Heiress's Defiance

by Lynn Raye Harris

  He had not done so, of course. He had no intention of doing so, no matter that it would be the solution to his problem.

  He raked a hand through his hair and swore softly. He could not figure out this reaction to Lucilla, except that she fired his blood because she so very clearly despised him. He didn’t usually care how anyone felt about him so long as the job got done. He still didn’t care.

  But he was intrigued, damn him. No one stood up to him the way Lucilla did. No one challenged him on every level. He found that he enjoyed it.

  He was a man who got what he wanted. And right now, he wanted Lucilla Chatsfield. He wanted her beneath him, saying his name in pleasure rather than derision. It was dangerous to want such a thing, and yet he was driven by a need that went all the way back to his miserable childhood.

  He’d been nobody, nothing, an unwanted blot on the dirty face of the life he came from. He’d clawed his way up, out of the mire, and he’d sworn he would have everything he had ever been denied. He’d not been raised with gold and diamonds and plenty to eat. He’d had to fight to survive, and he’d had to maim to prevent being killed.

  Lucilla Chatsfield, in contrast, had grown up in a huge pile of stones known as Chatsfield House, where she’d had servants, money, all the food she could eat and the finest education money could buy. Her tones were cultured, her manner graceful and understated.

  Lucilla would never be gauche. She would never be an urchin from a hardscrabble background. She would never feel as if she didn’t belong.

  He knew what it meant to be all those things, though he’d left them far behind. He’d achieved fame in certain circles, a fortune and all the women he wanted. He’d had heiresses before. Rich divorcées. Women whose pedigrees went back to some important monarch or other.

  But there was something about Lucilla Chatsfield. Something about the idea of seeing her naked and trembling before him, begging for his touch, for his mouth on her body. Begging the former street urchin to caress her privileged flesh.

  Oh, yes, she made him remember his roots and he did not like it. She made him feel unworthy, and he’d worked a long time to banish that feeling. He’d not felt worthless in forever. Not until Lucilla looked down her nose at him and told him to crawl back in his hole.

  What he didn’t understand was why she made him feel that way, because she certainly wasn’t the first to say such a thing to him. She likely wouldn’t be the last.

  But she did, and he couldn’t allow it. Christos let out a long breath. There was only one cure, only one way to relegate her to her rightful place in his universe.

  Lucilla was standing in the kitchen, tasting the selections the head chef suggested for the upcoming seasonal menu when Christos walked in. Her heart skipped a beat, but she continued to lift the tasting spoon to her lips and nibble on the goat-cheese-and-truffle-oil hors d’oeuvres Henri had designed. It was perfectly placed on a little crostini that gave it a delightful crunch when she bit down.

  “Excellent, chef,” she said after she’d swallowed the morsel.

  “Sir?” Henri inquired, turning to Christos with a tasting spoon.

  “Certainly.” He took the spoon and popped the food into his mouth and she found herself fascinated with the way he chewed it. Slowly, as if savoring every flavor. When he finally swallowed, she wanted to fan herself. “Most excellent,” he told the chef, who beamed.

  Henri excused himself after a few more moments discussing the food and Lucilla found herself alone with Christos—or as alone as one could be in a kitchen bustling with activity. She hadn’t spent any time with him since that night over two weeks ago when she’d nearly lost all her sense over nothing more than an illicit kiss.

  Frustratingly, she still had no information she could use to jettison him from the Chatsfield. But she wasn’t giving up yet. There were still people she hadn’t heard from. And then there was the last email that she’d received from Sara Norrington, the private detective she’d hired to investigate Christos. Sara had said that she was on to something but had refused to share any information until she had something concrete. A little tendril of guilt wrapped around Lucilla’s heart but she ignored it. What was there to feel guilty about? She wasn’t going to maim him, for God’s sake. She just wanted him to resign and move on to the next company.

  She gripped her tablet to her chest and leveled a cool gaze on him. He made her insides flutter, damn him. “Did you need something from me?”

