by Abby Green
Orla twirled her wine glass in her hands and then looked at him, mocking back, ‘I had you down as a meathead ex-soldier. So how does a master of wine end up in the French Foreign Legion and survive?’
Immediately Antonio’s eyes narrowed on her and the air cooled. ‘Been doing your homework?’
Orla shrugged lightly, belying her sense of intimidation. ‘It’s common knowledge you went to the Legion.’
She glanced at him; his eyes had darkened. She widened hers against the tremor in the region of her gut. ‘What? I thought we’d called a truce? I’m merely trying to make conversation.’
A voice chided her, Way to go with keeping to truce-appropriate topics.
After a long moment Antonio shrugged one broad shoulder. Now he was avoiding her eye. Gazing into his wine. ‘I joined when I was twenty-five.’
Curious now, Orla said, ‘Why not earlier? Surely twenty-five is relatively old to join an army?’
Antonio’s face was expressionless as he looked at her. ‘I wasn’t in a position to earlier. I had my family to think about.’
Orla pushed aside the urge to ask him to elaborate on what he meant by that and admitted, ‘I know nothing about it apart from the myths and legends … the fact that it’s secretive and the training is brutal. That you have to give up your name and passport.’
Antonio took a sip of wine and his mouth tipped up on one corner, but Orla’s gaze was distracted momentarily by the strong bronzed column of his throat. She had the sudden desire to flick her tongue there, tasting him.
‘That’s about as much as I knew before I went in,’ he admitted. ‘I walked in the gate at Fort de Nogent in Paris, handed in my passport and didn’t get it back for seven years.’
A shiver went through Orla. ‘I can’t imagine just handing yourself over to something like that.’
Antonio’s expression was enigmatic. ‘And yet don’t we do it every day? Haven’t you given yourself over to your career, to your family business?’
Immediately feeling defensive, Orla blustered, ‘That’s different!’
‘How?’ Antonio just asked. ‘Because you’re not leaving your home, changing identity?’
‘Did you have to change your identity?’ Orla was referring to the fact that when someone joined the Legion, they had to give up their own name and take on another, usually given to them by the Legion.
Antonio’s mouth firmed for a moment as if he resented her diverting the conversation away again. He nodded. ‘Yes, but after a period of time you can resume your own identity again. It’s not as strict as it used to be.’
‘And did you take your name back?’
He shook his head after a long moment. His face was cast in shadows. Her voice husky, Orla asked, ‘Why not? Who were you?’
Antonio answered with steel in his tone. ‘Someone else.’
Just then they were interrupted by the waiter returning with starters. Orla felt slightly disorientated and was more fascinated than she liked to admit to about Antonio’s experiences in the Legion. But before she could probe any further he asked a question of his own.
‘So, how about you? Were you born in one of those suits you like to wear with your hair all neat and tidy?’
Orla scowled at him and he smiled, shameless. Her belly tightened with a spasm of lust. Somewhere along the way she was losing sight of what this dinner was; the lines were getting blurred. She took a bite of her asparagus starter and tried to control herself.
When she was able to she answered impulsively, wanting to wipe the smug look off Antonio’s face. ‘Actually, if you must know I was a tearaway tomboy for the first nine years of my life. I hated dresses. Couldn’t stand being indoors. I had more scrapes and bruises than any boy I knew, much to the disgust of my mother….’
Antonio put down his fork. ‘What happened when you were nine?’
Orla stared at him and realised what she’d just said. Cold horror flooded her because she’d been nine when she’d overheard that conversation of her father’s and had changed overnight. Feeling very exposed now, she shrugged and avoided his eye. ‘I guess I turned into a girl.’
Antonio’s deep voice came like a caress. ‘Something happened. No one changes overnight.’
Orla looked at him, but he just looked back at her and raised a brow. Feeling inordinately threatened, she finally admitted, ‘It was an overnight decision actually, but it came about because of something I overheard.’
With the utmost reluctance, Orla described overhearing her father talking and her resolve to be there for him. To shoulder the responsibility of being his only heir.
