by Abby Green
But despite the vulnerability he precipitated within her, the thought of leaving this all behind—rebelling in a minute way for the first time in her life, doing something just for her—was so heady she nearly swayed. Running away with the enemy; you couldn’t get more rebellious than that.
If he was going to stand over the smouldering wreck of their business, shouldn’t she take what she could, while she could?
She forced her feet to move and she walked back over to Antonio, some intoxicating sense of feminine confidence filling her to see his eyes glitter, his gaze so intent on her, as if he’d just been waiting for her to admit she wanted this too. He wanted her. And she wanted him. He was right; it was that simple.
She would protect herself from those nebulous disturbing thoughts of a home and another life. They weren’t real. This was.
She stopped in front of him and looked up and said with a huskiness that was the only indicator of her deep conflicting emotions, ‘I’ve changed my mind. How soon can we leave?’
His eyes flashed and colour scored along those amazing cheekbones. He smiled and it was dark and wicked. It held no triumph though; if it had, Orla might have come to her senses.
‘How soon can you pack?’
Orla was being whisked to a private airfield before the rashness of her actions and reality began to sink in, when the adrenalin that had fuelled her decision and the past hectic few hours was beginning to drain away.
As soon as she’d made the decision Antonio had allowed for no room to doubt it. He’d personally overseen her handing over the reins of control to her most senior manager. He’d then accompanied her up to her suite of rooms and had kissed her soundly, as if wanting to make sure she didn’t forget why they were doing this.
He’d checked out of the hotel and was going to join her at the airfield after he’d paid a visit to the Chatsfield Hotel, presumably to tie up his own loose ends and reassure his sister that everything was on track and that taking their adversary on a debauched holiday was all part of the plan. If he was even admitting that he was doing such a thing.
Orla recalled the frisson of wicked danger she’d felt as she’d tidied up after the night before and hurriedly packed some essentials. Eschewing her structured work clothes for the more casual ones she almost never got to wear, because she invariably worked weekends. Pathetic.
Now, as London sped by outside the car that Antonio had sent for her, she couldn’t help the burn of excitement from growing in her gut. She was doing the rashest thing she’d ever done in her life. She winced minutely—apart perhaps from that one-night stand.
Their solicitor had just looked at her. ‘You’re doing what?’
Orla had striven to sound as cool and confident as she could. ‘I’m going away for a few days, Tom. Mr Chatsfield has seen everything he needs to for now. And I need a little time to think about our strategy.’
Her face had coloured then to imagine that that analysis of strategy would be taking place on her back in Antonio’s bed somewhere in France.
‘Well, this is most unorthodox, Orla. What am I to say to your father?’
Orla couldn’t help a little sadness tingeing her voice. ‘Tell him that everything is in hand, exactly how he wants it.’
Because ultimately her father was never going to compromise on his vision of how he wanted things to be, and Antonio and the Chatsfields would get their hands on the Kennedy Group in the end.
But right now Orla only felt a very fledgling sense of … relief, of a weight being lifted off her shoulders, which stunned her. When for so long her whole identity had been bound up in her family business.
For the first time in her life she was deviating from her strict code of conduct and she wasn’t going to question it or doubt it, because waiting for her right now, standing by a small private jet, was the tall figure of Antonio Chatsfield and Orla’s mind blanked of anything but him.
Antonio watched the car approach and could see the petite shape of Orla in the back. His pulse grew fast, blood heating up. His jeans already felt tight against his crotch as he responded helplessly to even that provocation.
He’d told her earlier that he wanted her to come away with him so this desire could burn itself out, and she’d reacted with predictable spikiness. After all, he’d hardly couched it as a romantic proposition. But the truth was that his motivations for asking her to this place were far more complex.
He’d never asked anyone else here. His own family didn’t even know he owned it. It was completely private, where he’d gone to battle the demons of his mind after the Legion and where he’d finally got well again. Or at least on the path to wellness.
