Backfire. Metsy Hingle

the notion of any relationship between them not only risky but downright foolish.

      Tasting the champagne the waiter had provided, Chase waited for the photographer to stage the next shot and stole another glance at Madeline’s legs. But darned if the idea wasn’t tempting.

      “Okay, everyone, lift your glasses in a toast to the new partnership,” the reporter instructed.

      As he raised his glass, Chase caught Madeline’s eye. “To the partnership,” he said, tapping his glass against hers. His grin widened at the quick spark of anger in her green eyes that preceded the camera’s flash. He had no doubts that she would love to dump the contents of her glass over his head.

      Chase laughed to himself. There was little chance of anything developing between them as long as she was furious with him. And dealing with Madeline Charbonnet spitting fire at him would be a lot safer.

      “Thank you, Bitsy,” Henri said, moving over to the reporter after the photographer finished the shots. “When do you think the story and the photos will be in the paper?”

      “I’m going to try for the Friday edition.”

      “Excellent. And, of course, I want you to be the one who does the follow-up story on the renovations. Did I tell you they’re going to be quite extensive? Every suite in the hotel is being redone,” Henri said as he led the reporter away.

      Chase turned back to Madeline who handed the waiter her untouched glass of champagne.

      “What’s the matter? House brand doesn’t suit your taste buds, either?”

      “What are you talking about?”

      Chase took another sip from his glass. “I mean your father wanted to serve Dom Pérignon for the reception today. He wasn’t at all happy at being informed that he would have to settle for the house brand.”

      “My father likes the best,” Madeline said, tossing up her chin another notch. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

      “No. Not if you can afford it.” He waited for her to fill the silence. When she didn’t, he asked, “What about you, Madeline? You have your father’s expensive tastes, too?”

      He wasn’t being fair, goading her like this and he knew it. But then, he hadn’t counted on being moved by sad green eyes and a kissable mouth. The fact that he found her attractive was bad enough. He couldn’t afford to feel sympathy for Madeline Charbonnet, too. He was much better off having her spitting fire at him.

      Or in this case ice…because the look she directed at him could freeze water on a hot July day. “I prefer to think of myself as discerning. Just because something comes with a fancy label doesn’t necessarily mean it’s the best.”

      “No, it doesn’t. Does it?” That cool, controlled smile of hers was like waving a red flag at a bull. He couldn’t resist it or the chance to rattle her the way she had him. Stepping closer, he reached over to set his glass down on the table behind her. He grinned at Madeline’s small intake of breath and the light shiver of awareness that ran through her. At least she was as conscious of him as he was of her, he thought, pleased by the discovery. Tempted to touch that satiny skin, he shoved his hands into his pockets. “And what about people and their jobs, Madeline?”

      “I beg your pardon?” she asked, confusion clouding her eyes. Those eyes of hers really were a dead giveaway to what she was feeling.

      “I was wondering if your convictions about fancy packaging extended to people and the jobs they perform within a company or say, a hotel.”

      “Mr. McAllister, I’m afraid you’ve lost me. Just what is it you’re asking?”

      He allowed his gaze to skim over her again. “I was wondering whether you believed a fancy package and job title makes one person or the job they do more important than another. For example, do you see your position as director of sales more important to the operation of this hotel than say…that busboy over there.”

      Madeline’s spine stiffened. She curled her hands into fists at her side. “I’m not a snob, McAllister. Just because my father owns…owned the Saint Charles, doesn’t mean I consider myself or my position of any more or any less value than anyone else’s.”

      “I’m glad to hear that. Because I’ll be meeting with key members of the hotel’s staff to define and evaluate their positions. I’ve put you down for tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.”

      “But I have a breakfast appointment—”

      “Be there, Madeline. Nine o’clock. Unless, of course, you’d prefer to seek other employment.”

      Without waiting for her reply, he turned and headed back into the reception room.

      You’re a real bastard, McAllister, Chase told himself as he shook hands with some banker. But then, being a bastard was better than allowing the classy Ms. Madeline Charbonnet to sneak past his conscience and appeal to whatever noble instincts he might have. He wanted her, and wanting her was a weakness. And one of the first lessons he had learned living at St. Mark’s and the succession of foster homes that followed was people used your weaknesses against you if you let them.

      Given half a chance, he had no doubt that Madeline Charbonnet with her silken skin and made-for-kissing mouth would slip right past his safeguards and cut his heart out if he gave her half a chance.

      He had no intention of giving her that chance. Having Madeline hate him was not only safer, but would also make it a hell of a lot easier for him when he brought Henri Charbonnet down.

      

      The jerk. The big arrogant jerk. Madeline was fuming as she glanced at her watch for a third time in as many minutes. He had forced her to cancel her breakfast meeting with Kyle, only to have his secretary call her at eight forty-five and postpone their meeting until two o’clock—which had forced her to reschedule her afternoon appointments, as well.

      And now the louse had kept her waiting for over twenty minutes. It was probably another stupid ploy to keep her off balance. But this time she had no intention of letting him succeed.

      Madeline tapped her nails impatiently on the thick folder resting on her lap. She could hardly wait to shove the sales forecast reports under his nose. Obviously when he’d left instructions for her to bring them to the meeting, he hadn’t expected her to be able to produce them so quickly.

      Irritated, Madeline stood and paced the length of the office he had claimed for himself. The desk was piled high with a mountain of reports, computer printouts and financial statements. The man had certainly been busy in the last forty-eight hours. From what she had gleaned from the staff, he had spent little time in the suite of rooms he had confiscated as his living quarters. Evidently, when he wasn’t in his office, he was busy sticking his nose into all corners of the hotel’s operations.

      One thing was certain. Chase McAllister had certainly made his presence felt at the hotel—at least among the female staff. If one more secretary or housekeeper used the word hunk in conjunction with his name, she would scream.

      Slapping the folder against her leg, Madeline retraced her path across the room. Maybe she should have just stuck to her original game plan and resigned. In a city booming with convention business, it wouldn’t have taken her too long to find another job. Another job certainly would have been healthier than standing here contemplating ways to murder Chase McAllister.

      If only she hadn’t allowed her father to extract a promise from her last night to stay on temporarily for the sake of appearances. Oh, face it, Madeline. The promise you gave your father isn’t the reason you stayed. She had stayed on out of sheer stubbornness and she knew it. Because resigning was just what Chase McAllister expected and probably wanted her to do. It was the only thing that explained the little scene he had engineered between them yesterday at the reception.

      Well, she refused to give him the satisfaction. If he wanted her out of here, he was going to have to fire her. And she