One Week With The French Tycoon. Christy McKellen
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of whisky-brown eyes and sandy-blond hair keeping her transfixed as her pulse beat an enthusiastic rhythm in her throat. But apparently she didn’t capture his interest in the same way because, after giving her a curt nod, he turned sharply away, bringing her back down to earth with a thump.
‘I have a reservation,’ he said to the receptionist in a deep, smoky, French-accented voice, which made Indigo think of the actors in the Gallic art house films she’d been so in love with during her college days.
Lounging against the desk, he held up his smartphone so the receptionist could see the screen and type the booking reference into her computer.
Indigo looked from one to the other in disbelief. She seemed to have been well and truly dismissed.
Something she’d become rather too familiar with recently.
Before she could open her mouth again to point out that they were both being utterly rude and that she wasn’t going to be ignored like this, the receptionist shook her head and looked up at the Frenchman, her expression projecting a lot more contrition than when she’d dealt with Indigo.
‘I’m sorry, Signor, I don’t have a record of your booking.’
‘That’s not possible. Check again, please,’ the man replied in a tone that clearly brooked no argument.
Indigo watched with a sense of self-righteous vindication as the receptionist typed the number in again, then checked something else on another screen, her shoulders stiffening as she finally accepted there was a problem with the booking system.
She seemed a little pale when she looked back up at him. ‘My apologies, Signor,’ she breathed. ‘I don’t know what could have happened. It appears there was a glitch with the computer and I’ve given your room away. I only have the honeymoon suite available now, but it would be my pleasure to let you stay there tonight. We will correct the mistake by tomorrow and I will have your original suite available for you then.’
Indigo frowned as she twigged what was going on.
‘Hang on a second. Why didn’t you offer me the honeymoon suite? I was here first!’ she protested, feeling a cocktail of humiliation and umbrage warm her face again.
The woman’s gaze slid to hers. ‘Because the gentleman booked a suite, Signorina, so this room is more in his...category.’ She gave Indigo a tight little smile as if to say, That’s not the word I was grasping for, but you get the message.
‘Okay—’ the Frenchman began in his smooth, lyrical accent.
But even the strength of his charisma couldn’t keep the bubble of anger from rising through Indigo’s body.
‘Really?’ she spluttered, taking a step back to run a critical gaze over his long, lean body. ‘You’re really going to take the room when you can plainly see that I was here first!’
He turned to look at her again, his expression giving nothing away as his heavy-lidded gaze swept over her face.
She felt exposed, almost naked under his scrutiny, and had to fight not to wrap her arms around her body for protection against it. Locking her jaw, she stared him out, knowing from experience that not backing down was the only way she was going to get what she wanted. Or, in this case, what she needed—a comfortable bed for the night. Which had already been paid for!
A muscle twitched in the Frenchman’s jaw as he kept his gaze fixed on hers. He really did have the most striking face, with prominent high-set cheekbones and a broad masculine brow above those mesmerising eyes. What was it about French men that made them so unutterably sexy? The ones she’d met throughout her life had all had the same confident, direct gaze that made her feel simultaneously appraised and giddily unnerved. It was as though he was scrutinising the whole of her exterior whilst also looking deep inside her.
The feeling of being so thoroughly examined made her whole body tingle.
She stared harder at him to combat her dip in concentration.
Something flashed in his eyes and the corner of his mouth lifted fractionally. Was he amused by her determination to win?
Scowling as frustration pricked at her skin, she opened her mouth to restate her case—but he beat her to it.
‘You’re right,’ he said bluntly. ‘You must have the room.’
Indigo blinked at him in surprise, snapping her mouth shut. This, she had not expected.
‘Oh! Okay.’ She frowned, a little dazed by how easy that had been. ‘Really?’
Sighing, he ran a hand over his clean-shaven jaw. ‘To be honest, mademoiselle, I’m too tired to argue. It’s been—’ he winced, his expression turning troubled ‘—an intense day for me and I want to relax before starting my walk tomorrow.’
‘Wait—you’re walking the coast too?’ she asked in surprise. Looking at him, standing there in his expensive suit with his designer bags sitting prettily at his feet, she’d imagined he was here to do some upmarket sightseeing in the town, or perhaps conduct a high-powered business meeting in the hotel.
His eyes crinkled at the corners as he half frowned, half smiled. ‘Is that so unlikely?’ he asked, his voice tinged with playful irony.
The bottom fell out of her stomach. ‘No! No, I guess not.’
‘Anyway, what kind of a man would I be to leave a lady stranded in a strange town in the middle of the night?’
Something about the way he said this, with a twist of wry humour, stopped her from telling him she didn’t need a man’s help—that she’d managed perfectly well on her own for the last three months without one, despite the challenges she’d faced.
‘But, Signor, there are no other rooms available in Amalfi!’ the receptionist cut in before Indigo could form a reply. ‘It’s a busy time and all the hotels in the town are booked up. I know this because I’ve already phoned around for another traveller.’
The Frenchman turned to face her. ‘You’re telling me you can’t find me an alternative room for the night?’ he stated with unnerving calm.
She shrank away from his gaze, suddenly seeming a lot less self-assured than she had a few minutes ago. ‘Yes, Signor, I’m so sorry,’ she said, her swallow appearing to catch in her throat. ‘I’ll be able to give you the suite you booked from tomorrow, but tonight there aren’t any other rooms available—’
‘This is unacceptable,’ he said quietly, but with a girder of steel to his voice. ‘I do not expect this level of incompetence from an establishment like this. Fetch your manager.’
The receptionist’s shoulders tensed as if she’d balled her fists and her eyes widened. ‘I can’t disturb him—he is sleeping right now and has given strict instructions not to be woken—’
‘I don’t care. Get him.’ He leant forward, pressing his hands against the desk. ‘Now.’
‘Please, Signor, I’ll lose my job,’ she whispered. ‘I’m new here and I can’t afford to make any mistakes.’ Her brow tensed as her eyes took on a look of abject panic.
The desperation in her voice made Indigo’s stomach tighten as a wave of pity washed over her. She could see by the way the young woman’s eyes had pooled with impending tears that she was both terrified of her boss and totally inexperienced in dealing with this level of cold assertiveness from a customer.
‘Describe the suite to me,’ Indigo blurted to the receptionist before the Frenchman could respond.
The receptionist turned to stare at her in surprise before recovering quickly, using the question as a lifeline to pull her professional self back to safety. ‘There is a beautifully appointed bedroom with a super king-sized bed and an en suite bathroom—’
‘Does the bedroom door have a lock?’ Indigo asked.
Out of the corner of her eye she