Virgin's Sweet Rebellion. Кейт Хьюит
shifted where he stood, conscious that now was a pretty inconvenient time to show evidence of that attraction.
‘I’ll arrange for you to be moved to a different room,’ he said in a tone of finality. ‘And as an apology for our error, you can have one night’s stay free of charge.’
Olivia’s eyes widened in surprise but then she gave a curt nod, as if she expected no less. Of course. ‘Thank you,’ she said with some grace, and rather grimly Ben nodded back. The sooner he was quit of this woman, the better.
‘Any time,’ he said, and turned to leave the room.
LESS THAN AN hour later Olivia stepped into one of the executive suites of The Chatsfield, Berlin, and felt her jaw drop. This was definitely not a standard room. Not even close.
A bellhop had already brought her suitcase into the foyer, and now Olivia closed the door before slowly walking around the soaring suite of rooms: foyer, living area, kitchen, bedroom and a huge bathroom with a sunken marble tub. Amazing. Just looking at that tub made her yearn to climb into it and soak in a sea of fragrant bubbles for about, oh, a lifetime.
And yet as amazing as it all was, a tiny sliver of uncertainty needled her. Not only was she getting a night free of charge, but she was staying in a suite that had to cost about a quadrillion more euros than the standard room she’d originally booked.
Was Ben Chatsfield just providing the kind of stellar customer service expected from The Chatsfield, or was he feeling guilty because he really had put her in that broom cupboard on purpose?
She decided not to overthink it. Either way, she had a fabulous room and was spending less money than she’d budgeted, which was a good thing since she didn’t use Harrington money to fund her life or her dreams.
She unpacked, hanging up her carefully coordinated outfits in the enormous wardrobe before running the huge tub she’d been fantasising about and loading it with half the bottle of complimentary bubble bath. She stripped off her clothes and slipped inside all that fragrant warmth. Bliss.
Yet even as she leaned her head back against the marble tub and closed her eyes, she felt that uncertainty needle her again. Although maybe it wasn’t actually uncertainty. Maybe it was just...awareness.
Ben Chatsfield had no right to look that attractive. That hot. With her eyes closed she could picture him perfectly: the slightly messed brown hair, the glinting hazel eyes, the strong, stubbled jaw. Gorgeous. But even more alluring than his good looks, Olivia decided, had been his energy. Raw and barely restrained. Wild. Real.
She laughed softly, because even if Ben Chatsfield had ever been interested in her, she knew she wouldn’t know what to do with a man like that. Her handful of relationships so far had been carefully controlled, stage-managed affairs that bore little resemblance to reality—or wildness.
She didn’t even want wild. Or real. Any depth of emotion was anathema to her, and had been since she was twelve. She hadn’t handled it then, and she couldn’t handle it now. She chose not to, and had kept herself from anything intimate or emotional or real with anyone. She’d certainly keep herself from it with someone like Ben Chatsfield.
And yet as she slid deeper into the tub, she still wondered what he would be like if he gave in to that wildness and let his exterior slip just a little. What she would be like with him.
Sighing, she slid deeper into the water until the bubbles came right up to her nose. No point thinking about Ben Chatsfield, because nothing was going to happen there. She’d make sure of it. Tonight she’d wear comfy pyjamas and watch mindless rom-coms on the huge TV in the bedroom and then sleep for at least eight hours. Tomorrow she had a full day of interviews lined up for her upcoming film, and she’d have to be on the whole time. One huge twelve-hour performance, which was fine, because it was far easier to be Olivia Harrington, the up-and-coming actress, than anyone else. Like herself.
* * *
Ben gritted his teeth as the A-list actress pouted prettily at him. She was gorgeous, this woman whose name he’d forgotten, he’d give her that, but she was also irritating as hell. Almost as irritating as Olivia Harrington.
‘I’m afraid the lobby is not able to be reserved,’ he told the actress, his voice clipped, bordering on abrupt. Standing in the lobby of The Chatsfield was hard enough without having to kowtow to a rich bimbo. Memories assailed him everywhere he turned, and he’d never even been to Berlin before. But he’d been to The Chatsfield. As soon as he’d stepped through the lobby doors he’d felt as if he’d stumbled into a time machine. The clink of crystal, the smell of leather and furniture polish, the ping of the lifts...all of it had brought him right back to the boy he’d been, spit-shined and eager, waiting in the lobby for his father to be finished with work. Hoping that this time his father would smile at him. Smile at Spencer.
‘But it would be the perfect venue for my birthday party,’ the actress insisted, and Ben was brought back to the present, which was both a relief and an annoyance. She dropped the pout, offering him a sultry smile instead. It made for a change at least, as did the hand she laid on his arm. The woman didn’t provoke even a quarter of the reaction Olivia Harrington had. ‘Please?’ she asked breathily, fluttering false eyelashes.
‘The lobby is a public place,’ Ben answered, and deliberately removed his arm from her hand. ‘And other guests need to use it to access their rooms. Unless you don’t mind having them all go through the service entrance?’ He’d said it sarcastically enough, unable to help himself, but he could see the woman had taken him seriously. From behind her he saw a staff member smother a smile, and he was glad someone was enjoying this conversation. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s absolutely not possible,’ he told the woman firmly. ‘We would be happy to accommodate the needs of your event in any of The Chatsfield’s reception rooms.’ He took a step back, tilting his head to indicate the concierge desk. ‘Shall I have someone show you the options? The Parisian Salon is particularly stunning.’
He grimaced as he turned away, hating the honeyed falseness that was starting to come to him all too easily. For fourteen years he’d thrived on a reputation of being honest to the point of bluntness. People knew what they were getting with Ben’s Bistro. It was only stepping back into The Chatsfield, into the web of deceit his parents had woven since infancy, that he’d become a flatterer. Which was what Spencer had asked him to be.
‘Nicely handled, Mr Chatsfield.’ The bellhop who had overheard his conversation came up to him with a grin. ‘That woman was seriously annoying. She had eight pieces of luggage and she didn’t even tip.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ Ben answered even though he knew a regular manager would have given the bellhop a smack-down for talking about guests that way. He wouldn’t. He’d taken the measure of most of the staff within the first few days, and he knew he needed to draw a line between stellar customer service and surrendering your dignity. This bellhop had been nothing but courteous to all the guests. No wonder he needed to let off some steam.
He offered him a quick smile before he nodded towards the luggage trolleys and had the boy hurrying back to his place. Order still needed to be kept.
‘Mr Chatsfield?’ Heels clicked behind him and he turned to see his PA, Rebecca, smiling uncertainly at him.
‘Rebecca. What can I do for you?’
‘A reporter from the entertainment network wanted to interview you for their piece about catering to the stars?’
‘Oh. Right.’ And that was something he really felt like doing. Trying not to grimace, Ben followed Rebecca to the waiting reporter.
Twelve hours later, with it heading on to midnight, Ben was finally able to relax. He’d put out more fires—including an actual one when a guest had knocked over one of the two hundred aromatherapy candles she’d scattered around her suite—and soothed more giant egos than he cared to remember. And he hadn’t lost his