Heiress's Defiance (8 page)

And it was that hell he couldn’t quite forget, no matter how successful he became or how far behind he left the angry, abused boy he’d been. That boy still came to him in dreams, and no matter how Christos tried to
tell him it would be okay, the boy didn’t know it. He was scared and angry and he did things he shouldn’t do.

The intercom buzzed and he punched the button impatiently. “What is it?”

Sophie’s voice was professionally detached, but he knew she wasn’t particularly a fan of his. Not after he’d sent her to secure Nicolo Chatsfield’s attendance at the shareholders’ meeting. She’d come back a different woman than when she’d left. But she’d accomplished the impossible and that’s all he cared about.

The impossible was his specialty, after all.

“It’s Ms. Chatsfield, sir. She’s here to see you.”

Christos didn’t like the little stab of excitement that speared into him at the thought. “Send her in.”

“Yes, sir.”

The door opened and Lucilla stood there, remote and beautiful. He had to swallow his tongue because he hadn’t seen what she was wearing when she sat behind her desk. The black skirt and white shirt were expected, but the leopard-print heels were not. Her legs were a mile long in those things—and he had a sudden memory of them wrapped around his waist while he pounded into her.

“What is it, Ms. Chatsfield?” he said, feigning
boredom. He couldn’t stand, however, or she’d see he was anything but. His body was hardening by degrees as he looked at her standing there like a conquering Amazon.

She shut the door firmly behind her and came over to stand in front of his desk. He sprawled lazily, his suit jacket at least hiding the evidence of his attraction to her.

“I want you to go,” she said softly. The gold flecks in her eyes sparked, but not in passion. Anger, no doubt. Except her tone was not angry at all. It was … resigned, he thought.

“That’s not a secret, Lucilla
mow
.”

“I mean it, Christos. This time, you’re leaving. Call my father and give your notice. And then get the hell out of my company and my life.”

A prickle of alarm slid along the back of his neck, raising the hairs there. He let his chair rock forward very slowly. And then he stood. They faced each other across the desk and he noticed that her chin trembled. Just once. Just barely.

So strong, this woman. So repressed.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, darling. I don’t walk away until the job is done. And it’s not. I’m sorry if you’ve decided to have an attack of conscience over last night, but it changes nothing. I’m here to stay.”

Her eyes held his and her chin lifted. He pictured Boudicca rousing the tribes against the Romans.

“You need to rethink your answer. Or you can tell the shareholders in just a few days precisely who Nikos Stavrou is.”

Ice formed into a ball in his belly. But he would not react. “And who do you think he is?” he asked mildly. Dangerously.

She swallowed. “I know who he is,” she said. “He’s a criminal. And he’s you.”

L
UCILLA COULD NOT
believe what she’d just been told. Her stomach roiled in fury and pain. The triumph she’d expected to feel was strangely absent. She’d wanted to find out something about Christos, something to make him go away—but she hadn’t expected this.

He stood there so tall and remote and angry, his eyes flashing hot. He was not in the least bit cowed—and had she really expected he would be?

“I don’t know what you think you know about me, Lucilla
mou
, but there is nothing you can say that will make me quit.”

She sucked in a pained breath. He’d been in her bed last night. He’d been a tender and amazing lover, both giving and demanding. He’d coaxed responses from her body that had stunned her. Responses she wanted to experience again and again.

But he wasn’t who she thought he was. He
was not the cool, urbane man of mystery he pretended to be. He was a violent criminal. Or had been.

“You nearly killed a man,” she said, her throat tight. “Your own father.”

His face morphed into a cold mask. His eyes gave nothing away. They were curiously blank, and somehow that hurt far more than if he’d stayed angry or become suddenly remorseful. If he’d broken down and said how he’d made a youthful mistake, how he regretted his actions, how he’d built himself into a better man because he knew he’d needed to do so, then she might have felt a wave of sympathy for him.

As it was, she felt angry, betrayed—and sad. So very sad. Who was this man she’d given herself to last night? She couldn’t forget the way he’d looked when he’d opened the guest-room door—lost and alone and almost terrified—but how did that mesh with who she now knew him to be?

“I did indeed,” he said, his voice cold and empty. “And I served my time for it, too.”

She wrapped her arms around herself. “Yet you keep it hidden. And you changed your name.”

A flash of anger did cross his features then. “Of course I did. I was a child, Lucilla, and
I made a mistake. Is that supposed to follow me for the rest of my life?”

“But your father …” She felt many things for her own father, but not the kind of hate that could make her want to kill him. Never that. Disappointment and love and exasperation, yes.

His jaw was tight. “Just because a man makes a baby with a woman doesn’t mean he’s a father.”

“It also doesn’t mean he deserves what you did to yours.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper. It hurt to say such things to him, and yet she couldn’t understand how he could have done what the detective told her.

