He frowned as he thought of Lucilla Chatsfield standing in his office and glaring at him. She didn’t like him; that much was plain. He didn’t like her, either. She was utterly spoiled, though perhaps not quite as useless as most of her siblings.
Yet he found her oddly compelling and he did not like it. For instance, her brown eyes were flecked with gold. Why did he know this detail? He had no idea, but he did. And whenever she came into his office, he found himself watching those gold flecks and wondering if they might change with passion. What would staid Lucilla look like mussed? Her hair was always sleek and smooth, either twisted up on her head or slicked back into a thick ponytail. Her suits were crisp and tailored. Not too conservative, not too sexy.
He should not notice her at all, really. She was not a classically beautiful woman. Her cheeks were a little too plump and her hips a little too curvy to be stylish. She was too serious and frowned entirely too much.
And yet he found himself wondering what she would look like naked and sprawled across his bed. A clear sign he’d been working too much and not getting enough sex if he was thinking of uptight Lucilla Chatsfield this way.
Tonight, that would change. He had a date to the gala, and she’d hinted more than once that she was available all night long. After a trip home to shower and change into his tuxedo, Christos got behind the wheel of his Bugatti Veyron and went to pick Victoria up at her apartment. She was waiting just inside the glass doors, her blond hair a mass of luscious curls, her body encased in something shiny that looked almost like rubber.
She sashayed from the building and two men on the sidewalk nearly tripped on their tongues. Christos should be ecstatic at the sight of her, and yet he was somehow disappointed as he opened the door and helped her into the car. She is lovely, he told himself. Lovely.
“I’ve been looking forward to tonight,” Victoria said, sliding her hand up his thigh once he’d gotten into the driver’s seat again. She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. Other than the shock of being touched so blatantly, he felt no excitement. His body responded as her hand drifted over him—a woman was touching his groin, after all—but he didn’t find the prospect particularly thrilling.
“Enough of that, Victoria,” he clipped out. “We have a long evening to get through first.”
She laughed and ran her thumb over his cheek, presumably removing the lipstick she’d left there. “I can’t wait, darling.”
Soon, they were at the hotel, and Christos went around to join Victoria on the red carpet while the valet slipped inside his car and drove off. Photographers were stationed on either side of the entrance, corralled behind velvet ropes, their flashes popping again and again as he walked up the carpet with Victoria on his arm.
They passed inside. Staff members were busily taking care of the guests, but he had no doubt he’d been seen. No one nodded, though. He did not expect it. It wasn’t his job to be liked. Gene Chatsfield had hired him because he was the best. Not because he was the nicest.
The gala was in full swing when they walked into the ballroom. The soaring artdeco walls and ceilings were a work of art themselves, which is why the room showcased the art on display so well. Men in tuxedos and women in glittering gowns mingled, drinks in hand, rotating past the displays and making marks in their catalogs.
Christos circulated, shaking hands and talking with the guests, smiling with satisfaction at their compliments on the decor and service. Victoria clung to his side until he grew tired of having her there and deposited her with a group of expensively dressed women. When he left, they were comparing notes on their dress designers.
He continued to talk to the guests as the clock ticked down to the moment the auction was scheduled to start. At one point, when the conversation bored him and his mind began to drift, the crowd parted and a flash of red caught his eye. It was a dark-haired woman, standing with her back to him, her body encased in a clinging ruby gown sewn with sparkling crystals. She was alone in front of a painting, and he had a sudden urge to find out just what she seemed so captivated by that others did not.
He did not know her or what drove her, but she appeared lonely and isolated in the single beam of light shining down on the spot she stood in. Her head was bowed, her shoulders bent forward, as if the weight of something terribly sad pressed down on her.
Her isolation and loneliness spoke to him because he so often felt the same things. By choice, yes, but still. He’d had to isolate himself to survive the hell of his childhood. It was a skill he’d perfected by the time he was fourteen. A necessary skill to keep from going insane in the juvenile-detention facility he’d been sent to.
Christos excused himself from the conversation and moved toward the woman. He wanted to know who she was and what was in the picture that affected her so much. She turned then, and he stopped, stunned. Lucilla Chatsfield’s brows were pulled together, her face creased with sadness and pain. And she was utterly beautiful standing alone in that beam of light.
The light picked out her bone structure, highlighted the luminous quality of her skin and transformed the darkness of her hair into a chestnut cloud flowing down her back. She was still Lucilla, but Lucilla as he’d never seen her before. The beauty of her hit him like a lightning bolt, stole the air from his lungs, sent blood rushing into his groin.
He wanted to possess her. He wanted to erase that sadness from her eyes, and he wanted to strip that red dress from her body and expose the creamy skin underneath. The need to do so rocked him. And angered him.
He had no time for this. Lucilla was an obstacle in his path, not a dalliance on the side. She hated him. Despised him for sending her brothers and sister away on errands, and for thwarting her ambition.
Christos plucked two glasses of champagne from a passing tray and moved toward her. She’d turned to look at the painting again, and he found himself focusing on the swell of her hips, the curve of her back and the lush beauty of her hair as it tumbled over her shoulders in rich, reddish-brown waves. She never wore her hair down. He was suddenly thankful that she did not because the urge to plunge his fingers into it and feel the silky mass gliding over his hand was almost overwhelming.
