Chatsfield's Ultimate Acquisition (The Chatsfield: New York Book 1)

by MELANIE MILBURNE

  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 high-end 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 T
om 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 schmakeover. 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 S
pencer 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.’