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

by MELANIE MILBURNE

  She lowered her gaze to his mouth, licking her own lips to make them moist and inviting. ‘How about it? You want to come in my mouth or over my breasts?’

  His hands visibly shook as he set her from him. His mouth was so tightly set his lips were a thin line of chalk-white. He walked over to the door of his office, his hand poised on the doorknob. ‘I’m going to give you thirty seconds to get your gear on before I open this door.’

  Isabelle knew she was beaten. He had cleverly won that round. There was no way she would risk having one of her staff see her standing there in her underwear. But she would have other opportunities.

  And she would make the most of them.

  She gave an easy-come-easy-go shrug and leaned down to pick up her dress. She stepped into it and wriggled it back into place, pulling her hair out of the way of the zipper as she slid it back up. She did it slowly, like a reverse striptease, lingering over every movement.

  She picked up her wrap and draped it around her shoulders as she walked to the door he was about to open. She stood right in front of him, looking up into his closed-off features, giving him one last sultry look from beneath her half-mast lashes. ‘If you change your mind you know where to find me.’

  His eyes were as hard as flint as they clashed with hers. ‘Is that what you do now? Just hang around in bars waiting to hook up with whoever takes your fancy?’

  Isabelle gave him a mocking smile. ‘Is that a double standard I can hear?’

  He opened the door and stepped back so she could pass through. His body was as stiff as the door itself. A stonewall of fiercely repressed lust she could feel pulsating behind the mask of indifference he wore. Her body responded to it as she moved past him, every cell throbbingly aware of how he alone could satisfy the deepest yearning of her flesh.

  She turned just as she was about to step over the threshold. ‘About that weekend.’

  ‘What about it?’ The words were clipped, his tone dismissive.

  Isabelle smiled a seductress’s smile. ‘You’re right. Sharing a room makes good economic sense. Shall I leave you to make the arrangements?’

  His jaw worked for a moment. ‘You won’t win this.’

  She stroked a finger down the length of his still-hard erection. ‘I think we can safely say I just did.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SPENCER SHUT THE DOOR on her. Slammed the door on his pounding desire. He would not play her petty little payback game. He would have her but on his terms, not hers. She was toying with him. Goading him. Reducing him to his animal desires to prove a point. He’d seen through it earlier when she’d told him she’d meet him in his room. He’d known she wasn’t going to show. That’s why he’d walked into the bar with the blonde on his arm to show Isabelle he wasn’t going to be manipulated.

  But this time was different.

  She had offered herself to him like a hooker. And he had very nearly taken her up on the offer. Never had he been so close to losing control. He had almost disgraced himself as she teased him with those wickedly tempting words. He had been within a heartbeat of joining her on that desk. He raked a still-shaky hand through his hair. Dear God. That desk. He could barely look at the thing without another painful surge of want. His whole body ached with it. Throbbed with it. Groaned with it.

  Why was she so determined to make him break? What did she hope to prove? That he wanted her more than she wanted him? They wanted each other. He could see it every time she looked at him. He could feel it. It was like electric voltage in the air. It pulsated with it. Vibrated with it. He felt it in his body when she touched him or he touched her. He saw it in her eyes, in the way her pupils dilated, in the way her gaze kept slipping to his mouth as if inviting him to devour the sweetness and hot temptation he had tasted there.

  He swore as he paced the floor. He felt like a lion housed in a cat carrier. Was she doing it to deliberately distract him? She hated him for the takeover. What better way to manipulate him than to distract him from the task he had set himself? She had been distraction enough in the past, let alone now when so much more was at stake. How could he indulge himself in an affair with her when he had so many other pressures on him just now? Or was that what she wanted? To bring him down any way she could.

