Heiress's Defiance (7 page)

“Yes,” he said, his voice harsh in her ear. “Yes, like
that
.”

And then he followed her into the abyss, her name a broken groan on his lips.

L
UCILLA WOKE ALONE
. The pale light of dawn slanted through the curtains and drifted across the tangle of covers on her bed. She lay there quietly, listening for Christos. There was no movement she could hear, so she got up and put on her robe before padding into the living room. The lights were on again, but the apartment was empty.

She checked the guest room, her heart beating a little faster with every step she took.

Empty.

He’d left. She stood there in stunned silence as she processed it all. Her body was still sore with the evidence of his possession and he’d walked out while she slept. Without saying goodbye. Without even a thank-you-for-the-sex-and-see-you-around.

You chose this
, she told herself.
This is what happens when you let go.

Yes, she’d finally let go. She’d stopped holding
back and she’d taken what she wanted—repeatedly—until they were both exhausted. They’d collapsed together, lying in each other’s arms, and drifted off to sleep.

She’d thought he would be here this morning, but perhaps it was a good thing he wasn’t. Lucilla sniffed. Yes, that was right. It was a
good
thing he wasn’t. They weren’t lovers, this wasn’t an affair and it was better this way. Less messy.

They’d had a one-off. Because he was sexy and she was lonely and the timing had just worked out.

It didn’t mean there would be anything more. Or that she wanted there to be.

No, she didn’t
want
more of Christos. She’d had her fill. He was a dynamic lover, but she was done. Her body was satiated and she could get on with business now.

Lucilla showered and dressed carefully—sky-high leopard-print heels, a black pencil skirt and a white button-down shirt. She added a wide belt and checked her reflection. She remembered him saying he liked her hair down, his gravelly voice reaching deep inside her and making her feel beautiful and desirable, so she ruthlessly wrapped her hair up into a bun. She didn’t want Christos to think for one moment she’d left it down for him.

When she was satisfied, she grabbed a banana from the kitchen—ignoring the Greek leftovers in the fridge that somehow made her heart clench when she got the milk for her coffee—and went to hail a taxi. She arrived at the hotel by eight, smiling and chatting with everyone as she worked her way toward her office.

Her heart beat hard as she passed Christos’s office. Was he there? Was he thinking about her at all? Or had he completely moved on from last night? Her stomach twisted. That was the worst thought of all—that she’d been nothing more than an opportunity. That he’d used her body for his pleasure and left because he was finished.

Which, she had to admit, was the most likely scenario. Not that it mattered. She’d used him, too. She’d been thinking about buying a vibrator in the moments before she’d gone to knock on his door, for heaven’s sake. He’d simply been a means to an end—and more convenient at that precise moment.

Lucilla sat down at her desk and called up her email. She had several to go through and a busy morning ahead. There was a wedding party this coming weekend, a corporate function on Monday and, of course, she
had the shareholders’ meeting—and the trip afterward—to prepare for.

A message arrived in her in-box.

[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Subject: PRIVATE

Found him.

S.N.

Her heart turned over. She sat there and stared at the email, feeling both an overwhelming curiosity and a biting guilt at the same time. She thought of Christos as he’d looked last night when he answered the bedroom door—rumpled, wild and completely vulnerable in a way she hadn’t expected.

And then she thought of the way he’d turned her world upside down for a few hours of bliss. Lucilla closed her eyes and swallowed. Just thinking of the two of them in bed together made the temperature in the room rise. She had an urge to unbutton her shirt and fan herself.

Her office phone buzzed, making her jump. She hit the button. “Yes?”

“Mr. Giatrakos wishes to see you in his office,” Jessie said.

A thread of panic unwound in her belly.
He was summoning her after everything that had happened last night? She couldn’t quite bear the thought. How was she supposed to walk into his office and pretend everything was normal?

“Tell him I’m busy.”

“Yes, Ms. Chatsfield.”

She turned back to her computer, determined to get through her email. The message from Sara was seared into her brain, but she suddenly didn’t want to know what the other woman had found.

