enjoyed the chase. He wasn’t interested in building a bond with a lover, taking it to the next level of commitment. He was always on the go for a new challenge, a new focus. That’s why he had pushed and pushed to gain The Harrington. It was a prize, a trophy he wanted. Like she had been.

He put the paperweight down and met her gaze. ‘How about you show me your best assets?’

She gave him a cutting look. ‘I know what you’re doing.’

His expression was guileless. ‘What am I doing?’

Isabelle compressed her lips until they hurt. ‘It won’t work. I’m not that silly little fool you deliberately set out to seduce ten years ago.’

His eyes went to her mouth, and then back to her eyes, something softening in the hard planes of his face as if he was remembering what they had shared. ‘I never thought you were a fool.’

She tried not to notice how deep and gravelly his voice had become. How his eyes had darkened to a deep inky blue, how his mouth looked so firm and yet so sensually contoured her own lips ached to feel their pressure against them. The primal need he aroused in her was frightening. Why couldn’t she control her response to him? Just being in his presence stirred her senses into mania. She became aware of every area of her flesh he had touched in the past, as if being in his presence activated sensors like a tracking device. She could smell the lime notes of his aftershave with its understory of something woodsy and clean and cool and fresh with the sharp tang of outdoors. He’d shaved that morning, but even so she could see the tiny pinpricks of stubble along his jaw and surrounding his mouth. She’d felt that sexy rasp against her skin, the way it had teased her flesh, catching on her softness, reminding her of all that was different between them.

Isabelle gave herself a mental shake-slap-shake. She had to stop thinking about the past and concentrate on here and now. He didn’t want her. He wanted her hotel. He was playing with her, luring her in with that deadly Chatsfield charm. She knew exactly what he was thinking. How much more malleable and cooperative would she be if she was in his bed? He would seduce her senseless to get her to sign anything, to agree to anything, in that dazed state of slavish infatuation she had demonstrated in the past. Before she knew it he would have reinvented her hotel into some lurid facsimile of a Chatsfield hotel. The Chatsfields were synonymous with style, spectacle and scandal. The Harrington’s reputation as an elegant and luxurious haven would be desecrated.

She straightened her shoulders. ‘I’ll get the duty manager to show you around the hotel.’

‘I want you.’

Isabelle upped her chin. How did he manage to make three words sound so blatantly sexual? ‘I have a prior engagement.’

Searing heat passed from his gaze to hers. ‘Cancel it.’

She gave him an arctic glare. ‘What are you going to do if I don’t? Fire me?’

The edge of his mouth lifted as if he was amused at having that sort of power over her. Isabelle didn’t find it amusing. She found it nauseating. ‘I’m not sure you’d believe me if I told you what I want to do with you,’ he said with an enigmatic smile.

Her face flooded with heat. It was the one thing she prided herself on—maintaining her cool composure—and yet with a single look he could melt her resolve like a blowtorch on butter. Getting away from him before she betrayed herself was top priority. ‘Don’t you realise there are laws regarding sexual harassment in the workplace?’ she said.

His eyes studied hers for a pulsing moment. ‘Are you dating anyone?’

‘Yes.’ The lie was easy. Providing evidence would be the kicker. Isabelle did a quick run-through of her contacts. Surely there was someone she could call on to pose as a standin date. If not, she would try Internet dating. One way or the other she would find someone. How hard could it be?

If he was disappointed in her answer he certainly didn’t show it. ‘When will you be back from your appointment?’

‘Why?’

‘I’d like to run through some ideas with you.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘What sort of ideas?’

He gave a soft laugh. ‘Anyone would think I had a bulldozer waiting at the front door to plough down the place as soon as your back was turned.’

She gave him a hardened look. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me. There isn’t a lot of subtlety about your methods.’

His crooked smile made something inside her chest tighten so she couldn’t inflate her lungs. ‘I’ll meet you in my office at five p.m. There are other things I have to see to first.’