But now he was bringing this woman and he could drum up no sense of regret. Only intense need. He wasn’t afraid that Orla would get the wrong idea; he’d never met a more driven woman whose career came first. Well, apart from his own sister. His conscience struck him—he’d been deliberately vague with Lucilla about what he was doing, when he’d fired off an email telling her that he had to take care of some personal business. Which was true. She just didn’t know how personal.
He frowned now as Orla’s car pulled up and came to a halt. In fact, now that he thought of it, his sister’s response had seemed distracted. Less than interested about his progress with the Kennedy Group, when it had been uppermost of her concerns just days ago. And had she in fact mentioned something about going away herself? He’d been so intent on avoiding her scrutinising his actions that he’d almost forgotten about that now….
But then the car door was opening and Antonio’s mind emptied of anything else, except this. The sense of triumph that had gone through him when Orla had stopped and turned back to him in the hotel had been so strong that he’d had to hide it from her, knowing it would make her turn on her heel again.
As he went to open her door and saw her bright head of hair, down around her shoulders, and that beautiful face, triumph was only a fraction of what he was feeling. And what he was feeling was far too disturbing to focus on now. It made him think of how vulnerable she’d looked as she’d admitted to him how badly she wanted to save her hotels. And the reality behind her mother’s brittle fun-loving facade.
Her defence of her mother had echoed within him, making him wonder about the reality behind the scandalous headlines of his own siblings. Bringing up that sense of fear at how his brothers and sister would react if he got in touch.
But now Orla’s hand was slipping into his, scattering his thoughts, and he closed his fingers around hers and pulled her from the car, mindful of her delicacy in spite of the steely strength she hid it with. He took in the tight figure-hugging jeans and plimsolls. The pretty violet-coloured silk sleeveless top with a frilled neckline.
‘Why, Ms Kennedy,’ he drawled, ‘I would have thought you were allergic to jeans.’
She scowled and pulled her hand free but her eyes were bright. Bright enough to mesmerise him.
‘One more crack like that, Chatsfield, and you’ll have to entertain yourself in your little hideaway.’
Antonio took her hand again and found himself feeling serious as he said, ‘Not a chance. You’re not escaping now.’
He pulled her towards the plane where some officials were waiting to check their passports and then he was allowing her to precede him up the steps and forcing his hands away from that pert backside. There would be time for that … later. All the time in the world. And then this hunger would have left his system and he could get on with his life.
‘Wow.’ Orla could only emit one ineffectual word as she stepped out of Antonio’s Jeep when she saw the property laid out before her, about three hours later. It was stupendously idyllic.
The property was at the end of a long drive, set into a forest of gnarly trees with the glittering sea close enough to touch. Insects buzzed in the warm sultry air; Orla could taste the sea on her tongue.
The house itself made something very private within her resonate. That desire for home. It was a palatial vill
a. Three-storeyed. Lots of windows and huge central front doors with stone steps leading down to a charmingly haphazard pathway. The stones of the house were obviously well worn with age and the sun, cream in colour, and the roof was made up of terracotta slates. Quintessentially French.
Antonio’s voice was gruff as he took Orla’s hand. ‘Come on, I’ll show you around.’
Orla was afraid to look at him. Afraid he might see something she wasn’t ready to reveal. The magnitude of what she was doing had hit her on the plane, some twenty thousand feet in the air, and instead of hurtling her back into reality it had only intensified her sense of excitement and rebellion and made her want this more.
The small plane had made Orla acutely aware of how gorgeous Antonio was in faded jeans and a polo shirt that stretched across his wide chest and powerful biceps. It had taken every last ounce of control not to jump on him there and then. But his knowing heavy-lidded looks had stopped her. She’d been loath to reveal how hot he made her feel, and so she’d sat on her hands and ignored his provocative glances as much as possible.
But now, with her hand in his … transported to another world, literally, everything felt much closer to the surface, stripped away. And Orla could feel her defences slipping and crumbling, much as they had when she’d allowed him into her rooms last night….