  One eyebrow lifted and heat slid over her skin. Oh, heavens … Talk about a loaded question.

  She expected him to remark on it, but he did not. Rather, he spoke imperiously, as if he’d never had his tongue in her mouth and his hands on her body. “Only to remind you that the shareholders’ meeting is next week, and we will be leaving immediately after.”

  It was as if the kiss had never happened, and for some reason that irritated her. She would at least like to know he’d spent half as much time thinking about it as she had. Not that she ever would know it. He’d left that night as he’d arrived: with his supermodel on his arm. Laughing at her, no doubt, for being so flustered when Jessie caught them.

  “I know that.”

  “Though you have not bothered to reply to my email.”

  She got the distinct feeling he wanted to irritate her. It was working, too. “What is there to reply to? You sent a detailed itinerary. I assumed I was to salute sharply and click my heels.”

  “Yet a reply in the affirmative is expected. If I assumed that all my memos were received and agreed to without confirmation, I wouldn’t be much of an executive, now would I?”

  “Then I shall have Jessie respond immediately.”

  “See that you do.”

  “You could have just called,” she said as he turned away. How dare he show up and put her on the spot, then walk away as if nothing disturbed him?

  He pivoted back to her. “You didn’t answer your phone. I wasn’t prepared to assume you would answer a follow-up.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  His eyes gleamed. “As have I. Which makes this meeting damned inconvenient, I assure you.”

  Now he was just making her mad. “So why didn’t you pick up the phone and call my office? You know the number. Or, better yet, have your assistant call my assistant. You didn’t have to disrupt your excruciatingly busy day to come find me.”

  He glanced over her shoulder, presumably at the kitchen staff who were busily going about their duties peeling vegetables, preparing dishes, washing pots and generally prep-ping the kitchen for the evening service. No doubt they were paying attention keenly as Lucilla was well aware that both their voices had risen as the conversation went on.

  “It seems as if we are attracting attention, Ms. Chatsfield. Would you care to continue this discussion in my office?”

  She swallowed. If she refused him, she would look weak to whoever was watching. If she accepted, she would then be alone with Christos. She didn’t want to be alone with him. Not because she didn’t trust herself, but because it was damned humiliating. She’d spent the past two weeks thinking of his body pressed against hers, his arms wrapped around her. Clearly, he’d been troubled by no such thoughts.

  Still, there was only one choice. This was her hotel, damn him. Her birthright.

  “Of course,” she replied, sweeping past him so that he had to follow her from the kitchen. She hurried down the hallways, aware of him behind her, aware of eyes on them as they swept through the offices. She had no idea if Jessie had repeated what she’d seen that night of the gala, but Lucilla was always conscious of the possibility. Jessie was a good assistant, but all it took was one stray comment and the whole thing could explode like a wildfire. That was simply the nature of office gossip.

  Lucilla marched past Christos’s assistant, Sophie, just back from her excursion to Chatsfield House, and into his office, turning when she heard the door click shut behind her. Her pulse tripped and stumbled as she tried to maintain her cool.

 
“I prefer if you do not challenge me in front of the staff,” he ground out before she could speak. “It sets a bad precedent.”

  “Then don’t come into my territory to chastise me in front of my staff,” she grated back. “Because I will not tolerate it.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You will not tolerate it? Have you forgotten who is in charge here, Ms. Chatsfield?”

  Ms. Chatsfield. He’d called her that twice now when he never had before. For some reason, it annoyed her. Not that she missed being called his Lucilla but, well, dammit …

  Lucilla closed her eyes for a second. She didn’t know what she missed or why she was irritated. She only knew it was different and she didn’t like it. But then she didn’t like being called Lucilla mou, either.

  Argh! What was the matter with her?

  “You are not in charge of me, Christos. I will respect the fact my father hired you, and I will respect the fact that you even believe you are doing a good job—but I won’t be talked down to in front of the staff and I won’t keep silent when you irritate me. You are not a god, and this is not your personal domain.”