Nikos Stavrou spent four years in a juvenile-detention facility for attacking his father and nearly killing the man. No, the Stavrou home was not a happy one. The father was drunk and disorderly much of the time, and the police were often called out for domestic disturbances. But to attack your own father with a club and beat him so badly he spent two months in the hospital and now lived on disability?

It made her shudder to think the same man who had done those things had touched her so tenderly last night. He’d stroked her skin like she was a cherished possession, but those
same hands had wielded a weapon against his own father.

“I won’t discuss this with you, Lucilla. It’s none of your goddamned business.”

The lump in her throat was huge. She didn’t understand, and yet she also felt as if she’d crossed some sort of line she shouldn’t by bringing this up. But what choice did she have? He couldn’t stay. She couldn’t allow a man like him to run this company and sit in judgment of her and her family when he had no right to be so judgmental.

“No, it’s not,” she said. “But the Chatsfield is. And I want you gone. Give your notice, Christos. Call my father and make it happen.”

His eyes glittered dangerously. For someone who should be intimidated right now, he certainly wasn’t showing any signs of it. “I’m not afraid of you, Lucilla.”

“I’m giving you until the shareholders’ meeting. If you aren’t gone by then, I’ll have a lot to say when it’s my turn to speak.”

“What a cold bitch you are,” he said softly, and she felt the blow of those words like he’d stabbed her in the heart. “So superior and morally indignant. But don’t forget when you’re looking down your spoiled nose at me that I know what kind of sounds you make
when you come. I’ve heard you beg, Lucilla. For me. For
my
touch.”

She swallowed. “That’s before I knew—”

“You’d beg me again, right now, right here, if I kissed you. You’d beg me, Lucilla. Don’t ever forget that.”

She backed up instinctively, her heart thumping in her breast. Because if he came around that desk and took her in his arms, she was afraid he might prove his point. Because part of her ached for him. Part of her remembered that wild, lonely man and the refuge they’d found together in her bed. For a few hours, neither of them had been alone.

An illusion, she told herself. Christos was never alone because women fell at his feet all the time. She, however, had made their night into something more without intending to. She’d actually started to like him, just a teeny bit. But it was false. He wasn’t even who he said he was, so how much of a stretch was it for him to pretend last night? Pretend that what they’d shared had been important, at least for that bit of time they were together?

“The meeting, Christos,” she said as she reached the door. “Give your notice and you can address the meeting as if everything is normal. Say you got another offer. I don’t care. But do it or so help me …”

She couldn’t look at his face a moment longer, couldn’t see the rage and frustration—and regret?—playing across his features without wanting to rush to his side and put her arms around him.

She reached for the door blindly, found it and yanked it open. She was back inside her office, trembling and gulping air, when she realized that tears dripped from her cheeks. It had been so long since she’d cried. So damn long.

But she couldn’t hold it back another moment. She sank into a chair and put her face in her hands. Then she sobbed.

Lucilla’s phone rang that night, startling her out of a half sleep. She was still on her sofa, papers arrayed before her. She’d had a hard time concentrating on them as guilt and anger vied for dominance.

She found her phone beneath a pile of papers. It was Christos’s number and her heart dropped before soaring inexplicably.

“Yes?” she said, her voice scratchy and uncertain. She closed her eyes and prayed for composure.

“I want to talk to you.”

“You
are
talking to me.”

“In person, Lucilla.”

“I’ll be in at eight in the morning.”

“Now.”

She shoved her hair back from her face. “Then talk on the phone. It’s all you’re getting.”

He blew out a breath. “Very well. I want to know how you learned this information.”

Her heart ached. “I hired someone.”

“Clearly.” He sounded so cold and she hated it. “It must have cost you a lot of money.”

“I have money. You know it because my father put you in charge of the trust.”

“Yes. I wonder that you did not buy your mother’s portrait, but you spend a fortune to uncover my past. Do you hate me that much, Lucilla?”

Her heart throbbed at the reminder of her mother’s picture. It had been a necessary sacrifice not to bid on it. But why did she now feel like the one who was wrong? Why did she hurt for him? “I don’t hate you,” she said, and meant it for once. “I just want my rightful place in my own damn company.”

“It’s not yours,” he said. “It’s your father’s. And your siblings’. It belongs to all of you. And I am the right person to return it to its glory days.”

“I’m capable, Christos.”

“You are. But you lack experience. I’ve
turned around more companies before breakfast than you’ve ever even thought about. But you go ahead, Lucilla
mou
, do things your way.”

Her breath caught. “You’re resigning?”

“Does that make you happy?”

Yes. And no. Dammit! “Of course it does.” She sucked in a deep breath. “I won’t tell anyone, Christos. You have my word on that. Resign, and I’ll tear up the report.”

She thought he chuckled softly. “You drive a hard bargain, kitten. The Chatsfield is yours. Run it into the ground for all I care.”