Antonio was leading her in through the main doors which were open, revealing a huge open-plan downstairs-reception area off which were several rooms. The walls were the original exposed bricks, and there were flagstone floors. Orla stifled a gasp when Antonio led her into a stunning formal dining room with open French doors that led out to a glorious side garden. It was exquisitely decorated in cooling tones of whites and greys.
A vase of extravagant colourful blooms was a centrepiece on a small serving table near the doors.
She heard Antonio remark dryly, ‘Not bad for a meathead ex-soldier, hmm?’
Orla blushed. He was no meathead ex-soldier. She tried to cover her discomfiture and the realisation that this was not far off how she would have decorated such a space herself. She shrugged one shoulder lightly. ‘Not bad, I guess…. The exposed walls add the requisite roughness.’
Antonio’s eyes flashed dangerously but he just shook his head wryly before leading her on, into a very comfortable and homely den area with state-of-the-art TV and music systems. Bookshelves lined the walls and were bursting with books. To diguise the growing sense of vulnerability to see yet another piece of her innermost desires manifesting, Orla quipped, ‘I presume the books are just for show?’
‘Cheeky.’ His hand tightened on hers and she was about to look up when a high-pitched shriek pierced the air and seemingly out of nowhere a tiny blur of brown limbs and black hair ran through the other side of the den, quickly followed by a similar smaller blur, also shrieking.
For a second Orla was just in shock and confusion … until she registered the way her entire body had pulsated with what felt like a wave of longing. It was so strong that she didn’t even realise how tightly she was gripping Antonio’s hand until he squeezed back and said, ‘Hey, it’s only Marie-Ange’s kids.’
Orla stared at him blankly. It took seconds for his words to sink in—to realise that what she’d just seen hadn’t been some projection of her deepest fantasies. That she wasn’t going totally mad. Then she recalled the open front door …
A lyrical sing-song voice called out, and then a young, dark-haired attractive woman appeared, taking off an apron as she walked in. Antonio let Orla’s hand go to greet the woman warmly, kissing her on both cheeks.
She smiled prettily, showing dimples, and Orla could only watch as Antonio turned back to her to say, ‘I’d like you to meet Marie-Ange, my housekeeper. She and her husband, Dominic, look after the place for me while I’m not here. They live in the local village.’
The woman was smiling so widely that Orla couldn’t help but respond, despite the shock she’d received. They shook hands, and just then the two children exploded into the room again and Antonio caught one up and held him high, where he squealed with delight.
The woman was explaining in charmingly accented English, ‘Please excuse the disturbance—I was hoping to be long gone by now but Dominic had a crisis with his car this morning and we had to go to the garage and then he had to take my car … and I had to take the kids….’ She smiled with that long-suffering look of the slightly harassed mum.
Orla had seen it countless times in the hotel and had always done her best to make sure both mother and children were accommodated.
She smiled and muttered something vague, acutely aware of Antonio with the small boy in his arms, speaking to him in French. The other child, a little girl, a toddler, equally cute, was clinging on to Antonio’s leg, her huge brown eyes imploring him to lift her up. Seeing Antonio so at ease with these children made something quiver inside her.
But then Marie-Ange was lifting her daughter away from Antonio’s leg and instructing her children firmly to leave Mr Chatsfield and his guest alone. She was speaking in a flurry of fast French to Antonio, who had put the little boy down. He responded with a very Gallic expression that was a universal sign for don’t worry. Orla’s French was passable but not fluent.
Antonio kissed Marie-Ange again, and Orla reeled a little to see this side of him and to see the obvious warmth he felt for this woman. The little girl was in Marie-Ange’s arms, a thumb in her mouth, eyes disconcertingly steady on Orla.
Orla had never really contemplated the reality of having children. When would she have the time? But when she’d seen these two jump out of nowhere and streak through the room like little ghosts—that feeling of longing had been so intense, she still shook with it. It was as if her biological clock had just started with a resounding bang.