‘The fact is,’ Orla pointed out before Antonio could say anything, ‘I loved it. I used to sit in on his meetings and take notes, pretending to be his secretary. And then as I got older, I took notes for real.’
Antonio sat back a little, those enigmatic eyes unreadable. ‘What about your mother?’
Orla tensed and pushed away her starter plate. She avoided Antonio’s eye. ‘My mother … just isn’t really interested in the business side of things. She used to be though, when I was small. I’d see her and my father working late, going over figures, deciding on interior decoration … which hotel to invest in next.
‘But then …’ Orla shrugged and tailed off, not wanting to reveal how her mother had been seduced by their wealth as it had grown, to the point where that was all she cared about now.
To her relief a waiter came and cleared their starters, cutting her off. When they were alone again Antonio asked, ‘Do you have a home in London?’
Orla breathed a small sigh of relief that he wasn’t going to pursue the last topic of conversation. She shook her head and felt a familiar pang. ‘No, I live here at the hotel. We’ve always lived in the hotels … one or other of them. The one here in London for the past twenty years, since it was opened.’
‘You’ve always lived in your hotels?’
She nodded again. ‘Didn’t you?’
He shook his head. ‘We have a family home outside London. We grew up there … although we did run riot around the hotel here all our lives. Drove our parents crazy, of course.’
Orla felt wistful and heard herself admitting, ‘I missed not having siblings.’
Antonio’s expression became enigmatic again. ‘I had too many and you had none. We’re never happy, are we?’
An efficient waiter reappeared with their main courses and Orla smiled her thanks. Antonio’s comment about never being happy reverberated inside her.
Orla speared some lamb. It was succulent and gorgeous but her taste buds had suddenly dried up. Their conversation felt far too…. easy, yet with a delicious edge of tension.
They concentrated on their food for a few minutes and a ridiculous ripple of pride went through Orla when Antonio commented that the steak was one of the best he’d ever tasted.
After the brief lull, almost against her will Orla found herself blurting into the silence, ‘I always wanted a house. A family home. I was so envious of my friends when I’d go back to their houses. That they could shut the front door and not have to deal with hundreds of strangers right outside their door.’
Embarrassed now, Orla flushed and avoided Antonio’s gaze. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I know how lucky I was—I had an incredibly privileged upbringing. But sometimes … I wished that I had my own space. That when I came back to my bedroom after school the bed wouldn’t be turned down with a sweet on the pillow and all my things tidied away.’
Antonio said nothing for a moment and then, ‘We might have had a home … but we were cut off from the outside world to a large extent. Shuttled from exclusive boarding schools back to a huge bleak house filled with nannies and housekeepers. Our parents were invariably in one of the hotels…. We were pretty much left to our own devices and then our mother left when I was fifteen.’
Orla felt a pang near her heart. Everyone knew the story of Liliana Chatsfield walking out on her family all those years ago only to vanish into thin air, leaving b
ehind a baby and her six older children. That was when the gilt edges had started crumbling from the Chatsfield empire.
As much as her own mother drove her to distraction now, she’d been there for Orla her whole life.
‘That must have been rough. And you never saw her again?’
Antonio wiped at his mouth with a linen napkin and shook his head quickly. Orla had the distinct feeling that he wasn’t about to elaborate on that part of his life. She had a memory flash at that moment of being about eighteen or nineteen and seeing Antonio splashed all over the tabloids emerging from a nightclub with a bevy of semi-naked beauties.
She could remember how devilishly gorgeous he’d been, but far younger and more innocent looking than the man in front of her now. Which was why she hadn’t recognised him. That had been just before he’d disappeared off the scene completely and then one by one the other Chatsfields had grown up and started to take his place in the papers with regularity.
As recently as a few weeks before, his youngest sister, Cara, who was stunning and irrepressible, had been in the headlines for doing something debauched. Orla found herself wondering, what must it have been like for him to take on the burden of responsibility so young? Much like herself.