‘Fine.’ Isabelle gave his legs a pointed look. ‘Do you mind?’

He pulled them back towards the desk and waved a hand for her to pass. ‘After you.’

She eyeballed him. ‘I’m not leaving you alone in my office.’

‘What?’ The twinkling look was back in his eyes. ‘Do you think I’m going to go through your drawers?’

Isabelle blushed so hotly she could feel it prickling over her scalp. She sucked in a breath and made to go past him but he stood just as she did. He towered over her, his body so close to hers she could feel the warmth of it radiating towards her like the glow of a sun lamp.

He grazed the back of her tightly clenched hand with a lazy fingertip. ‘Isn’t it time we quit with the pistols-at-dawn routine? We’re batting for the same team now.’

Isabelle pulled her hand back close to her body and glared at him, her lips so tight she could barely spit the words out. ‘I despise everything about you. This is nothing but a game to you. You’ve deliberately set out to gain the advantage, working in the background using whatever means you could to outwit me. But I’m not giving up without a fight. You might control the majority share but you can’t control me.’

His eyes blazed back, the first sign she had nettled his cool control. ‘That’s rich coming from you. Who was the one who tried to undermine me by using their friend to get the scoop on my brother James? But that spectacularly backfired, didn’t it?’

Isabelle gave a cough of scornful laughter. ‘And what about you? Getting your brother Ben to pretend to be engaged to my sister to drum up a press fest? But that didn’t work out quite the way you planned, did it? He and Olivia fell in love for real.’

‘More fool them.’

‘Oh, yes, that’s exactly what you would say, isn’t it? You’re the “use them and lose them” type.’

‘Damn it, Isabelle,’ he said. ‘I did not use you.’

She drew herself up to her full height, giving him a fulminating glare. ‘How much did you win?’

His savage frown made him appear older than his thirty-four years. ‘Look, it was a silly joke between a couple of mates. It was crass and I’m sorry you found out about it.’

Isabelle’s eyes flared in outrage. ‘You’re sorry I found out about it? How about being sorry for actually doing it, damn it!’

He scraped a hand through his dark brown hair as he let out a muttered curse. ‘All right,’ he said heavily. ‘I’m sorry.’

Isabelle refused to be mollified with an apology that was ten years too late. As far as she was concerned he could never atone for what he’d done—for how he’d made her feel. For the emotional trauma she went through. Putting the pregnancy aside—because she did not think about that anymore—she had lost the little confidence she’d had. It had taken her years to date again and even now she avoided the whole process of trying to establish trust with someone she didn’t know. She could never relax, to be herself. She was always on guard in case someone took advantage of her. These days she used men like Spencer had used her. Sex was sex. It was a physical need she satisfied just as she would thirst or hunger—when she felt like it. Not that she put herself out there much. She could barely recall the last time she’d had sex except to remember it wasn’t particularly satisfying.

‘You can keep your apology,’ she said. ‘As far as I’m concerned we can never be anything but enemies. There isn’t a person on this earth I hate more.’

‘You know what they say about keeping your enemies close.’

Isabelle gave him a withering look. ‘Dream on, Chatsfield. I’m already taken.’

CHAPTER TWO

SPENCER PRESSED HIS lips together as the door slammed in his face. That went well, he thought. He let out a long sigh and turned around and surveyed the neat organised office Isabelle had just stormed out of in spite of insisting she wouldn’t leave him in it alone. The polished antique furniture and the classic soft furnishings were a visible statement of Old Money. A little old-fashioned for his taste but he could see the appeal for the highend market.

Isabelle thought he was playing at hotels, did she? She hadn’t pulled in a decent profit since her father died the year before. He didn’t want to rub her nose in it but if she didn’t ease off with the insults he would have to take his gloves off. He wasn’t going to have his name associated with anything that wasn’t successful. He had a point to prove to his family and he was not going to let little axe-grinding Isabelle Harrington stand in his way.