“See something you want?”
She whirled to face him, clutching a hand over her heart. “Oh, my God, you scared me.”
He held out the champagne. “Then I apologize.”
She took the glass. Then she turned to look at the painting again. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
Christos stared at the small portrait of a woman. It wasn’t an old painting, though it wasn’t recent, either. The woman was wearing a long gown, pearls and a mink, and she was laughing. It was not a staid portrait at all. Christos frowned as he scanned the portrait. This woman looked familiar in a way. He turned to look at Lucilla’s profile, saw the same lines as in the painting, and a new feeling took root in his soul: anger and even a modicum of pity. Gene Chatsfield had put a portrait of his missing ex-wife into the auction, and Lucilla seemed sad about it.
No one knew where Liliana Chatsfield had gone, but one day she’d walked out on her family and never came home again. He knew the history, as so many did, but for the first time he could see how it must have affected at least one Chatsfield child.
It made him feel almost tender toward her. A complication he did not need. “She is indeed. Your mother, I presume?”
She took a sip of her champagne and he saw that her fingers trembled. “Yes.”
“And does it bother you this picture is in the auction?”
She sniffed. She did not look at him. “Of course not. It’s for a good cause, and my father is right to get rid of it. Graham Laurent painted it before he was quite so famous, so it will fetch a high price simply because of that. Obviously, my father knows this.”
And Gene Chatsfield was marrying again, so his new wife-to-be probably didn’t want a portrait of the old wife still in his possession. Though why he didn’t gift it to one of his children, Christos couldn’t say. It seemed the logi
cal thing to do.
“You could buy it.”
She turned to look up at him again, and he felt the power of that gaze down to his toes. The gold flecks in her eyes sparkled in the light from above. “Oh, no, I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be seemly.”
He didn’t quite understand that logic, but it was not his concern really. If she didn’t want to buy it, what did he care?
“As you wish, Lucilla mou.” He didn’t know why he called her my Lucilla, but the first time he’d done it, she’d seemed annoyed—so he’d kept doing so because it amused him to irritate her. He had not meant to irritate her now, but of course she could not know that. Her eyes narrowed.
“Don’t you have some souls to collect elsewhere in the room?”
Christos couldn’t help the laugh that burst from him then. Lucilla tried to frown but ended up smiling, though she kept biting her lip to stop. He wished she would let it out because he was certain a smile would transform her face.
“I have met my quota of souls for the day, unfortunately.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Tomorrow is a new day. I’m sure you’ll find some lives to wreck before the morning runs out.”
He took a sip of champagne, uncharacteristically amused. She was acerbic and tart, not at all what he was accustomed to in a woman. It was a novelty, and he enjoyed it more than he should. He never cared if he was liked. Companies hired him to do the tough jobs, to make the decisions no one else would.
He didn’t care if this woman liked him, either—but he found himself hoping she wouldn’t go away just yet.
“It is on my schedule,” he said.
“Of course it is.” She pulled in a deep breath and turned away from the painting as if she had made a final decision to slice herself off from the allure of it. “Tell me about you, Christos. Where did you grow up? What did you like to do as a child?”
Her questions punched him in the gut. He never talked about his childhood. It was too painful. Too dark and disgusting. Compared to hers, even with an absent mother, his was hell on earth.
“I grew up in Greece. I had a happy life, I got an education and I went to work. What else is there to know?” The lies flowed easily from his tongue these days. He’d had years to practice them, after all.
She was staring at him. “Where in Greece? Near the sea? Inland?”
Ice formed in his veins. He did not like it when people pried. “Everywhere in Greece is near the sea.”
“That’s a very vague answer.”
He shrugged as if it were nothing to him. “We are not friends, Lucilla. There is no point in engaging in idle chitchat. You do not care about my childhood, nor I yours. You care about what I am doing to your precious company, and I care about returning the Chatsfield name and all it stands for to its former glory. We are not on opposite sides, no matter how you wish to view it. And we don’t need to engage in polite banter in order to pretend we like each other.”
Her eyes had narrowed considerably. And her color was high. The flush over her breasts was intriguing. He wanted to slip her gown off her shoulder and press his mouth just above her heart.
“With an attitude like that, no wonder you don’t have any friends. You refuse to let anyone get close enough to be a friend.”
He snorted. “And do you really want to be my friend, Lucilla? Or is there something more to this query?”
She tilted her chin up. “No, I don’t want to be your friend. But I was trying to be polite. I thought maybe life would be easier if we at least pretended to like each other.”
He took a step closer to her, watched the thrum of her pulse kick up in her neck. He had to admire that she did not back away. She stood her ground, though she had to tilt her head back to look up at him since he towered over her.
“I am quite willing to pretend, Lucilla mou. I find myself utterly intrigued by the cut of that gown and the mystery of what lies beneath. If you wish, we can leave together and pretend to like each other in my bed.”