  But if he didn’t take up her offer of a fling someone else would. That was what niggled him. It irritated the hell out of him. How could he stand by and watch her throw herself away on any man who offered to bed her? How long had she been doing that? It was a side to her he hadn’t expected. She was known for her poise and professionalism. It didn’t suit her persona to be throwing herself at the first man who showed an interest. What was she doing picking up men in The Harrington bar, for God’s sake? Surely she had a higher regard for the hotel, if not for herself, than that?

  No. Something was wrong about this. About her. There was a streak of ruthlessness about her that alerted him to an agenda apart from her disappointment about the takeover.

  The corners of his mouth lifted in a smile. Maybe it was time to call her bluff.

  * * *

  Isabelle was celebrating her one-upmanship win with a glass of champagne back in her suite. ‘You should have seen him, Atticus,’ she said to the purring cat on the sofa. ‘He was so worked up I could have had him eating out of my hand.’ She drained the glass and picked up the bottle to refill it. You’re drinking too much, a little voice piped up, but she drowned it out with the sound of the bubbles dancing into the glass. ‘He thinks he can resist me, does he? Ha!’

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘That will be room service.’ She glanced at her watch as she padded over to open it. ‘Gosh, that was quick. I only just...’

  Spencer looked at the glass in her hand before returning his gaze to her shocked one. ‘What are we celebrating?’

  Isabelle swallowed. ‘What are you doing here?’

  One of his dark brows lifted. ‘You invited me, remember?’

  She bit the inside of her mouth. Atticus was lying on the sofa. In her half-tipsy state she hadn’t thought to put him in the bedroom as she usually did when someone came to the door. Only a handful of trusted staff knew she had him. If Spencer found out about him he might insist she get rid of him. It was exactly the sort of thing he would do to punish her. ‘I’m busy right now,’ she said, leaning her weight against the door to stop him coming in.

  He had already put a foot in the gap to stop her closing it, his eyes locking on hers. ‘Surely not too busy to talk to me?’

  Isabelle tested the strength he was putting against the door. She had no hope of blocking him from entering. But then, wasn’t that her problem? She wanted him inside and she wasn’t just referring to her suite. Her desire for him was already unfolding, stretching its limbs inside her. It was a force she had no control over. Her body had its own agenda and she was at its mercy. ‘I’m not in the mood to talk.’

  ‘Good because nor am I.’

  A frisson of excitement passed through her body at the dark intensity of his gaze. She had to get rid of him even though every cell in her being was clamouring for him. ‘You can’t come in right now,’ she said.

  ‘Is someone with you?’

  She raised her chin a fraction. ‘Yes.’

  Something ticked near his mouth. ‘Male?’

  ‘Yes.’

  His eyes battled with hers. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  Isabelle affected a disparaging laugh. ‘You don’t think I could pick up a date that quickly?’

  The look he gave her made something at the base of her spine work loose. ‘Open the door.’

  ‘You were ordering me out of your office half an hour ago,’ she said. ‘Now you expect me to invite you in? Sorry but the offer’s been withdrawn.’

  Isabelle heard the soft thump of Atticus as he jumped off the sofa. Even thou
gh the suite was carpeted the sound was deafening.

  Spencer glanced past her shoulder. ‘What was that?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Her heartbeat escalated. Any moment now Atticus would appear around the corner. He always came in search of her if she lingered too long at the door. ‘Please leave me alone. I—I have a headache.’

  ‘I’m not surprised given the amount of alcohol you’ve consumed.’ He suddenly frowned as he glanced down where Atticus was winding his way around her legs. ‘You’ve got a cat?’

  Atticus looked up at him and mewed. ‘Purrht.’

  ‘So?’ Isabelle let go of the door and scooped up Atticus and glared at Spencer over the top of his fluffy head. ‘What of it?’

  ‘For God’s sake, this is a hotel not a bloody pet shelter.’ He closed the door with a snap. ‘What else have you got hiding in here?’

  She thought of the ultrasound image tucked in between the pages of her favourite book of poems on the bookshelf. ‘Nothing.’

  He nailed her with a look. ‘Sure?’

