Billionaire's Ultimate Acquisition

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 Tom 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 schmake-over. 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 Spencer 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.’

‘You’ve held functions here before, have you not?’

She turned and speared him with a fulminating glare. ‘Yes, but none with topless dancing girls jumping out of cakes.’

The corner of his mouth twitched. ‘My cousin Lucca doesn’t have those sorts of parties now he’s married to Lottie.’

‘I’m very glad to hear it.’