It had been fun outmanoeuvring her over the past few months. He liked the challenge of outsmarting her. She gave as good as she got, which secretly impressed him. He hadn’t noticed that streak of stubbornness in her ten years ago.

Ten years.

How could it have been that long? She was even more beautiful at thirty-two. Her black hair was as glossy as a raven’s wing; her brown eyes were the colour of a single-malt whisky, her skin as clear and pure as porcelain. She had a slender figure, not rail thin but curves where a man wanted curves to be.

How could he have forgotten how gorgeous she was? When he’d seen her seven months ago he’d felt the same knockout punch to his guts. The way she walked into the boardroom earlier snatched his breath clean away. Not that he’d shown it, of course. If she knew half of what he was thinking he’d be toast. Her hair had been swinging around her head and shoulders in layered waves, her lush mouth primed in a confident smile. Had she just come from her lover’s bed? He hadn’t heard a whisper about her love life. He’d got the impression she lived and breathed work. The thought of her with someone else was like a sudden toothache—annoying, distracting, painful. He wasn’t the jealous type…or at least he hadn’t been until now. He’d never had a reason to be. He didn’t hold any woman long enough for the right to feel a sense of loyalty from her.

But for the past few months something about Isabelle had gnawed away at him, a nibble at a time. He liked that she was prepared to stand up to him. She tried to countermove him at every point. She was smart, she was disciplined and she was tactical. She wasn’t intimidated by the Chatsfield name, although she had no idea he had no real claim on it. No one, apart from his brother Ben, knew Michael Chatsfield wasn’t Spencer’s real father.

The empty feeling he got whenever he allowed that thought to drift into his mind was like having his guts scraped out with a rusty spoon. The loss of his identity, ripped away from him when he’d overheard a few angrily thrown words between his parents as an adult. His parents. What a sick joke. His mother had always acted towards him as if he were an embarrassment to her. She could barely bring herself to touch him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been shown any affection or warmth. It took until that wretched Christmas when he was twenty-nine to figure out why. It didn’t matter how hard he worked to please her or his father. He could ace straight A’s in school and bring home every sporting trophy he could get his hands on. Nothing made either of them proud and accepting of him. Nothing he did ever made him feel loved or wanted.

It annoyed him that he still struggled with it. He felt he should have put it behind him by now. He was moving on with his life. He had goals and plans. He didn’t need his mother or Michael.

He didn’t need anyone.

Spencer went to the window overlooking Central Park, which was abloom with cherry blossom and the bright lime green of new growth on the trees and grasslands. New York in any season was vibrant and exciting, but in spring it had a magical energy about it, a sense of hope and positivity and expectancy.

He had to make The Harrington his in every sense of the word. It was his trophy to claim, to show his family he had a right to the Chatsfield name, even if Chatsfield blood didn’t flow in his veins. So what if he was a little ruthless? Wasn’t every successful person? He couldn’t allow sentimentality to get in the way of a good business deal.

Although there was a small corner of his mind that allowed Isabelle had been badly done by. Her older brother, Jonathan, was a waste of space and had proved that notion by allowing Spencer to think Isabelle was agreeable to his takeover bid. Spencer had already assured Gene Chatsfield the deal was in the bag, so when Isabelle had roundly slapped him down he’d had to regroup, to come up with a different plan to convince his uncle he hadn’t done the wrong thing in promoting him as CEO.

Spencer knew he would have to tell Isabelle about her brother’s treachery at some point, but he knew from experience how difficult familial relationships were. It had taken years for him to reunite with his brother Ben after he’d found out the truth about his biological origins.