Marie-Ange was leaving, calling goodbye, her son rushing ahead of her. And then they were gone. Antonio turned to Orla, something enigmatic in his eyes. He arched a brow. ‘You got a shock to see Marie-Ange and the kids? I should have told you….’
Terrified that he might guess at the seismic revelation seeing those children had precipitated within her, Orla just shrugged minutely. ‘I was startled, that’s all. I hadn’t expected anyone else to be here.’ It was only now that she recalled seeing another car near the entrance of the property, back up the drive.
Something else came into Antonio’s expression then, something far more recognisable. Desire. And Orla welcomed it—anything to avoid thinking about what had just happened.
Throatily Antonio said, ‘We won’t be disturbed again unless we want to be.’
He took her hand again and started tugging her in the direction of the stairs which led to the upper levels from the reception area. ‘I’ll show you the rest of downstairs later. Right now I’m more interested in showing you where we’ll be sleeping.’
Desire, wicked and hot, burst into Orla’s solar plexus. Relieved again to be moving away from far too disturbing and scary revelations, she said nothing as Antonio led her up to a second level and down the flagstoned hallway covered with rugs to an open door.
A majestic bedroom was revealed, spanning the width of the house, with breathtaking views out over the rest of the property and the sea and the gathering dusk. A soft neutral-coloured sisal-type carpet covered the floor. White drapes billowed gently in the fragrant warm breeze.
But all Orla could see was the enormous super-king-size bed in the centre of the room, covered in white linen. Antonio let her hand go and came to stand in front of her. Orla gazed at him and gulped…. He looked so feral. Dangerous.
Surprising her, he cupped her jaw gently. ‘Thank you, for coming here with me.’
Something tender gripped her inside. What was it about this man that kept her so thrown? So unsure of what he was about to do next?
Wanting to diffuse the emotions, Orla said provocatively, ‘I haven’t come … yet.’
A ghost of a smile made one side of Antonio’s mouth quirk and to Orla’s endless relief he pulled her
into him. Roughly he said, ‘I think I can remedy that within a short matter of time….’
And then his mouth was covering hers and lust was rising and pushing down all the scary things that Antonio made her think of and feel. This she could handle…. The other? Not so much. Orla made a vow to herself before Antonio’s wicked mouth and hands rendered her completely senseless to avoid straying off this lust-fuelled path as much as possible while they were here.
And she also said a silent prayer, as he deposited her on the soft surface of the bed, that this desire would blaze out between them and leave her free to resume her life. Free of far too disturbing wants and desires that had never really risen to bother her before.
The dawn light bathed Orla’s pale, pale skin in a pinky glow. She was on her front, arm curled close to her chest where Antonio could see the fleshy curve of her breast, one leg straight, one leg bent. Her bare backside was surprisingly plump for someone so slim and petite. The sheet had long ago fallen from the bed. In fact, Antonio thought wryly as he rested his head on one hand and regarded her, he was surprised all the sheets hadn’t burned off the bed altogether.
His smile faded as he went back to his slow perusal of his lover. His lover. He’d never had a lover like Orla before. Her face was towards him, resting on one cheek. Lashes long and dark against her skin, mouth pouting softly, swollen from his kisses. Her hair a vibrant splash of red on the white linen. Needless to say, even just looking at her like this had his body in a painful state of arousal. After making love to her endlessly, all night. Until exhaustion had finally claimed them.
He had never allowed a woman to spend more than a night or two at the most in his bed. That had been as much a conditioning of his career as anything else. But even before he’d embarked on life in the Legion, he’d avoided anything but the most fleeting intimacy like the plague.
He could remember a time when his parents’ marriage had been relatively happy. Solid. But he could also remember how quickly it had fallen apart. As if it had never been held together by much except superficialities in the first place. Antonio had long suspected his father of his infidelities before it had become fact. Even before his wife had crumbled completely and left.