Her eyes grew as wide as saucers. The color in her cheeks bloomed redder than before. And then she looked completely furious, as if he’d tricked her somehow. He didn’t have time to figure it out because she poked him in the chest with a manicured finger.
“You are not serious, Christos, and this isn’t funny.”
“I was not trying to be funny.”
She poked him again, harder this time. “I saw you come in and I know who you’re with. Don’t insult me by pretending you find me more appealing than you do your supermodel girlfriend.” She dropped her finger and straightened her shoulders. “I am not that desperate or that stupid and I resent you thinking I am.”
CHAPTER TWO
LUCILLA’S HEART BEAT hard and fast as she met Christos’s icy blue gaze. She knew her color was high, and she knew the hue of her gown didn’t help matters in the least. Why had she chosen red for tonight?
Because she knew he would be here.
No, that was not it at all.
She’d chosen the sexiest, boldest dress she owned because she liked to look and feel pretty, not because Christos Giatrakos would be here with yet another model on his arm. Since he’d arrived at the Chatsfield, he’d often been seen at their various events with beautiful women—a different one every time, in fact.
And now he was making fun of her. Taunting her with the idea of them being together, of tangled limbs and heated skin, when she knew it was the furthest thing from his mind. It was his aim to fluster her. It infuriated her that she could even be flustered—damn her stupid hormones—but she refused to let him know it was working.
She tilted her chin up and gave him her best glare. It had often worked on her siblings when they were growing up and she needed to get them in line.
Christos smirked. And then his gaze slid from hers, down over her neck, her collarbone, her chest …
Her skin burned everywhere he looked, as if it were his hands gliding over her body rather than his eyes. “I assure you I am most serious, Lucilla mou. If you care to test me, take my hand and follow me.”
She curled her free hand into a fist to prevent her from doing just that. Not that she seriously wanted to get naked with Christos, but she was damn tempted to call his bluff. Because he was baiting her. He wasn’t serious, and they both knew it. And she would love nothing more than to make him admit it.
“Is this your famous seduction technique? I find it lacking in subtlety and quite amateurish indeed.”
His gaze glittered. “You prove my point with your refusal. You are a coward, Lucilla. This is why you cannot run the Chatsfield Hotels. You are not willing to take chances.”
A fresh wave of anger buffeted her. “Goading me will not get you anywhere. I can see through you, Christos. You want to prod me into doing something stupid. It would give you no greater pleasure than to make me look like an idiot.”
“You do that quite well on your own.”
She nearly choked on her own tongue. “How dare you.”
He arched an eyebrow, mocking her. “I dare because you will not. Because you are frightened, Lucilla. A spoiled little girl who cannot make the hard choices in life. I can, and I will, best you every time.”
“I hate you,” she whispered, her heart hammering hard.
“I am aware of this. And I am certain it can only make this flame between us burn hotter.”
“There is no flame. You’re deluded.” And yet her body was being eaten alive by excitement and anger and the very powerful urge to kiss this man, to see if she would incinerate with that single touch.
How had this … this weakness happened? One minute she was staring at her mother’s portrait and the next he was there and she was burning up inside. She told herself it was because she’d been feeling sad and vulnerable and she hadn’t yet gotten her defenses back up. That was the only way Christos could get to her like this.
He took a step closer to her, until there was hardly a breath separating them. “It is time to stop lying to yourself. You feel it the sa
me as I do. You have felt it from the first moment, the same as I have. Let us burn together, Lucilla, and get this inconvenient attraction out of the way. We’ll work together much better once it’s done.”
She couldn’t breathe. He was taking up all the air, all the space, and she ached with his nearness. It was the final straw for her. She took a step backward, out of his orbit, and sucked in a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Christos, but I think you’ve got it all wrong. There is no attraction, at least not on my part. I can’t stand you and I certainly don’t want you. Now if you will excuse me, I have an event to supervise.”
“You can tell yourself that, but we both know it’s not true.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” she said tightly.
“Run away, Lucilla. But this isn’t over.”
She sucked in an angry breath. “I am certain it is. Good night, Christos.”
Lucilla pivoted on her heel and strode away, merging into the crowd. She was shaking inside, and that infuriated her. Why did she let him get to her? For weeks now, she’d been cool and businesslike, ignoring him, looking down her nose at him even though he was taller than she. She’d treated him like the bug under the dark rock that he was, and she’d gotten away with it.
But today she’d lost her cool. She’d finally snapped and all the boiling emotions she’d been trying so hard to hide had spilled over the walls of the dam she’d built to contain them. They were currently ravaging everything in their path despite her best attempts to rein them in again.
But she would get herself under control. She had a plan, and that plan required her to keep doing as she always did. Christos would be gone before the summer was out when she was finished. She just had to stay strong and focused.
Lucilla slipped into the ladies’ room where she smoothed her long hair and refreshed her lipstick. She stepped back and studied herself in the mirror on one wall. She was not unattractive. But she wasn’t tall or leggy, or so thin she could wear anything and look fabulous in it. She had curves and little bulges—thank heavens for proper foundation garments—and her cheeks were too plump. She was also short, though four-inch heels made her seem tall.
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