He knew he could also tell her that he wasn’t the one who had orchestrated that stupid bet. His mate Tom from university had heard about the beautiful American girl he’d met at a party in London while she was studying at business college. Unbeknownst to Spencer, Tom had laid money with another mate on how long it would take Spencer to get her in bed. Isabelle had found out about the bet via a mutual acquaintance who—like her—assumed he was the one behind it. He had taken offence at her ready assumption he was responsible for something so puerile and offensive. But at the time he’d been too proud and stubborn to defend himself. It wasn’t in his nature to beg or grovel. If she believed him capable of such nonsense, then what did it matter? It hadn’t occurred to him to fight for the relationship—or at least not then. With him based in London and her based in New York their relationship would have fizzled out sooner or later anyway.

But over time, the fact she had ended their relationship and not him had begun to annoy him. To agitate him like a blister that wouldn’t quite heal. He’d considered contacting her and explaining the circumstances surrounding the bet, but then Tom had been killed a few weeks later in a skiing accident and Spencer had decided to let his mate’s reputation rest in peace.

It left a sour feeling knowing that Isabelle hated him so vehemently now. It seemed so petty. Lots of exes managed to get over their differences over time, and some even became friends. The takeover didn’t help matters but at the end of the day she was a businesswoman at heart. Surely she could see this was the only way forward?

But then, he wasn’t here to win a popularity contest. He was here to win. Period. He had to make this deal work, otherwise it would prove every lingering doubt he’d harboured since finding out he wasn’t the firstborn son of Michael Chatsfield.

He was a bastard, a product of an illicit affair his mother had had as a payback to Michael for neglecting her. He hadn’t even had the chance to meet his real father, as he had died some years before. It left a blank hole inside him, a gaping hollow space that could never be filled. The knowledge of his illegitimacy set him apart from the Chatsfield family like a mongrel dog stands out at a pedigree show. No matter how hard he worked, no matter how committed he was to the Chatsfield brand—he would never belong.

Isabelle went back to her suite to check on Atticus. He was stretched out on the middle of her bed and opened one eye as she came in before closing it again. ‘Nice to be some people,’ she said. ‘I wish I could spend all day in bed.’ Her belly gave a little quiver as she thought of Spencer and how his touch had short-circuited her senses. She clenched her jaw. ‘Alone. Just in case you’re thinking I still have a thing for him, which I don’t. Chatsfield men are all the same. He’s arrogant and up himself. He thinks he can pick up where he left off. I saw it in his eyes. I know what he’s thinking. He’s looking for someone to pass the time with while he’s here. But I’m not falling for that. Oh, no.’

Isabelle scrolled through her contacts on her phone to call the vet, but was quickly reassured that unless Atticus was coughing or vomiting excessively he would probably be fine as long as she groomed him regularly and gave him a bit of butter in his food to aid his digestion. She put down her phone and looked at the purring cat. She sighed and leaned over and stroked his silky thick fur. ‘I didn’t really mean it about the tortoiseshell.’

She glanced at her laptop where she’d left it next to her bed. She’d always thought Internet dating was a little desperate, but heck, she was desperate. She had to get herself a date or two before Spencer got under her skin, inside her head or—worse—inside her heart.

She logged in on a popular site and within a few minutes had organised a drink after work with an IT guy called Jacques from Cobble Hill. How easy was dating these days? Just wait till she told her sister Eleanore, who was always banging on about her having no work/life balance.

Isabelle went back downstairs but on her way to her office Enrico Perez, the duty manager, intercepted her. ‘Miss Harrington, we’re putting Mr Chatsfield in the Manhattan-side penthouse suite on your floor.’

Her heart gave a pony kick against her breastbone. ‘He’s staying in-house?’

‘I hope that’s not a problem?’ Enrico said. ‘He’s only here for a week or two while he sorts out the takeover.’

She gritted her teeth. Did everyone have to keep reminding her? Takeover schmake-over. She was sick to death of Spencer gloating over his win. The press would be running wild with the news by now. They had been following her cat-and-mouse battle with him for months. She’d been ignoring calls for the past hour from nosy journalists. Every network would be flashing with the headline Successful Takeover of Harrington by Chatsfield Chain. It made her want to puke. ‘Isn’t there any other suite you can give him?’ she said. ‘What about the Madison or the Roosevelt suite?’ What about another hotel!