Which was completely ridiculous and made her precisely the sort of person Christos thought she was—indecisive and unwilling to make the hard choices. Finally, she snatched her phone up and hit the contact list so she could call Sara.

Her door burst open and she dropped the phone onto her desk. Christos stood there, looking cool and handsome in a black tailored suit that fit him like a glove. His shirt was sky-blue today, like his eyes, and the effect was nothing short of spectacular.

Her heart thudded. Moisture pooled between her legs. Oh, bloody hell …

“May I help you, Mr. Giatrakos?” She tried so hard to be cool and impersonal, but she could feel the tiny waver in her voice.

Christos’s eyes narrowed. He closed the
door firmly and ranged toward her, a sleek panther on the prowl. “You did not come when I sent for you.”

She leaned back in her chair and tried not to let the tremor shimmering over her entire body show. “Clearly, there was no need. You came to me.”

He studied her as if she were a newly discovered species. “Are you avoiding me, Ms. Chatsfield?”

“Not at all.” She gestured toward her computer. “I am busy, as you can see. I can’t drop everything I’m doing just to come and bow in your presence.”

“You work here. When I need to speak to you, I need to speak to you. Did you consider it might be important?”

“Your summons did not mention importance.”

He stopped in front of her desk, looking down at her so intensely that she wanted to tear her gaze away from his. She did not, though it was damned difficult. It was her office, her desk, her space—and yet he made her feel like she was the supplicant.

“You are angry with me.”

Her stomach bottomed out. He was going there. She didn’t want to talk about it, but he was going there, anyway. “Why would I be?”

“Because I wasn’t there when you woke.”

She shrugged as if she couldn’t care less. “We had sex, Christos. I didn’t require warm cuddles afterward. You were gone. Big deal.”

She thought he looked surprised but then he masked it. “You are most reasonable for a woman,” he said softly, and irritation sizzled into her. As if he were a great prize that women simply couldn’t get enough of.

She picked up a pen and slid it between her fingers just to have something to do. “What did you expect? Did you want me to beg you for another night in your arms? Did you think you’d find me weepy and clingy and inconsolable because you left while I was asleep?” She shook her head. “I was relieved you were gone. It saved me the trouble of asking you to go.”

His eyes had narrowed again. She couldn’t tell what was happening in that brain of his, but she’d wager at least part of it was shock. Satisfaction swelled in her veins.
Take that
,
Mr. Sexy Greek.

“Then it is a relief for us both,” he said, his voice somewhere between a purr and a growl.

She tried not to let his words prick her, but they did, anyway. She knew what kind of man he was. And she’d slept with him regardless. Well, then. They’d had sex. Wonderful,
incredible, mind-blowing sex—at least for her—and it was over.

She should be relieved. She wasn’t.

“Of course it is,” she lied. “Now what did you need? I have a lot to do before next week if I’m to accompany you on this tour. Or did you come to tell me I’m not needed now?”

Part of her hoped he would say that, and part of her thought she might scream if he did. She wanted to tour the other hotels and, oddly enough, she wanted him to treat her like she was a valuable asset to the Chatsfield empire.

“You will still accompany me. And what I wanted from you, Ms. Chatsfield, was a summary report of your department’s performance for the past month. You do remember those, yes?”

A blush heated her skin. Dammit. “Of course I do. You only sent about a hundred memos regarding monthly reports.”

“And yet you are late with yours. The only department head who is, I might add.”

Anger simmered just beneath the surface. “Then perhaps you should get out of my office so I can finish the report.” She smiled politely, but if he looked closely enough he’d see the steel behind it. And the utter fury.

“On my desk by noon, Ms. Chatsfield,” he said as he walked to the door.

“As you command, O Supreme Overlord,” she replied, still smiling. With one last swift look she couldn’t decipher, he walked out and shut the door behind him. Lucilla hurled the pen. It hit the door with a thunk.

Then she snatched up her phone and dialed Sara Norrington.

Christos returned to his office and slammed the door harder than he intended. No doubt Sophie was cringing at her desk in response but he could not find it in himself to reassure her. He stormed over to the window and stared out at the park across the street, his gut churning with anger and frustration.

