Heiress's Defiance. Lynn Harris Raye
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could have just called,” she said as he turned away. How dare he show up and put her on the spot, then walk away as if nothing disturbed him?
He pivoted back to her. “You didn’t answer your phone. I wasn’t prepared to assume you would answer a follow-up.”
“I’ve been busy.”
His eyes gleamed. “As have I. Which makes this meeting damned inconvenient, I assure you.”
Now he was just making her mad. “So why didn’t you pick up the phone and call my office? You know the number. Or, better yet, have your assistant call my assistant. You didn’t have to disrupt your excruciatingly busy day to come find me.”
He glanced over her shoulder, presumably at the kitchen staff who were busily going about their duties peeling vegetables, preparing dishes, washing pots and generally prep-ping the kitchen for the evening service. No doubt they were paying attention keenly as Lucilla was well aware that both their voices had risen as the conversation went on.
“It seems as if we are attracting attention, Ms. Chatsfield. Would you care to continue this discussion in my office?”
She swallowed. If she refused him, she would look weak to whoever was watching. If she accepted, she would then be alone with Christos. She didn’t want to be alone with him. Not because she didn’t trust herself, but because it was damned humiliating. She’d spent the past two weeks thinking of his body pressed against hers, his arms wrapped around her. Clearly, he’d been troubled by no such thoughts.
Still, there was only one choice. This was her hotel, damn him. Her birthright.
“Of course,” she replied, sweeping past him so that he had to follow her from the kitchen. She hurried down the hallways, aware of him behind her, aware of eyes on them as they swept through the offices. She had no idea if Jessie had repeated what she’d seen that night of the gala, but Lucilla was always conscious of the possibility. Jessie was a good assistant, but all it took was one stray comment and the whole thing could explode like a wildfire. That was simply the nature of office gossip.
Lucilla marched past Christos’s assistant, Sophie, just back from her excursion to Chatsfield House, and into his office, turning when she heard the door click shut behind her. Her pulse tripped and stumbled as she tried to maintain her cool.
“I prefer if you do not challenge me in front of the staff,” he ground out before she could speak. “It sets a bad precedent.”
“Then don’t come into my territory to chastise me in front of my staff,” she grated back. “Because I will not tolerate it.”
His eyes narrowed. “You will not tolerate it? Have you forgotten who is in charge here, Ms. Chatsfield?”
Ms. Chatsfield. He’d called her that twice now when he never had before. For some reason, it annoyed her. Not that she missed being called his Lucilla but, well, dammit …
Lucilla closed her eyes for a second. She didn’t know what she missed or why she was irritated. She only knew it was different and she didn’t like it. But then she didn’t like being called Lucilla mou, either.
Argh! What was the matter with her?
“You are not in charge of me, Christos. I will respect the fact my father hired you, and I will respect the fact that you even believe you are doing a good job—but I won’t be talked down to in front of the staff and I won’t keep silent when you irritate me. You are not a god, and this is not your personal domain.”
His eyes glittered with heat. And then he laughed. “You amuse me, Lucilla. So much. If you were anyone else, I’d have fired you the first day.”
Pleasure suffused her at his use of her name. And then anger, because she wasn’t going to be flattered by his admission that she amused him, dammit. The last sentence was the part she needed to focus on. His arrogance was insupportable. “You could have tried. You would not have succeeded.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I could order the locks rekeyed. How would you get in your office then?”
“I’m sure I would have found a way.”
His gaze raked over her. She was wearing a button-down dress today, with long sleeves and a high neck, but he made her feel as if she were in a negligee and little else. “Yes, perhaps you would have.”
“Is there anything else you wish to discuss?” she snapped. “I have work to do.”
He thrust his hands in his pockets and ranged toward her. Her pulse ticked up a level. He was wearing a gray suit with a white shirt that was unbuttoned a couple of buttons. He rarely wore a tie. Which was annoying because she often found herself focusing on that narrow slice of skin revealed in the opening of his shirt.
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