Enrico shook his head. ‘Both are booked out for the next three weeks. We could put him in one of the standard suites, but I thought you’d like to show him what The Harrington can offer in terms of top-end luxury.’

Isabelle chewed at the inside of her mouth before blowing out her cheeks. ‘Fine. But why the hell doesn’t he stay at The Chatsfield? Or if he’s so wealthy, why not in his own Upper East Side apartment?’

‘Maybe he’s like you,’ Enrico said evenly. ‘He likes to live and breathe work.’

She pressed her lips together, sending him a defensive look. ‘I do have a social life, you know.’

‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ he said. ‘You’ve worked extremely hard for the hotel. But it would be a shame if you didn’t have someone to share the burden with.’

She straightened her shoulders. ‘I don’t consider it a burden.’

Or at least I didn’t until this morning when Spencer Chatsfield strode into town.

‘Are there any special touches you’d like to put in Mr Chatsfield’s suite?’ Enrico asked. ‘He’s with the family in the boardroom so now would be a good time to show him some of the bespoke service The Harrington is famous for.’

Isabelle felt a spurt of devilry galvanise her flagging spirits. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll make up his room myself.’

The housekeeping staff had just finished cleaning the room when Isabelle arrived with a hotel tradesman carrying two large mirrors on a luggage trolley. ‘Thanks, Rosa,’ she said. ‘I’ll sort out the rest for Mr Chatsfield’s stay.’

‘Yes, Miss Harrington,’ Rosa said.

Isabelle directed the tradesman to the bedroom. ‘Hang one mirror on the ceiling and the other on the wall at the foot of the bed.’

The tradesman’s brows lifted. ‘The new CEO specifically asked for these?’

She gave him a cool tight smile. ‘You know what those Chatsfield boys are like. Better make sure the ceiling one is secure. We wouldn’t want it to fall down and flatten him in the middle of a threesome, now would we?’

Isabelle waited until the tradesman had completed the task and left the suite before she opened the large tote bag she’d brought with her. She smiled a cat’s smile as she took out the array of colourfully packaged condoms in every texture and colour she’d bought at a local pharmacy. She propped them packet by packet in a high tower on the bedside table along with a maxi pump pack of lubricant. She put some handmade chocolates on the pillow, which she’d quickly got the chef to pipe Spencer’s initials on. There was a bottle of French champagne—the one she knew Spencer preferred—in an ice bucket and two crystal Harrington glasses, each with an engraved H in silver. She took out two long black satin ribbons a metre each in length and tied them to the bedposts in giant bows. She hung a pair of handcuffs on the top knob of the bedside drawer and laid a velvet blindfold on one of the pillows. She scattered some fresh rose petals all over the bed and then stepped back to admire her handiwork.

‘Very nice,’ a deep male voice said from behind her.

Isabelle whirled around so quickly she felt light-headed. But maybe that was more to do with seeing Spencer standing there with a satirical smile on his face. She quickly schooled her features into her ice-maiden mask. ‘Just checking your room is tailor-made to suit your requirements.’

His blue eyes shone with a spark of amusement…or was it mockery? She could never quite tell. ‘You Harringtons certainly know how to fine-tune the personal touches.’

She kept her gaze trained on his even though she could feel her face glowing with betraying heat. ‘If there’s anything I’ve overlooked, then please let me know.’

He glanced at the mirror on the ceiling and then the bed with its lurid accoutrements. ‘No whip?’ he said, still with that glinting smile.

Isabelle suppressed a traitorous rush of lust as his eyes moved over her body and gave him an arctic look instead. ‘I decided against one in case you start cracking it in places it’s not welcome.’

He sauntered over to the table and lifted the bottle of champagne out of the ice bucket. ‘Will you join me?’