She’d never in a million years have felt like she’d have anything in common with a privileged Chatsfield. The revelation was uncomfortable.
‘I presume you didn’t see your sisters and brothers much since you went away?’
Antonio didn’t move a muscle, but Orla could sense him tensing. He took his wine glass in his big hand and rolled it, making the rich red liquid swirl hypnotically.
‘No,’ he answered finally. ‘I didn’t. They were all pretty much grown up when I left, except for the twins, Orsino and Lucca, who were finishing school, and Cara, who was ten.’
His mouth tightened to a bitter line. ‘But as my father pointed out to me, he was their father not me. Even though it only suited him to be a father every now and then. I had a fight with him on a day when evidently it had suited him.’
Orla felt her way. ‘A fight?’
Antonio nodded curtly. ‘About my brother Nicolo. He’d been badly scarred in a fire when he was thirteen. I was worried about him because he’d gone from being a hellraiser to living as a recluse. I knew that he’d never really come to terms with what had happened but he didn’t want to hear it from me.’
Orla’s chest grew tight at the thought of Antonio as a young man trying his best to be a parent to his brothers and sisters. She wanted to ask him more but just then their waiter came and took plates away and Orla was shocked to see that she’d practically shared the bottle of wine with Antonio in the end.
She was also more than a little stunned by that last conversation. They’d deviated way off the tracks. So much for her keeping things cool and businesslike. She’d been all but hanging off his every word like some lovesick teenager. Quickly she asked for coffee, wanting to clear her head a little. Antonio Chatsfield was proving to be far more interesting and deep than she would have ever given him credit for.
When their coffees had been delivered, Orla was determined to bring things back onto more familiar ground. ‘So why come back now to do this? Be part of a takeover bid?’
Antonio’s eyes flashed. ‘I thought we were going to avoid contentious subjects?’
Orla lifted her chin.
Mock-sadly, Antonio replied to her silence. ‘The truce was nice while it lasted.’
He took a sip of coffee and then put his cup down. ‘I came home to do this now for my sister Lucilla. When I left home, she shouldered the burden of caring for our siblings and also running the business. She’s asked me to look after this one thing for her … so I am.’
He speared Orla with a dark look. ‘If you’re trying to figure out how soon I’ll be gone again, Orla, don’t waste your time. You have my undivided attention until we become the new owners of the Kennedy Group. And it will happen … sooner or later.’
Orla’s hand tightened on her coffee cup so much that she had to relax for fear of breaking it. She couldn’t escape that compelling gaze. There was steel in Antonio’s tone.
The depth of his loyalty to his sister was tangible and after what he’d just told her she could well imagine how strong a bond had been forged after their mother had left. She was up against blood ties, blood loyalty. And yet, so was he. She had just as much riding on this deal as he had for the sake of her family.
Suddenly feeling as sober as a judge despite the wine, and also disturbingly exposed to hear Antonio lay out his loyalty to his sister so starkly, Orla forced herself to finish her coffee and wiped her mouth.
She injected as much lightness into her voice as she could muster. ‘I think I’ll retire. It’s been a long day and we have a convention arriving tomorrow, early.’
Antonio smiled and it looked like a shark’s smile in the soft light. No less threatening. Orla felt cold. She couldn’t believe she’d been intimate with this man only a few nights ago.
‘I’ll see you up to your room.’
Orla opened her mouth and saw the stern set of Antonio’s mouth and jaw. It was futile to argue.
‘Fine,’ she replied tightly, ‘knock yourself out.’
They stood up and Antonio let Orla precede him out of the booth. He noted that her cheeks were flushed. From the wine? Or from the desire-saturated air that swirled around them? Or from the realisation that she was fighting a losing battle to keep control of her family business?
To his surprise, Antonio felt a pang at that. He couldn’t help but acknowledge how hard Orla worked. He’d observed her over the past couple of days when she’d been unaware. She’d been tireless. Up at dawn, to bed late at night. Unfailingly polite and warm to guests and staff alike. In fact, it was a kind of dedication and service that he knew was lacking in their hotel business, mainly because of its size and success.