  She returned his gaze with steely focus. Don’t blush. Don’t blush. Don’t blush. ‘What’s wrong with having a cat? He’s not doing anyone any harm. It’s not as if he has the run of the hotel. He never leaves my suite.’

  He was still frowning. ‘But cats are meant to be outdoors...or at least some of the time.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Isabelle said. ‘Some prefer to be indoors. That’s why they make such great pets. Unlike dogs they don’t need a walk. They just need a bit of grooming.’ A lot of grooming but she wasn’t going to get into that right now.

  ‘No way am I allowing this,’ he said. ‘Think of the health issues. This is a legal minefield. What if a guest gets toxoplasmosis or salmonella or campylobacter, to name just a few?’

  Isabelle stroked Atticus’s head. ‘I’ll have you know my cat is perfectly healthy and doesn’t have any horrible diseases.’

  Spencer’s frown was a deep trench between his eyes. ‘I don’t care how healthy he is you have to get rid of him or else.’

  Her spine went broomstick stiff. ‘Or else what?’

  His jaw was set in an intractable line. ‘I’ll fire you.’

  ‘You can’t fire me,’ she shot back. ‘Liliana said her giving you the shares was provisional on my remaining president.’

  His gaze bored into hers. ‘Does she know about the cat?’

  Isabelle’s heart skipped a beat. She tried desperately not to squirm under his tight scrutiny. She didn’t want to show him how vulnerable his ultimatum made her feel. Atticus was all she had. He was her companion. He was her substitute baby. The one thing she could nurture. The only thing she could nurture...would allow herself to nurture.

  ‘I asked you a question.’ There was a thread of steel in his tone.

  ‘Lots of hotels allow pets,’ she said. ‘Hotels all over the States have heaps of them that—’

  ‘I don’t care what other hotels do,’ he said. ‘This one does not allow pets. No dogs. No cats. No birds. No hamsters. Do I make myself clear?’

  Isabelle spun around to take Atticus back to the sofa. She placed him against his favourite scatter cushion and turned to face Spencer, who had followed her. ‘This is the only home he’s known,’ she said. ‘I’ve had him since he was six weeks old. You can’t possibly expect me to get rid of him. It’s cruel of you to even suggest it.’

  He stood looking down at her for a beat or two. ‘What do you do with him when you go on holiday?’

  She rolled her lips together and looked away. ‘I don’t go on holiday much. I prefer to work.’

  He came over to her and lifted her chin with his fingertip, his eyes searching hers. ‘Who else knows you’ve got him?’

  ‘A couple of the staff.’

  He dropped his hand from her face, still looking at her with a thoughtful expression. ‘Why a cat?’

  ‘You don’t like cats.’ It was a statement not a question.

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘I can see it by the way you looked at him,’ she said. ‘You think he’s ugly.’

  He gave a wry-sounding snort. ‘Well, he does have the sort of face only a mother could love.’

  Isabelle bit down on her lip and turned away again. The word mother always struck at her like a blow to the heart. She had never been able to decide if she qualified for the word. She had given birth to a dead baby. It wasn’t even a full-term baby. Did that make her a mother? Every Mother’s Day was a double form of torture to her now. Not only did she have no mother to celebrate it with, she didn’t qualify to celebrate it herself. Every time she saw a mother pushing a child in a pram she felt the pain of her loss like a kick to her stomach. She picked up the champagne bottle with a hand that wasn’t quite steady and refilled her glass. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Do you normally drink bottles of champagne all on your own?’

  Isabelle sent him a defiant look. ‘I’m not on my own. I’ve got Atticus.’

  Spencer sighed heavily. ‘I guess if I drink one glass it’s one less you can consume.’

  She poured him a glass and handed it to him. ‘I’m not a binge drinker if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  He took the glass but kept his gaze trained on hers. ‘So what was with the hooker routine in my office?’