She hitched her chin to a sanctimonious height. ‘I never drink on the job.’

‘Surely one small one to celebrate the takeover won’t hurt you?’

Isabelle ground her teeth until she was sure they were down a centimetre. ‘You’re lapping this up, aren’t you? Any chance you get you want to rub my nose in it. Next you’ll be saying we should have a party to celebrate your latest acquisition.’

He gave her an indolent smile. ‘How’d you guess?’

Her mouth dropped open. ‘You’re serious?’ His eyes held hers. ‘Never more so, and I want you to organise it.’

Isabelle swung away with a muttered swear word, holding her arms so tightly around her body her lungs could barely inflate enough to breathe. Was there no end to this humiliating torture? Why was he doing this? It would be excruciating to have to celebrate the takeover in public, to put on a happy face as if all was right with her world. The world he had all but stolen from her. ‘You’re un-freaking-believable.’

‘You’ve held functions here before, have you not?’

She turned and speared him with a fulminating glare. ‘Yes, but none with topless dancing girls jumping out of cakes.’

The corner of his mouth twitched. ‘My cousin Lucca doesn’t have those sorts of parties now he’s married to Lottie.’

‘I’m very glad to hear it.’

He rubbed his chin between his index finger and thumb in a musing fashion, the sound of his stubble catching on his skin making Isabelle’s insides coil tightly with desire. She remembered all too well how sexy his raspy skin felt against her smoother one. How it had left red marks on her face when he’d kissed her. Why, oh, why couldn’t she forget? If only she could wipe her memory of him, of all she had experienced in his arms, then maybe she could get through this with at least some fragment of her pride intact.

‘I was thinking something a little more classy,’ he said.

She gave him a contemptuous look. ‘Somehow that’s not a word I readily associate with you.’

The line of his mouth hardened a fraction but then his phone rang and he dismissed her with a look as he answered it. ‘I released a press statement this morning,’ he said to the person on the phone. ‘I already gave an interview half an hour ago. Yes, that’s right. Miss Harrington is delighted with the outcome and is as we speak organising a ball to celebrate the takeover.’

Isabelle glared at him, mouthing, ‘What the …?’

He held up his hand like a stop sign. ‘Yes, we have an excellent working relationship…Yes, you can quote me.’ He clicked off his phone and slipped it back in his trouser pocket. ‘Journalists. I swear I’ve had fifty calls and it’s not even lunchtime.’

She flattened her mouth. ‘You told them I was happy about this? Are you out of your mind? Who’s going to believe it?’

‘Do you know nothing about marketing?’

Isabelle aligned her shoulders, bristling with impotent rage. ‘You have no right to speak to the press on my behalf. I’ll give my own exclusive interview when I’m good and ready and tell them what a prize jerk you are.’

A muscled tightened near his mouth and his blue eyes hardened to flint. ‘You want people to come to this hotel?’ he said. ‘Then you have to show them this is a place that’s buzzing. Not with gossip and innuendo but with a can-do vibe. Show a little professionalism, Isabelle. You’ve got a good product but you’re not showcasing it to its potential.’

She glared at him all the more furiously, her heart pounding with a surge of adrenalin. ‘So you’re basically telling me I’m crap at my job? Is that what you’re saying?’

He raised his eyes to the ceiling in a God-give-me-patience manner. ‘Look, let’s sit down and discuss this like two adults and …’

She planted her hands on her hips. ‘So now you’re implying I’m childish.’

He drew in a deep breath and released it. ‘You’re giving a very fine impression of a kid having a tantrum because things haven’t gone your way. Quit it with the teddy tossing so we can get on with the job of running this hotel.’

Isabelle stepped right up to him, poking a finger to his sternum. ‘Take that back. Now.’

He stood like a block of marble. Intractable. Immovable. His steely gaze holding hers in an unwavering lock that made the floor of her belly shiver like a breeze whispering across the surface of a lake. ‘I’m not apologising for stating a fact,’ he said. ‘Grow up or get out.’