  His eyes glittered with heat. And then he laughed. “You amuse me, Lucilla. So much. If you were anyone else, I’d have fired you the first day.”

  Pleasure suffused her at his use of her name. And then anger, because she wasn’t going to be flattered by his admission that she amused him, dammit. The last sentence was the part she needed to focus on. His arrogance was insupportable. “You could have tried. You would not have succeeded.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I could order the locks rekeyed. How would you get in your office then?”

  “I’m sure I would have found a way.”

  His gaze raked over her. She was wearing a button-down dress today, with long sleeves and a high neck, but he made her feel as if she were in a negligee and little else. “Yes, perhaps you would have.”

  “Is there anything else you wish to discuss?” she snapped. “I have work to do.”

  He thrust his hands in his pockets and ranged toward her. Her pulse ticked up a level. He was wearing a gray suit with a white shirt that was unbuttoned a couple of buttons. He rarely wore a tie. Which was annoying because she often found herself focusing on that narrow slice of skin revealed in the opening of his shirt.

  “I wonder if you’ve thought of it at all.”

  Her throat went dry. “Thought of what?”

  “You. Me. A bed. Or a desk. I don’t much care.”

  She felt as if she should utter a shocked gasp, yet all that seemed to be happening was a flood of moisture into her core. Her nipples tightened and she feared he would notice. Her dress was silk—not the most forgiving of fabrics when it came to lumps and bumps beneath the surface.

  She brought her tablet up instinctively and hugged it. “I’ve not thought a thing about it.”

  It was a lie, of course. She’d thought of little else, especially at night when she climbed into her bed alone.

  “I don’t believe you, Lucilla mou.”

  And there it was, an annoying flush of pleasure that accompanied his use of her name. Dammit.

  “Believe what you like, Christos. Now did you need anything important, or can I get back to work?”

  “Ah, but this is very important.” He stepped closer still, until his scent wrapped around her senses. She trembled at his nearness but did not retreat.

  “This is harassment. I could report you.”

  He gently tugged on the tablet and placed it to one side, revealing her erect nipples beneath the silk. His gaze clashed with hers then. “And what would you say? That I excite you? That you want to feel my body moving inside yours?”

  “That might very well be true,” she said softly. “But it’s impossible.”

  It was his turn to swallow. His voice was hoarse when he spoke. “It doesn’t need to be impossible. It’s sex, Lucilla. Amazing, hot, incredible sex.”

  She believed him. Oh, God, she believed him—and she wanted it so much even though she wasn’t supposed to. “I don’t like you.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’t want you.”

  “But you do.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she forced out. “It’s not happening.”

  “Why not? We are adults, are we not?”

  “You know why.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  She flung her arms wide. “Because it would feel like giving up!”

  “Giving up what, Lucilla? Loneliness? An empty bed?”

  “Who says my bed is empty? I have plenty of sex, I’ll have you know. All the time. Just like you and that … that skinny twig of a woman.”

  He looked puzzled. And then understanding hit him. “Ah, you mean Victoria. Jealous, sweet Lucilla?”

  She huffed. “Of course not. What’s there to be jealous of? Just because one can wear a rubber dress doesn’t mean one should.”

  He laughed. “I like that you are jealous. It means you care.”

  She wanted to thwack him upside the head. And she wanted to wrap her arms around him and kiss him again. “I don’t care! I despise you! You’re a vile, rotten, evil man with a sexy smile and a hot body and it matters not one whit that I want to have sex with you repeatedly—”

  She broke off when she realized what she was saying. The look in his eyes was intense.

  “Repeatedly. I like the sound of that.”

  “I misspoke.”

  He reached for her then, tugged her into his arms, and she wrapped her fists in his lapels—whether to tug him closer or push him away, she wasn’t sure.

  “Lucilla,” he murmured, his lips against her ear. “You drive me crazy.”