And thwarted need. That was the most puzzling of all. He’d had Lucilla Chatsfield last night—more than once—but he wanted more. He wasn’t done with her, and that was most unusual. And alarming.

He did not emotionally attach himself to anyone. He’d learned a long time ago that caring for another person made you vulnerable in the most horrific ways imaginable. He’d loved one person in his life, and he’d nearly sacrificed his entire future for her. When he thought of his mother’s face—her beautiful,
battered face, shining with tears—and the sheer rage that had welled up in him that night when his father had come home drunk and angry and intent on hitting something, he remembered why he did not allow himself to feel anything for anyone.

Not that a single night in Lucilla’s bed meant he felt something. Far from it. He’d awakened around four this morning. It had taken him a few moments to recall where he was and who he was with. She’d been curled into his side, an arm thrown possessively over his waist, and he’d lain there thinking back on everything that had happened between them.

He was a man who enjoyed sex and a variety of partners. He’d had partners who were more adventurous and skilled, certainly. But at that moment he’d only wanted to wake her up and do everything again.

It was a novel feeling. He did not enjoy novel feelings. They were outside of his comfort zone, so he’d eased himself from the bed and gone back to the guest room. There, he’d dressed in the dark, intent on leaving before she woke.

But he’d not been able to leave without going back into the bedroom and looking at her one last time. Her body was lush under the sheet and her mouth was slack with sleep.
Her hair was a tangle of chestnut and he’d found himself reaching out to smooth it along the pillow.

Why?

He did not know, but he’d straightened and then turned and walked out without another glance. Lucilla Chatsfield was no different than any other woman. His fascination with her stemmed from her unwillingness to succumb to his charm the way other women did. He told himself on the taxi ride home that she would be a different woman today, that when he summoned her to his office she would come willingly—breathlessly—and he would be able to shut the door and take her in his arms if that’s what he desired.

And then he’d decided he would
have
to make love to her again just to keep her pliable and cooperative while he reshaped the Chatsfield holdings and rehabilitated their reputation. It would not be a hardship to do so and when he was finished, when the work was done, he could let Lucilla down gently.

It had been the perfect plan. Until she’d refused his summons. Until she’d sat at her desk, looked at him all cool and businesslike and told him she was grateful he’d left so she wouldn’t have to ask him to leave. He’d felt as if he’d landed in an alternate reality in
which the tables were turned and he was the supplicant.

He did not like it. Not one bit.

Christos raked a hand through his hair and then went to fling himself in his chair. Lucilla was nothing to him. Nothing whatsoever. If she wanted to pretend they’d never been lovers, he was fine with it. More than fine. So long as she did her job, he didn’t care what she did on her off time—or whom she did it with.

Yet he remembered her telling him last night, with that breathless little hitch in her voice, that it had been a long time since she’d had sex. He’d felt the tension in her body, the tremors that shook her, and he’d experienced a rush of tenderness for her in that moment.

He was her first in a long time. It was a crime since she was so beautiful, but after working with her for the past couple of months, he knew why she didn’t take lovers. She was too uptight, too focused on the work.

Well, so was he. He had a job to do here and that was the most important thing. It had always been the most important thing. He’d vowed in the juvenile-detention center that he would never allow himself to react emotionally again. He’d had to fight almost daily at first to establish his dominance, but once he
had he’d turned to the library and read every last book they had.

When more books came, he read those, too. When he was released at eighteen, he’d changed everything about himself—his name, his accent, his manners, his education—and become someone new. There was no reason to remain the person he’d been. His mother was dead and his father was a bastard who would never again mess with the son he’d beaten senseless more than once.

From that day forward, Christos had been a new man. He never looked back.

He rubbed a hand over his temple as he read through the reports on his computer screen. Yes, he dreamed sometimes. He could still taste the fear and rage he’d felt that night in his parents’ home, and all the other nights when his brute of a father had come back after falling off the wagon and carousing in bars. The life they’d led had been good for long stretches of time, punctuated by bouts of hell. It was the hell that had shaped him into the man he’d become.