She drilled her finger further into the concrete-hard wall of his chest. ‘You want me to leave? Then you’ll have to carry me out because I’m not go—hey! What the hell are you doing? Put me down!’

He scooped her up and carried her fireman-style to the door of his suite. Isabelle drummed his back and shoulders with her fists, kicking her legs up and down like a kid having a tantrum—the irony of which didn’t escape her—but she was beyond caring. How dare he treat her like this? What if one of her staff saw her carried out of his suite like a sack of potatoes? She would never live it down. Hatred surged like a flood inside her. It threatened to burst out of every pore of her skin. She dug her fingernails into his back, intent on inflicting as much physical hurt as the emotional hurt he was inflicting on her.

He let out a vicious curse and dumped her unceremoniously on the floor in front of him. The only reason she landed on her feet and not on her head was because he had dragged her down the front of his body, every hard plane and contour coming into contact with hers. ‘Stop it, you crazy little wildcat,’ he growled.

Isabelle was breathing hard. How she would love to wipe that imperious look off his too-handsome face, but his hands had shackled hers. She felt the steel bracelet of his fingers overlapping her wrists where her pulse was skyrocketing. His touch burned her, ignited her senses into a heated frenzy. She knew if she didn’t get away from him she would shamefully betray herself.

She tried to bring her knee to his groin but he countered it by pushing her back against the office door, his arms pinning hers either side of her head in a cage of latent male strength. ‘Don’t even think about it.’

She gave him a gimlet glare, trying to ignore the warm minty scent of his breath as it mingled with hers. Trying to ignore the unbearable temptation of his grimly set mouth. Desperately trying to ignore the ridge of his swelling erection in response to her being flush against him. Her body recognised the primal call of the flesh, of the urge of raw earthy lust she had suppressed for most of her adult life. He triggered it like no one else could. It was a force that was as unstoppable as a rising king tide. She could feel it moving in her blood, the pulse of need so strong, so consuming, it overcame any mental obstacle she had put up to resist him. Her pelvis ached to get even closer as the heat and potency of his arousal hardened. The air was so thick with erotic tension it all but vibrated. ‘You never used to be so caveman-ish,’ she said. ‘Or have things got so desperate you have to club your partners into submission?’

His eyes dipped to her mouth, his hands around her wrists loosening a fraction. ‘I really want to kiss you right now but something tells me that would be dangerous.’

She gave him an arch look. ‘Because I’ll scratch your eyes out?’

He gave a low chuckle of laughter. ‘That’s not the only risk.’ He tipped up her chin, his thumb pressing down on her lower lip, on and off like he was pressing a switch. ‘Kissing can lead to other things.’

‘Face slaps?’

His smile was ruefully lopsided. ‘I probably deserved it given the circumstances.’

Isabelle frowned. ‘What circumstances? You wanted my hotel and you brazenly came after it. What other circumstances can there be other than your bull-headed arrogance?’

He dropped his hold and stepped back from her. ‘Your brother gave me the impression you were okay with the takeover.’

Her frown deepened. ‘What? And you believed him given our history?’

He rubbed a hand over the top of his head. ‘Yeah, I know. Dumb of me, but I didn’t know he knew about our history. Hardly anyone did, remember?’

Isabelle remembered all too well, and when their fling had ended she was immensely grateful for it. For some reason Spencer had kept her out of the eye of the press, unusual for him at the time. Also unusual was the fact their relationship hadn’t been a one-, two-or three-night stand. It had actually been a relationship…or so she had thought. He had seen her for close to a month, every night, even during the day when his work schedule and her study timetable allowed. That was why her expectations had been so ridiculously high, foolishly naively high. He had never shown any other girl the attention he had shown her. He had made her feel as if she was someone special. He had bought her gorgeous jewellery and bunch after bunch of flowers, expensive chocolates, champagne suppers, taken her dancing till the wee hours in exclusive intimate clubs where the press didn’t harass them. She had allowed herself to think he was falling in love with her. She had even thought he was going to propose to her, that he was only biding his time so as not to rush her. How could she have not seen it for what it was? No wonder he’d kept her away from the press. He hadn’t wanted his reputation as a playboy tainted by such seemingly smitten behaviour.