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” she said softly.

“Hurt me?” He sounded surprised. “You can’t, Lucilla. I’d have to care first.”

He hung up then, and she just sat there with her phone to her ear, thinking how empty it made her feel not to hear him breathing.

Lucilla did not feel all that triumphant over the next few days as the shareholders’ meeting approached. Christos looked through her most of the time. When he did look at her, there wasn’t an ounce of feeling in his icy eyes. His gaze passed over her and she felt as if a winter storm had ravaged her every time.

She hadn’t told anyone about the report. She’d even held off telling Antonio. She wasn’t
sure why, but she didn’t want to share this information just yet. Besides, Antonio was still working on taking over the Kennedy hotels and she didn’t want to distract him. Having those hotels added to the Chatsfield holdings would only cement her position as the rightful CEO once Christos was gone.

Once Christos was gone.

That thought didn’t make her as happy as it once had, which made her furious with herself. Why was she so maudlin? Just because they’d slept together one stormy night? Because she’d seen him vulnerable and human? It wasn’t enough, she reminded herself. If she let herself feel sorry for him, she was no better than he’d told her she was weeks ago. She’d been tough and ruthless, just like he’d told her she needed to be, so why was she always thinking about it?

She worked late on the night before the meeting, going over her business plan and spreadsheets. Once Christos left, her father might try to bring someone else in, but she wouldn’t give him that opportunity. She would prove she was the logical successor, and she would do everything so perfectly that Gene Chatsfield could think of no one better to oversee the family business.

When she knew everything was perfect,
she turned off her computer and checked her watch. It was just after eight in the evening. She yawned and stood, placing all her papers in her briefcase. Then she turned off her light and walked out. Christos’s door was open and a light burned at his desk. She thought about sneaking past, but then she squared her shoulders and walked over to the threshold.

Christos looked up, his face startlingly handsome in the low light of a desk lamp. She’d kissed his firm jaw, thrust her tongue between his sensual lips. Felt his lips on her body.
Everywhere
on her body.

“Ah, Lucilla, come in.” He stood and walked over to the liquor cabinet contained inside an antique Edwardian sideboard. “Have a drink with me.”

“I shouldn’t,” she said as a wave of guilt rose inside her.

“Just one. A toast to the future. Your future.”

She stepped inside his office almost reluctantly. “Maybe just one.” How could she refuse when she was getting precisely what she wanted? She’d won. She’d rousted him from her company and this was the eve of her triumph.

He poured vodka in a glass and added tonic
and a twist of lime. Then he held it out to her. “Your favorite, correct?”

It shocked her that he knew. “Yes.”

Their fingers touched as she took it. Her skin burned from the contact but she did not snatch her hand away.

“I observe, Lucilla
mou
. You drink vodka and tonic, pinot grigio and cabernet sauvignon with the occasional malbec tossed in for variety. These are your drinks.”

She set her case down on a chair. “They are.” It embarrassed her that she did not know his. He’d had wine with her that night he’d brought dinner over—but she didn’t know what he actually preferred.

He poured Scotch in a glass and she thought,
Aha.
And then she felt a twinge of sadness because why did it matter?

He held up his glass. “To you, Lucilla. You’ve won the battle.”

“I’m sorry, Christos,” she caught herself saying.

He shrugged and took a drink. Then he leaned against the cabinet and watched her. “Aren’t you going to drink to your triumph?”

She didn’t really have a taste for alcohol right this minute. Her stomach churned like she was a girl again. A girl who was filled with fear and worry for her family and who
didn’t know how to make things right. She’d tried, but it had cost her so much. Her dreams, her independence for a very long time, and even her health when she’d been diagnosed with an ulcer at the tender age of seventeen.

But that was a long time ago and she didn’t have ulcers anymore. She lifted the glass and took a drink. The vodka burned going down and she nearly coughed. But she didn’t. She swallowed hard and put the drink down on a table. Then she picked up her briefcase. The room seemed a little wobbly when she straightened again and she admonished herself. She really needed to eat better.

She couldn’t exist on energy drinks and sugary pastries—with the occasional piece of fruit thrown in—if she were going to maintain her health and run this company properly.

“I’m sorry it had to be this way,” she said—was she slurring? Lucilla blinked as the room seemed a little wobblier. Then she put her hand to her head.

Christos was at her side. “Why don’t you sit a moment? You look green.”

She felt green. He eased her into the chair and she sat there for a moment, feeling so sleepy that she wanted to put her head back on the soft cushions and take a nap. Christos
was frowning down at her, his hands in his pockets now.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m just so tired.”

“Then close your eyes and rest.”

She forced her eyes open and tried to stand. “No, I should go home. Much to prepare for.”

Christos’s hand was on her shoulder, pushing her gently back into the chair. “Sleep,
glykia mou.
All will be well when you awake.”