Rival's Challenge. Эбби ГринЧитать онлайн книгу.
its reputation had taken a dent in recent times, thanks to the scandalous exploits of the Chatsfield heirs and heiresses. Orla’s soft mouth firmed to think of how they seemed determined to acquire chains in distress. Namely, the Kennedy Group, started up and owned by her father. He’d begun in Ireland in the sixties with a small hotel in the west of Ireland and through sheer grit and determination had built up an empire—helped along by the famed boom years. By then Patrick Kennedy had moved operations to England with his wife and young daughter, Orla.
Unfortunately the economic downturn hadn’t been kind to them and a series of hotel closures had severely diminished their overall worth, making them vulnerable to takeover bids. They were nowhere near the league of the Chatsfield empire, but Orla could see how they would be an attractive prospect to add to the Chatsfield portfolio, as they weren’t too far removed with their good reputation and discreetly exclusive clientele. Which was why she was here now, trying to get a feel for their adversary. And, she realised with a sinking feeling, all it was doing was driving home just how intimidating a task she was facing.
The feeling of being watched was so intense at that moment that Orla looked to her left and the breath left her mouth in a gasp when she saw a man deep in the shadows, at the corner of the bar, watching her intently. He didn’t look away. And, to her rising mortification, neither could she.
It was the shock of colliding with that dark unsettling gaze, of not noticing him before now, that held her enthralled. She wondered how she could have missed him. He commanded the space around him. He was dark and broad. Short thick hair. Dramatic masculine features. Almost harsh. An unsmiling grim mouth, but full lips, his top one slightly fuller, and suddenly Orla was fixated on his mouth, and wondering what it would feel like to have those unsmiling lips touch hers.
The realistion of what she was doing—staring at a complete stranger’s mouth and wondering what it would be like to kiss him—hit Orla squarely in the chest and she almost fell off the stool she was so embarrassed. Cheeks flaming, she swung her guilty gaze back to her drink and then knew she couldn’t stay there spotlit under the bar’s lights, dim as they were.
Aghast that the man might have misconstrued her look, she gathered up her bag and the drink and moved to one of the tables against the wall which was covered in dark opulent velvet. She chose to sit at the wall, on the banquette seat, and breathed a sigh of relief to be slightly more hidden, cursing herself that she hadn’t had the sense to just come in and choose a seat and let her order be taken.
She noticed her heart was thumping harder than usual, a queer fluttering low in her abdomen, and looked over to where the man was again, confident that he wouldn’t see her now. But she could see him and he was still looking at her. Orla’s pulse raced. She’d never experienced this before. It felt earthy, wicked, sexy.
Against the silk of her dress, her bare breasts peaked, making tremors of awareness shoot up and down her body. She’d only realised when she’d unpacked that she hadn’t brought the bra she had to wear with this dress. And she’d had to wear the dress as she didn’t want to look too conspicuous in the bar in the trouser suit she’d brought for the meeting tomorrow.
She’d figured that the loose material would hide the fact that she was braless as she was lucky enough, or unlucky enough, that her breasts were on the small side. But now, she felt as if she might as well be naked and was acutely aware of the gap in the material which usually showed only a discreet glimpse of the bra but which would now show skin if someone looked hard enough. Like the man. He’d been looking hard enough. Instant heat moistened between Orla’s legs and she squirmed.
She resolutely diverted her gaze from the man and looked down, hunching her shoulders slightly for fear of giving anyone else the slightest bit of encouragement.
On top of all of the awareness coursing through her body which she couldn’t seem to dampen down was the disbelief that she had even attracted the gaze of such a man. From what she’d seen he looked like the type who would go for the far more busty lady who was now practically sitting in her partner’s lap. Any minute now they would leave and Orla felt a twinge of something like envy for a second before squashing it with disgust.
OK, so it had been a while since she’d had sex. More than a year to be precise. And it had been a good while before that, if ever, that she’d had any kind of sex to write home about. And maybe she had never had a relationship that lasted longer than a few weeks. But the men she met didn’t seem so enamoured when they found out that her passion for her family business came first.
Orla had contented herself that her career was her bedfellow. And up till right now it had been perfectly satisfactory. If a little lonely and frustrating when she saw amorous couples come into her hotel for romantic weekends and then leave a couple of days later looking sated and dreamy-eyed. So why was she thinking of this all of a sudden and feeling hot and unsatisfied inside?
Because of a stranger’s blatantly interested gaze. God. What was wrong with her? He was probably the type of guy to hook up with anything with a—
‘Do you mind if I join you?’
Orla’s head snapped up so fast she heard a bone crack in her neck. For a second it was as if someone had just hit her. Everything receded and then rushed back. The man was standing there. In a dark suit and white open-necked shirt. He was astonishingly gorgeous up close, and he was enormous. All over. Ridiculously tall … six foot three? Six foot four?
Orla was so stunned that she couldn’t speak. He clearly took that as encouragement and sat down opposite her, in the velvet upholstered bar chair. She could only gape at him. His sheer nerve. The fact that he was right there in front of her.
He put his drink on the small table and that seemed to jolt Orla back to some kind of reality. She looked to the left and right and then hissed in his direction, ‘I did not say you could sit down.’
Her heart was beating so fast she was breathless. Giddy with a rush of something that felt disturbingly like excitement. Disgusted at herself for this rampant reaction, she went to stand up but the man just said urgently in a deep and mesmerising voice, ‘Please don’t leave.’
His voice tugged at her nerve endings, making them tingle. Orla stopped and looked at him. She felt breathless all over again. He really was huge. Broad and powerful. Even more arrestingly masculine up close, his features defined and stamped with virility. And then she realised his accent wasn’t foreign. She frowned. ‘You’re from here?’
He nodded. ‘Yes. Why?’
‘You just …’ Orla went hot in the dim light when she realised she was giving away the fact that she’d thought about him for more than a fleeting moment. ‘You look foreign.’
His mouth tipped up on one side, drawing Orla’s eyes to it.
‘I’m half Italian, half English.’
‘Oh …’
‘And you?’
Almost slightly stupefied, Orla answered, ‘Irish … born there but brought up here.’
‘That would explain your red hair.’
Orla looked into his eyes and wondered what colour they were. They appeared black in this light and she shivered slightly, suddenly aware of a hardness to this man she’d not noticed before. A latent sense of danger.
And then she remembered where she was and stiffened again. ‘Would you please leave? I did not ask you to join me.’
There was a taut silence between them and he didn’t move. Huffing, Orla made to move again. ‘Fine, well, if you can’t have the courtesy to move, then I will.’
But his hand snaked out and wrapped around her wrist and Orla felt as if a lightning bolt of heat went straight to her groin.
‘Please … you’ll be doing me a huge favour if you can just pretend that we know each other for a minute.’
Orla looked at him. Speechless and not just because of his hand on her wrist that felt hot and big.