All her girlhood dreams of being swept off her feet by a handsome man who saw her as his soul mate were destroyed when she’d heard about the wager. The hurt had been devastating. Crushing. Cutting her hopes to shreds. Leaving her bitter and angry and feeling exploited in a way she had never felt before. She had given him everything of herself and yet she had been little more to him than a game.

But then to add salt to an already festering wound, a couple of weeks after their breakup she’d found out she was pregnant. The shock had been paralysing. She did a total of twenty tests, one after the other, day after day, week after week, desperately hoping it was a mistake, that she’d somehow misread the results. But each and every time the two lines would appear.

Her mind couldn’t accept it even as her body started to show the signs—the nausea, the breast tenderness, the relentless tiredness. How could she possibly be pregnant? The question had been on a constant loop in her brain. They had used protection every time. It couldn’t possibly be true. She went even further into a state of denial, burying herself deep in it in the desperate hope that things would magically return to normal.

Week after week went past and still she kept the knowledge to herself, unable to think of how to handle a baby and her career, not to mention telling Spencer he was to become a father.

Her confusion over the prospect of becoming a mother and thus being tied to Spencer for ever through the bond of their child had added another layer of anguish. She didn’t feel comfortable with the idea of a termination but neither did she want to be in contact with Spencer. Ever.

But just as she was starting to get her head and heart around the idea of being a mother she’d lost the baby just before the four-month mark. She told no one but Sophie. The only thing she had left of her tiny baby was an ultrasound image. It had been a little girl.

‘In hindsight I should’ve realised you wouldn’t let the hotel go without a fight,’ Spencer said into the bruised silence. ‘But he was pretty convincing, said you were on board with it. That you thought it was a good move forward for The Harrington.’

Isabelle rolled her eyes and moved away from the door, pointedly rubbing at her wrists where his hands had imprisoned her. ‘Did you think of calling me first to see what I thought about it?’

He looked at her for a long moment. ‘Would you have taken my call?’

She let out a long whoosh of a breath. ‘You may have a point.’

Another little silence passed.

‘I know you’re angry about the way things have been handled,’ he said. ‘I would be too, if the roles were reversed. But I want this to work, Isabelle. I want to make The Harrington a success. But I can’t do that if you’re working against me. We have to do this as a team or not at all.’

Isabelle pulled at her lower lip with her teeth. ‘What if we don’t share the same vision for the hotel? You’re a Chatsfield. You have that brand hardwired in your DNA.’

‘It’s not as hardwired as you think.’

She looked at the suddenly grim set to his mouth, the hardened line of his jaw, as if he regretted his statement. ‘What do you mean?’

A distant look came into his eyes as if he had cordoned off a section of his personality: No Entry. Even the way he folded his arms across his broad chest warned her about going any further. ‘Tell me what your vision for the hotel is. Give it to me in three words.’

Isabelle smoothed her hands down the side of her pencil-slim skirt. ‘Private. Exclusive. Luxurious.’

He gave a slow nod. ‘How is that different from any of your closest competitors?’

She found it hard to hold his penetrating gaze. Could he see how out of her depth she felt with him grilling her like an underling who hadn’t made the grade? ‘We at The Harrington offer boutique luxury unrivalled by our competitors.’

‘How do you know?’ he asked, still nailing her with his gaze. ‘Have you stayed at a competitor’s recently?’

Isabelle pushed her lips out on a breath. Talking to him always felt like a fencing match. He would always try and catch her off guard. ‘Not…recently.’

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