Virgin's Sweet Rebellion. Кейт Хьюит

wavered across the woman’s face and Olivia leaned forward, still smiling. ‘Trust me on this one,’ she said.

      Irritation chased after uncertainty on the woman’s face, but with one tight nod she turned from the desk. ‘I’ll see if Mr Chatsfield is available,’ she said, and Olivia nodded back, blowing out a breath of relief even as tension coiled more tightly inside her. First hurdle passed. Too bad there were only about a gazillion more.

      * * *

      ‘Olivia Harrington?’

      Ben stared blankly at the receptionist standing in the doorway of his office behind the lobby area. He had a million and two problems to deal with, namely a truckload of A-list celebrities who thought requests like a magnum of pink champagne and fresh flowers—but no lilies or roses—in every room of their suites were reasonable. He’d already had half a dozen bouquets sent back down because each one contained a rose. Singular.

      Ben had been more than ready to tell the self-important starlet just where she could put all those flowers. Fortunately he’d managed to restrain himself, if only just. But when he next saw Spencer he was going to tell him where he could put the flowers. His brother had told him it would be a lot of handholding, but the level of attention these Hollywood types needed was unbelievable. And being back at The Chatsfield—any Chatsfield—with all of the memories and anger and pain—made him even less willing to deal with these outrageous requests. There was a reason he stayed in the kitchen.

      Now he eyed the receptionist wearily, managing to remember her name after a few endless seconds. “You mean a Harrington, of The Harrington, is asking to see me, Anna?’

      Anna nodded. ‘She requested to see the manager. She was quite...forceful.’

      Ben closed his eyes briefly. Perfect. A forceful Harrington who wanted to see him. What the hell was a Harrington doing in Berlin? Weren’t all of these delicate negotiations meant to be taking place in London and New York?

      ‘Thank you,’ he said, forcing a smile for the receptionist. ‘Send her in.’

      * * *

      The receptionist kept Olivia waiting for ten excruciating minutes—those stupid heels really hurt—before she finally returned with an icy smile.

      ‘Mr Chatsfield will see you, Miss Harrington,’ she said, her eyes like flint. ‘Please come this way.’

      ‘Thank you,’ Olivia answered, unable to keep an edge of sarcasm from creeping into her voice. Wasn’t The Chatsfield supposed to be number one in customer service? If this woman’s behaviour was anything to go by, not to mention her shabby room, Olivia didn’t think much of the luxury hotel’s treatment of guests. But then, she was a Harrington. Maybe they reserved the rudeness and squalor especially for her.

      With that unpleasant thought in the forefront of her mind, she followed the receptionist into an office behind the lobby, and stared at the man who sat behind the desk, one hand driven carelessly through his messy brown hair.

      Was this Spencer Chatsfield? Olivia hadn’t remembered from the few tabloid photographs she’d seen of him that he was quite so...hot. Wasn’t Spencer buttoned-up and corporate-looking? The man in front of her was anything but. All right, yes, he was wearing a suit. A very nice suit in grey pinstripe, but he had the kind of body, the kind of attitude, that made him seem as if he’d be more at home in worn jeans and a faded T-shirt, maybe a leather motorcycle jacket. Yes, she could totally see that.

      And way too late Olivia realised she was staring. Maybe even ogling. She drew herself up, kept her chin tilted high. Time to play the icily outraged guest.

      ‘Spencer Chatsfield?’ she said, her voice cool and clipped, and the man in front of her—he had stubble, she saw, glinting on his jaw...so, so sexy—arched an eyebrow.

      ‘No. Ben Chatsfield. And you are?’

      ‘Olivia Harrington.’

      His eyes narrowed, his expression not even bordering on courteous. He looked...bored. ‘And what can I do for you, Miss Harrington?’ he asked in a voice that came close to a drawl.

      He knew about the room, Olivia thought. She could see it in his hazel eyes, narrowed so knowingly, the way he lounged in his chair seeming relaxed yet emanating a barely leashed energy. He so knew.

      She hadn’t been aware of Ben Chatsfield’s existence before a few seconds ago—Spencer was the one Isabelle had mentioned the most, and of course James was in the news—but Olivia knew one thing already. Ben Chatsfield was an ass.

      She planted her hands on the desk and thrust her face towards his, deliberately invading his personal space. Ben Chatsfield didn’t so much as flicker an eyelid.

      ‘You may think it’s amusing,’ she said in a steely voice, ‘to put a Harrington in a room that resembles a broom cupboard, but I happen to think it’s poor customer service. Very poor customer service, Mr Chatsfield, and as I am a paying customer, I don’t think highly of you or your hotel. At all.’ She was huffing a bit by the end of this little speech, and Ben Chatsfield hadn’t even changed expression.

      ‘Am I to take it,’ he asked after a long beat, ‘that you’re not satisfied with your hotel room?’

      Olivia let out a rather inelegant laugh of disbelief. ‘Yes, you are to take it, Mr Chatsfield. My room is completely appalling.’

      ‘Appalling,’ he repeated neutrally. He’d leaned back in his chair, his thumb and forefinger flexed to brace the side of his face, his eyes still narrowed.

      Why, Olivia wondered in irritation, did he have to be so darned sexy? She straightened, folding her arms, waiting for him to—what? Justify his behaviour? Pretend that giving her that wretched room had been some sort of oversight?

      As if.

      ‘And what,’ Ben asked in a voice of deliberate, and likely deceptive, mildness, ‘is so appalling about your room...Miss Harrington?’

      She simply gaped at him for a moment, utterly amazed by the sheer gall of him. ‘Everything,’ she finally said, glaring at him. ‘Absolutely everything.’

      In one quick and fluid move of powerful grace Ben leaned forward and started clicking away at his computer. Olivia waited, her temper barely held in check.

      ‘I see from your reservation that you have booked a standard room.’

      ‘Nothing,’ she told him through gritted teeth, ‘is standard about the broom cupboard I’m currently in.’

      ‘The Chatsfield,’ he told her coolly, ‘does not run to broom cupboard.’

      ‘Then maybe you should have a look at my room.’

      He stared at her for a moment, his eyes still narrowed, his mouth thinned. And now that she was looking at his lips, Olivia had to admit they were sexy too. Surprisingly full and mobile and, well, lush. Lush lips on a very masculine man. He had long eyelashes too, she noticed. So unfair.

      ‘Perhaps you’re right. I should see this appalling room for myself,’ he told her, his voice edged with sarcasm, ‘and address any concerns you have.’

      Olivia threw an arm out to gesture towards the door. ‘Be my guest.’

      ‘Ah,’ Ben answered as he rose from behind his desk. ‘Now that’s my line.’

      * * *

      So a Harrington heiress decided to make a stink about her room. Suppressing a stab of irritation, Ben wondered just what had put Olivia’s nose out of joint. Thread count not high enough on the sheets? No flowers in the bathroom? As much as he would have relished telling her to suck it up and deal, Ben knew he wouldn’t. Or at least he’d do it nicely.

      He turned back to Olivia, who was still looking at him with such obvious outrage that he almost wanted to roll his eyes. She was definitely putting it on a little thick, and for what? To amuse