The Kennedy Group clearly still had that very personal touch. And Antonio had to admit that it had to do with the fabled Irish charm too. He’d watched Orla switch it on, exactly as she had with that waiter earlier. And it was completely sincere. The guests loved it. And the staff were steadfastly loyal. He’d been given the gimlet eye by more than a few as he’d made his rounds, checking things out.
Orla walked in front of him through the restaurant now, hips swaying in her silk dress. The back of her neck looked intensely vulnerable with her hair up and he had to fight the urge to tug it down so that it feathered across her shoulders as it had done the other night. Which felt like an aeon ago. When they’d been different people. Strangers. Lovers.
The lobby area was quiet. Orla went to the reception desk to check in with the staff before calling out goodnight as she made her way to where Antonio waited at the lifts. He was propped against the wall, hands in his pockets.
He could see as she approached that she got tenser. Her shoulders a stiff line. He pressed the button for the lift and the doors opened smoothly. Stepping in, he looked at her questioningly, and after a taut moment, a silent battle of wills, she said, ‘Floor five. Please.’
The doors slid shut again and she obviously noted that he didn’t push the button for his own floor. She looked very petite in the small space and Antonio was automatically thinking of how she’d exposed herself to him that night. And then afterwards … how tight she’d been. How responsive. Desire surged and he hoped she wouldn’t glance down right now.
As if she was battling with the same carnal memories, she blurted out, ‘You don’t have to walk me all the way to my door. We’re not in a dodgy street, for heaven’s sake.’
Antonio just stared at her and couldn’t control the intense flare of heat in his groin. Her hair was so bright against this backdrop, vivid red. Her skin so pale. Eyes so blue. He wanted her with a hunger he’d never experienced before. Not even after months of celibacy in the army; he hadn’t indulged while he’d been on active service, preferring to wait until he was on leave. As a result of that Antonio prided hims
elf on his ability to maintain control … not any more.
Forcing himself to not sound as desperate for her as he felt, he drawled, ‘I insist. I want to prove to you that I can be a gentleman, Orla.’
He almost felt sorry for her when she said far too fervently, ‘I believe you. Really.’
But then the doors opened and Antonio indicated for her to get out. He saw her jaw clench, but then she stepped out and he followed. Her room was at the end of the corridor. She put her key card in the door and it opened. She turned around immediately and he could see the pulse beating at the base of her neck. Frantic. He remembered how her pulse had felt under his hand earlier and his own sped up in response.
‘OK, thank you. This is me.’
He knew she was aiming for jocular but it came out forced and something resonated deep inside him. Telling himself this was just all part of the game plan to unsettle this woman, he drawled, ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’
‘Certainly not.’
Antonio had to smile at Orla’s frigid tone as he pointed out dryly, ‘Need I remind you that you don’t have to put on the scandalised-virgin act?’
She spat out now, her cheeks high with colour, ‘We both know neither of us are virgins.’
Antonio’s body tightened. And yet he’d guess that she hadn’t been very experienced at all. In spite of her bravado that night.
He was actually about to admit defeat and step back and leave her when she opened the door wider and said huffily, ‘For heaven’s sake, you can satisfy yourself that there are no intruders and then leave….’
Antonio’s body reacted, blood leaping, keeping his body aroused, hard. She stood back and he walked in. Immediately a faintly exotic scent assailed his nostrils, unlike the usual hotel scent. It was her scent, and as he walked into the suite of rooms he had to stop his jaw from falling open.
She had obviously completely redecorated the suite to suit her tastes. To create the home she spoke of missing out on? His chest tightened. Everything was soothing, calming—in tones of off-white. A big comfortable couch and low table with two armchairs. A state-of-the-art TV and music system. Beautiful watercolour paintings on the walls. It had a visceral effect on him, tugging on some deep echo within himself of a long-forgotten desire for his own space and … peace.