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 herself that she could stick it to a Chatsfield?
This wasn’t his fight, he reminded himself. He might have agreed to help Spencer out, because...well, because his feelings for his family were complicated. But he didn’t care about The Harrington, or whether The Chatsfield swallowed it whole or not. He certainly didn’t care about this spoilt heiress.
‘Would you care to show me your room?’ he asked, his voice coolly polite, and with another huff she flounced past him and out into the lobby.
She was a beautiful woman, he had to acknowledge, although it was the kind of shiny, polished beauty that made him cynical. Too manufactured. Too fake. And after all the lies he’d swallowed in his past, he didn’t like fake anything.
Still, shiny, brown hair in carefully tousled locks that reached to the middle of her back. Big brown eyes. A dynamite figure, all willowy grace, encased in a jewel-green shift dress and high heels that drew Ben’s reluctant admiration to her long, trim legs, and the tempting curve of her calves.
He yanked his gaze upwards and it fell on her butt. That was nice too. Up again, and he finally made contact with her shoulder blades as she marched ahead of him. Good. He’d keep his eyes trained there.
She stabbed the button for the lift with one French manicured fingernail, her body quivering with tension as they waited for it to arrive.
‘When did you arrive in Berlin?’ he asked, deciding solicitude was his best bet. Not that anything would impress this kind of high-maintenance woman, but at least he would have tried.
She turned to give him an icy stare. ‘About an hour ago. I’ve been flying all night, Mr Chatsfield.’
And that was his problem how? Ben gave her a smile of bland equanimity. At least he hoped it was, and not the sneer he felt in his soul. ‘Please, call me Ben.’
She didn’t respond.
Thankfully the lift arrived and they stepped inside. At the last second before the doors closed a blowsy blonde woman in a bright pink designer tracksuit and sparkly high-tops squeezed in. She gave an obviously fake double take as she registered Olivia.
‘Olivia. I didn’t know you were coming to the festival.’ Insincerity dripped from the woman’s words and next to him Ben felt Olivia Harrington stiffen. After only a second she forced herself to relax, gave the woman what looked like a genuine smile but Ben knew in his gut was false.
‘Amber. So nice to see you. Yes, I’m here. I have a role in Blue Skies Forever. The indie film?’
‘Oh, right.’ The woman, this Amber wrinkled her nose. ‘A walk-on part?’
‘A supporting role,’ Olivia corrected, her smile not slipping so much as a millimetre. The lift doors pinged and she stepped past Amber her head held high. ‘See you around, I’m sure.’
So she was an actress. Ben eyed her thoughtfully as she walked down the thickly carpeted hall, her chin lifted defiantly, her shoulders thrown back. It didn’t really surprise him, he decided. She certainly had a flare for the dramatic. And actresses, he acknowledged, tended to be high maintenance, difficult and fake. Olivia had already shown she was all three. No, he wasn’t surprised at all.
She took him down another hall, this one narrower than the hotel’s main corridors, and then through a fire door that had Ben frowning. He didn’t think there were any guest bedrooms in this part of the building. It was staff accommodation and storage.
‘Here we are,’ she announced sunnily, and with a deliberate flourish she produced her old-fashioned key—not one of the hotel’s signature key cards—and unlocked the door to her room.
