LITMIR.BIZ

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his patience had run out a long time ago. He knew what it was. He sat at his desk in his big corner office and brooded over the latest reports. Oh, the reports were fine. There was progress on all fronts. Lucca wasn’t making a spectacle of himself, Cara was managing to ride out the media storm created in Las Vegas with the notorious Aiden Kelly and Franco was getting somewhere with Purman Wines.

      Not only that, but Sophie had made progress with Nicolo and he would be at the shareholders’ meeting next week. Orsino still wasn’t answering Christos’s calls, but Christos figured it was only a matter of time. The Chatsfield children were coming into line, whether they believed it or not.

      His biggest problem, however, was Lucilla.

      He couldn’t forget that kiss in her office on the night of the charity auction. It had been two weeks ago now and he thought of it incessantly. The way she’d melted in his arms like molten gold, her body curving into his and promising him such sweetness. He’d wanted her quite desperately in that moment. And she had wanted him, too; he was certain of it. She’d been ready to come apart in his arms and then the door had opened and Jessie had stumbled in—and that was the end of that.

      For two weeks, she’d avoided him. They saw each other at the morning staff meetings. She gave her reports. But she did not come to his office—and he did not send for her.

      He did it as much to prove to himself as to her that he was unaffected by their interchange. Yes, she’d excited him and he’d wanted her. But he did not need her. Women were interchangeable to him. All he required from them was a warm body in his bed and a few hours of passion. Beyond that, he wished for nothing more.

      Needed nothing more.

      Except, dammit, he couldn’t stop thinking about Lucilla’s mouth beneath his, her tongue gliding against his, her body so pliable and warm….

      The tingle at the base of his spine was not a good sign. He swore and got to his feet, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets and stalking over to the window to gaze out on the park across the street. He needed a woman. Any woman. That would take the edge off and then he could get back to thinking straight again.

      He could call Victoria. She was an enthusiastic lover, even if she left him cold. Yes, he’d taken her back to her apartment that night after the aborted kiss with Lucilla and he’d let her strip him naked. He’d spent his passion inside her body, but he’d felt vaguely disgusted with himself when it was done. Then he’d left her with a kiss and a promise to call.

      He had not done so, of course. He had no intention of doing so, no matter that it would be the solution to his problem.

      He raked a hand through his hair and swore softly. He could not figure out this reaction to Lucilla, except that she fired his blood because she so very clearly despised him. He didn’t usually care how anyone felt about him so long as the job got done. He still didn’t care.

      But he was intrigued, damn him. No one stood up to him the way Lucilla did. No one challenged him on every level. He found that he enjoyed it.

      He was a man who got what he wanted. And right now, he wanted Lucilla Chatsfield. He wanted her beneath him, saying his name in pleasure rather than derision. It was dangerous to want such a thing, and yet he was driven by a need that went all the way back to his miserable childhood.

      He’d been nobody, nothing, an unwanted blot on the dirty face of the life he came from. He’d clawed his way up, out of the mire, and he’d sworn he would have everything he had ever been denied. He’d not been raised with gold and diamonds and plenty to eat. He’d had to fight to survive, and he’d had to maim to prevent being killed.

      Lucilla Chatsfield, in contrast, had grown up in a huge pile of stones known as Chatsfield House, where she’d had servants, money, all the food she could eat and the finest education money could buy. Her tones were cultured, her manner graceful and understated.

      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.”

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