  Isabelle swung away from him again, almost spilling her drink as she drew her arms in close to her body. ‘You were after sex. I was going to give it to you.’

  ‘It seems to me you were going to give it to anybody.’

  She glanced at his frowning expression. ‘Why did you refuse?’

  He held her look for a pulsing moment, a rueful twist contorting the line of his mouth. ‘I’m still kicking myself over that.’

  Isabelle put her glass down and pressed her hands down her thighs. ‘Yes, well, I was probably a bit tipsy. You were perfectly right to refuse. Shows what a gentleman you are.’

  He put a hand on her shoulder and spun her to face him. ‘I’m no gentleman.’

  She looked into his dark blue eyes and felt her insides quake with lust. His hand was heavy on her shoulder, the fingers possessive in their grip. The warmth of his hand seeped through every layer of her flesh, triggering a flashpoint of heat deep in her core. ‘I don’t think this is a good idea right now...’ she faltered. ‘I’m tired and I’ve had too much champagne and you’re...’

  ‘I’m what?’

  She swallowed and all but whispered, ‘You’re hard to resist when I’m...feeling—’ dare she admit it? ‘—lonely...’

  His hand went to the back of her head to the sensitive nape of her neck. She shivered as his touch awoke every ache of longing she secretly harboured for him. It was impossible to disguise her reaction to him. She heard herself whimper, the soft sound of that-feels-so-good-don’t-stop that was the biggest betrayal of all. His hand kept up its gentle massage; it was a committed lover’s touch, not the action of a transitory one-night stand. That was what was so hard for her to resist. The way he knew her body so well even though so much time had passed. That he could sense the need in her, the need to connect with another human. To feel. To feel alive and wanted, desired to the point of desperation. No one but him made her feel that way. It was as if he was the only one who knew who she truly was—the passionate woman behind the icy exterior, the woman who craved intimacy and tenderness and excitement and heart-stopping passion and everything else in between.

  ‘Look at me,’ he said.

  She looked into his eyes. Saw the want, the raw need, reflected there that she could feel throbbing in her own body. ‘I don’t want to feel like this. I don’t want to want you. I hate myself for it. I hate you for it.’

  His smile twisted a little further as he brushed his thumb over her lower lip in a stroking motion. ‘Maybe we should channel al
l that hate into another direction.’

  Isabelle held her breath as he brought his mouth down towards hers. She didn’t wait for him to complete the distance. She stepped up on her toes and meshed her mouth with his. It was not an explosion this time, more of a mutual exploratory exercise, a gentle, almost tender journey of rediscovery. His lips moved against hers, soft at first, then with increasing pressure. His tongue sought entry and she opened to him on a sigh she felt move through her entire body, loosening everything that was strung up and tight within her. She relaxed into his arms as they gathered her close, her pelvis fitting against the hardness of his like two puzzle pieces that had been missing for a long time.

  His tongue grazed hers, teasing hers into playing with him, dancing and flirting until she was breathless with excitement. No one kissed as expertly as he did, as if he knew her mouth better than anyone else: its contours, its sensitivity, its need to be cajoled rather than conquered. His mouth made every part of her come alive like something awakening after a decade-long hibernation. All of her senses responded to the dart and dive of his tongue as it flirted with hers.

  He spread his hands through her hair, making every strand shiver at the roots as he angled his head to deepen the kiss. She linked her arms around his neck, using her fingers to tug and tease the strands of his hair in the way she knew he liked. He made a deep sound of approval and pulled her closer, so close she felt the turgid length of him pressing against her belly. It excited her senses into a madcap frenzy. To feel him so ready, so primed and potent, made everything that was female in her quiver in heady anticipation.

  He slid his hands down the sides of her body, his fingers just missing her breasts. He brought them back up, this time teasing her with the hint of a touch on the way past. She moved against his hips, communicating her need for him without words because she was beyond speaking. She was a slave to her senses. His slave.