She ground her jaw again. ‘Don’t call me that.’
He leaned his hips back against her desk and casually crossed one ankle over the other as if he owned the place. But then he did, almost. ‘What was she like as a stepmother?’
Isabelle let out another tight breath. ‘She held us at arm’s length, as if she was frightened of what being a stepmother entailed. My father and her were a closed unit. Once she came into his life he had no time for us anymore—not that he had much time for us in the first place. Even work took a back seat, which is saying something, as he’d always put the hotel before everything. He worshipped her. She could get him to do anything for her. That’s probably why he never let on to anyone about who she was. It was their little secret.’
‘Until you put two and two together.’
She frowned at him in irritation. ‘I’m surprised it hasn’t come out before now. One photo would have outed her. But then she hated having her photo taken. She’d always pull back and say her hair or makeup wasn’t right.’ Her arms tightened across her body as if that would somehow contain her bitter disappointment at how her stepmother had betrayed her. ‘Of course it all makes sense now.’
‘Given your strained relationship with her, why did you think she might give you her two per cent?’
Isabelle wished she hadn’t told him all she had. It had come spilling out, revealing far too much of herself. How much she had sacrificed, how much she dreamed and hoped. He would use it to his advantage. Maybe he already had. Although she had never mentioned her stepmother by name during their brief fling ten years ago, he must have sensed her relationship with Liliana was strained. For years Isabelle had tried to connect with her father’s new wife but Liliana wasn’t the nurturing or confidante type. She kept very much to herself, serving her own interests without showing any interest in that of others, especially three grief-stricken young girls. ‘I foolishly thought she’d noticed how hard I worked for the hotel. Seems I was wrong.’
‘She gave you a compliment by insisting you stay on as president.’
Isabelle eyed him narrowly. ‘Was that her suggestion or yours?’
His expression gave nothing away. ‘You think I want you working under me?’
She clenched her fists again. ‘Beside, not under.’
A teasing glint sparked in his blue eyes. ‘We could make this grand old hotel rock. Give it a little facelift. Modernise it. Loosen it up a bit. What do you think?’
Isabelle stalked behind her desk, using it as a barrier. Damn him and his double entendres. He swivelled from where he was perched on the corner so he was facing her, his long legs cutting off her only exit. She would have to step over those lean but strong limbs if she didn’t want to scramble over the four-foot-high polished walnut filing cabinet on the other side. ‘You understand nothing of the class of The Harrington,’ she said. ‘You Chatsfields are all the same. You think all a hotel has to offer is a comfortable bed with a bunch of feather pillows and fluffy towels and an unlimited supply of alcohol.’
Something moved at the back of his gaze, a camera-shutter-quick movement she would have missed if she hadn’t had her gaze firmly locked on his. ‘What do you offer here that I can’t get at home?’ he asked.
She gave him a guarded look. ‘You mean in the hotel?’
The twinkle in his eyes reappeared. ‘What else could I mean?’
Isabelle flattened her mouth and crossed her arms over her body again. ‘I’m sure you’ve read The Harrington mission statement. We offer luxurious boutique accommodation to an elite and more dignified global clientele.’
The corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly at her emphasis on the word dignified. ‘So, no riff-raff.’
Her chin went up. ‘Absolutely not.’
His eyes kept hers prisoner. Watching, noting, measuring. ‘Your profits were down last quarter.’
Isabelle’s spine went rigid. ‘It was a colder than normal winter. Business always drops off a little in the low season. It’ll pick up now it’s spring.’
He released her gaze as he picked up her crystal paperweight and turned it over in his hands. She watched those long clever fingers as they moved over the smooth glass. It reminded her of how he had cradled her breasts in his hands. Even the way he was stroking his thumb over the top of the globe made her breasts tingle in memory. She could feel a blush rising on her cheeks as the traitorous heat in her lower body spread. How could he have such sensual power over her after all this time? Her body had never forgotten the pleasure he had evoked. The memory of it still thrummed in her blood. His electrifying touch, the caress of his lips and tongue, the way he moved within her, the way their bodies had been so in tune—it was like a symphony written exclusively for them.