Rival's Challenge

After the horrors he’d witnessed while in the Legion, Antonio had resigned himself not so much to living, as surviving. And not one thing till now had caused him to believe that he could expect anything else. Not one thing … till Orla Kennedy had walked into that bar last week and breathed light and life into some dark part of him.

Sighing heavily, Antonio went and sat back down and resisted the urge to call his therapist, who had brought him back from the brink of madness. His therapist might be able to help untangle the knots of his mind and psyche but only one person could help untangle the knots in his body.

‘Run along back to your hotel, Orla.’ Orla shook her head and fumed again at the way Antonio had all but patted her on the backside to help her run along. After kissing her so senseless that she’d been ready to have sex with him on his office table!

She’d been fuming for three days now. Her staff had been keeping a wide berth when they saw her coming. Even Tom, their solicitor, had left her alone after Orla had told him succinctly, ‘He’ll give us what we want and that’s as far as I’m prepared to discuss it right now.’

Antonio Chatsfield would give them what they wanted because she was right about their motives for wanting to buy out the Kennedy Group. He just hated that she’d figured it out.

Orla’s phone beeped with a text message and she turned from where she’d been looking broodingly out of her office window to pick it up. It was an unidentified number and the message read: I’m in your hotel. A.

Immediately her heart rate increased and her legs went wobbly. She cursed. And then castigated herself. This was one of the conditions, wasn’t it? She’d asked him here after all.

Angry at the physical reaction he provoked so effortlessly, she punched back, Where?

Two seconds later: Come find me.

Fuming even more now that he was playing games, Orla clutched her phone in her hand and left her office, steam practically coming out of her ears.

When she reached the grand marble lobby it was busy with people checking in and out. Normally this would have made her feel satisfied inside; now she didn’t even notice.

Eventually she spotted him, sitting in one of the antique high-backed chairs around the focal featured fireplace, reading the distinctive pink Financial Times. She walked over and stopped in front of him, arms crossed, tapping her foot impatiently. When he didn’t take the paper down to acknowledge her, she cleared her throat loudly.

With a supreme nonchalance that grated along her nerves, he deigned to lower his paper and Orla had to keep her eyes up, resisting the urge to take in that glorious physique. She could see that he was in a three-piece suit, complete with tie. Oozing urbanity. When she knew just how crude he could be. Again that thought didn’t disgust her; it excited her. She was pathetic.

He folded the paper and stood up, easily dwarfing Orla in spite of her three-inch heels. Remembering all too well his patronising send-off the other day, she said frigidly, ‘I’m afraid I’m rather busy at the moment, but I can arrange for one of our managers to show you around.’

Just then one of the receptionists hurried over, wreathed in smiles, eyes sparkling. She had a key card in her hand. ‘I have your room key, Mr Chatsfield. Sorry to keep you waiting. Your bags have already been delivered to the suite. If you’d like to follow me I can show you to the room personally.’

Orla’s mouth dropped open as she looked from Kelly, whom she now recognised as one of the trainee receptionists, to Antonio, who was smiling with all the megawattage and charisma of a movie star.

Before she could get a word out, Antonio said with smooth charm, ‘Thank you so much, Kelly, but your lovely owner here, Miss Kennedy, has offered to do just that.’

With almost palpable reluctance Kelly handed the room key over to Orla, who vowed to have a word with the young trainee about how to behave with their customers. No matter how gorgeous or alluring they might be. Her desire to chastise the girl had nothing to do with the way Antonio had smiled so sexily just now. Nothing at all.

Orla stalked away from Antonio across the marble floor of the distinctive and classic foyer, her heels sounding like angry staccato bullets on the floor, not looking to see if he was following.

She pressed for the lift and tensed minutely when she felt Antonio’s much larger presence close to her back. Her skin prickled and tightened. Her nipples peaked.

The li

ft doors opened and she stepped in. Followed by Antonio. They were the only people to get in. The doors closed and Orla folded her arms and rounded on him. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

Antonio leant back against the mirrored lift wall and tried to curb the predictable and annoying surge of desire. Orla was wearing a dark blue silk shirt that made her eyes seem darker, and a black pencil skirt. Court shoes. Hair down and sleek. She looked like a million other women in this city—cool, efficient, successful. But she was also nothing like those other women. He realised now that she had an earthy sensuality hidden underneath those impeccable clothes. It had called to him the moment he’d laid eyes on her. She also had an endearing edge of vulnerability that she tried to disguise with that uber-efficient career-woman exterior.

Antonio didn’t welcome these insights. This woman was an obstacle to making his sister happy. That was all.

It didn’t help that the last time they’d shared a lift, she’d exposed herself to him on his command. A vision of that small but plump and pert pale breast filled his mind now and his gaze tracked automatically to her chest, but Orla’s arms were clamped furiously over any evidence of his effect on her.

Angry with himself now for his own lack of control when for the past decade his life had been the byword in control, even under the worst of conditions, Antonio said, ‘Floor eight please. I’m in the penthouse.’

He also cursed himself silently for having thought it would be a good idea to move into the Kennedy hotel.

Orla’s mouth was a thin line of displeasure. Clearly she hated the idea too. ‘The buttons are on your side of the lift. I’m not a lift attendant.’

Antonio disguised a grimace and pressed the appropriate button. What was it about this woman that reduced him so effortlessly to some kind of Cro-Magnon man?

Orla was all but tapping a foot again as the lift ascended swiftly and silently. ‘Well?’