Heiress's Defiance

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.