  “Oh,” she said as his mouth moved along her throat. “Oh, don’t do that.”

  “Why not?” His voice was a sexy rumble against her skin.

  Because it felt too good. Because liquid heat was flooding into her sex and she was afraid of what she might do if this bone-deep need didn’t ease soon.

  “Christos …” she sighed as his lips moved over her collarbone. “We can’t …”

  “We can.”

  He picked her up and sat her on his desk—and her heart began to gallop. She felt dizzy and drunk and she knew she was on the edge of a decision that would change everything.

  He stepped between her legs, cupping her face in both his hands. She wanted his kiss more than she wanted her next breath. But she couldn’t allow it, couldn’t surrender to him like this.

  Christos tilted her head back and her eyes closed as she anticipated his lips touching hers. She called up a picture of Jessie walking in on them and ice water dripped into her veins, giving her strength.

  She pushed him away, scrambling off the desk to face him. Disappointment ate at her like acid. But she’d done the right thing, dammit. “I won’t be an object of office gossip. I won’t have them know—”

  He seemed to stiffen, as if she’d insulted him. “Of course not. That would not be seemly. The Chatsfield princess and the Greek.”

  He made it sound dirty, as if she thought she was too good for him. “That’s not what I mean and you know it.”

  “Do I?”

  “You don’t stay, Christos. You come in, fix whatever needs to be fixed and move on to the next high-powered job. But this is my birthright and I will remain. I won’t have anyone thinking I slept my way into the CEO job when it’s finally mine.”

  His eyes flashed with irritation. “Confident it’ll be yours, aren’t you?”

  She thrust her chin out. “Yes.” She would be even more so when Sara came up with the goods on him.

  “This is what I like about you, Lucilla. You don’t back down from a challenge.”

  “No, I don’t.” She picked up her tablet and clutched it like a shield again.

  “And yet you do run away from them sometimes. When they are too personal.”

  She trembled. She hated that he knew that about her, that he could see it. Was she that predi
ctable? That obvious? She’d given up so many things for so long—she’d even given up a personal life while she’d worked her ass off to make this company prosper, but she was currently little more than a glorified employee. Still fighting. Still working to prove herself.

  And she couldn’t stop that fight. Not yet, and not over something so simple as hormones. She wanted him, but she couldn’t have him. It was too dangerous. When he touched her, she forgot that. When he did not, she could think straight again.

  “I’m not running. Not all battles are worth the fight.”

  His eyes narrowed and she knew she’d scored a direct hit. It bothered her that he thought she was a snob, but if that’s what it took to make him keep his distance …

  “Of course not.” Christos took a step backward, and then another. “But ask yourself, Lucilla mou, when you touch yourself tonight, how much better it would have been if I were the one caressing you instead.”

  Her heart slammed against her ribs. Need—such wild, wild need—speared into her. There was nothing she could say, no way she could deny that powerful image he’d placed in her head.

  “Please leave.” Her vocal chords were tight.

  “But this is my office,” he said softly, mockingly.

  A lightning bolt of shame and fresh hate sizzled into her. She’d been right to push him away. So right. She marched to the door, then stopped and threw him a look over her shoulder. “Not forever, it isn’t. That much I promise you.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHRISTOS WORKED LATE and then went home. But he was too restless to settle in, so he walked down the street to a Greek takeout and picked up dinner for two. His plan was to go home and call one of the women in his contact list. A leisurely dinner, some wine, a little lovemaking—just what he needed to get his mind off Lucilla Chatsfield.

  Infuriating, sexy Lucilla. He’d been attracted to her almost from the beginning—but his desire for her had grown over the past few weeks. It had happened slowly at first, and then, when he’d seen her in that red dress at the auction, he’d realized just how intensely he wanted her.

  She didn’t simper and bat her eyelashes at him. She didn’t care how big his bank account was. She would cheerfully wish him to the devil if she could—and yet she wanted him. She’d admitted as much today.