The dog was so enormous that if it stood on its hind legs it would easily be taller than her five-foot-four frame. Deciding not to provide the hound with an early supper, she remained perfectly still as she spoke to Nicolo.
‘Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Sophie Ashdown, and I am Christos Giatrakos’s personal assistant. Christos sent me here to ask you—’
‘I know what Christos wants,’ Nicolo interrupted. ‘My answer is the same as I told him on the phone earlier. You’ve had a wasted journey, Miss Ashdown. Shut the door on your way out.’
‘Wait …’ Sophie cried as he swung round and strode out of the room with his hound following faithfully at his heels. ‘Mr Chatsfield …’ She hurried across the hallway after him but he took no notice of her as he walked into another room and shut the door firmly behind him.
‘Well, of all the …’ Sophie stared at the door and her temper simmered. She had never experienced such rudeness before and without pausing to consider her actions she grabbed the door handle and turned it.
Evidently this was Nicolo’s study. As she crossed the threshold she glanced around the large high-ceilinged room where the walls were lined with bookshelves and filing cabinets. On the desk was an impressive computer system with eight monitors displaying constantly changing columns of figures and graph lines. She recalled Christos saying that Nicolo had built a career as a hugely successful financial trader. He owned a hedge fund company called Black Wolf Asset Management and was reputed to be one of the wealthiest men in the city.
He certainly did not appear to spend any of his fortune on clothes, Sophie thought, running her eyes over him. His long black waxed coat had seen better days, and his calf-length boots were scuffed. Curiously he wore a leather glove on his left hand only. If she had not recognised him from the newspaper photo she could easily have mistaken him for a gamekeeper, especially when he was accompanied by the hound from hell.
The dog was growling deep in its throat and the sound reverberated through Sophie’s body. Nicolo was standing by the desk, studying the various computer monitors, and did not look round even though he must have heard her enter the room.
‘Goodbye, Miss Ashdown,’ he said in a soft voice that held a definite hint of danger.
Sophie’s patience was wearing thin. ‘Mr Chatsfield …’
The wolfhound bared its teeth. Nicolo continued to ignore her, and Sophie wondered if he would be even mildly interested if the dog ripped her to shreds in front of him.
This was ridiculous. She could not begin to persuade Nicolo to listen to her while she was staring literally into the jaws of a savage beast which had its hackles raised and its black eyes fixed hungrily on her. Sophie’s only experience of dogs was her beloved Yorkshire terrier, Monty, who had been her childhood companion, but she was sure she had read somewhere that Irish wolfhounds were gentle giants with a friendly temperament. The dog’s gums were drawn back to reveal a worryingly sharp set of teeth. There was only one way to find out about its temperament. Steeling her nerve, Sophie walked across the room and held out her hand.
‘Hello, boy! You’re rather lovely, aren’t you,’ she said softly. She glanced at Nicolo’s broad back. ‘What’s his name?’
Madonna! Nicolo cursed beneath his breath. Although he had grown up in England, he often reverted to Italian—the language his mother had spoken to him as a child—at times of heightened emotion or when he was annoyed by something. Right now, the something was the woman who’d had the audacity to stroll uninvited, not only into his home, but into the private sanctum of his study.
He dragged his eyes from the monitor showing the FTSE 100 Index and glanced over his shoulder, astonished to see Sophie Ashdown stroking the dog’s head.
‘Dorcha,’ he muttered. ‘In Irish it means dark.’
‘Ah, I was right. He’s an Irish wolfhound, isn’t he?’
Nicolo grunted. In truth he was surprised by Sophie’s fearlessness. Most people who met Dorcha tended to back away from the hound the size of a pony. With his shaggy black coat and strong neck and jaw, Dorcha looked menacing, but as he was now proving, he was a big softie who loved to be made a fuss of. Any minute now the dog would roll over and let the woman tickle his stomach, Nicolo thought disgustedly.
‘He doesn’t really look like a wolf,’ Sophie commented.
‘The Irish wolfhound’s name originates from its use as a wolf hunter, not from its appearance. The breed was around in Roman times, and wolfhounds were used as guard dogs and for hunting wild boar and wolves.’
‘Well, I’m glad he doesn’t seem to want to hunt me.’ Sophie gave a cheerful smile as she stroked the dog’s rough coat, and Nicolo grudgingly had to admit that Christos Giatrakos’s PA was very attractive.
He frowned at the thought of the Greek usurper who his father had placed at the helm of the Chatsfield Hotel empire. He had not met Christos Giatrakos and had no intention of doing so. For the past eight years Nicolo had distanced himself from the Chatsfield and had told himself he was not interested in what happened to it, but his father’s decision to appoint an outsider as CEO had shown him that he did care about the family business.
It was more for his sister’s sake than his own. Lucilla had worked at the Chatsfield’s flagship London hotel for years, and she’d had every right to expect to take over from their father as head of the entire business empire. Understandably, Lucilla was angry and upset that she had been overlooked, and Nicolo felt a lot of sympathy for her. Hell, his older sister had done her best to hold the family together after their mother had abandoned them and their father had been busy sleeping with whichever chambermaid took his fancy. But instead of being given the top position she deserved in the company, Lucilla had been forced into second place and was expected to take orders from the new CEO.
Anger surged through Nicolo as he skimmed his eyes over Sophie Ashdown. How dare she walk in here from the enemy’s camp and assume that she would be welcome? Every aspect of her appearance infuriated him: her chic linen suit that bore the hallmark superb tailoring of a top designer, her long legs in sheer hose and the elegant stiletto heels that made her slender calves look even shapelier.
Her hair was a warm honey-gold colour. He wondered sardonically how many hours she spent in a hairstylist’s chair to achieve the glossy layers that rippled halfway down her back. Miss Ashdown looked as primped and pretty as a pampered show cat, and no doubt she was used to getting her own way by fluttering her ridiculously long eyelashes. In his younger, wild days he would have been attracted to her subtle combination of sexy sophistication and he would have wasted no time trying to persuade her into his bed. The knowledge filled Nicolo with self-disgust. He despised the man he had once been, and he hated being reminded of his past.
‘Dorcha—heel,’ he commanded, and was gratified when the hound immediately padded over to him. At least he could prevent the dog from making a fool of himself over a beautiful woman. He glanced at the computer monitors. There was a buzz of activity on the Asian markets and the Nikkei was up three hundred points. He wanted to be alone so that he could focus on the one thing he was good at, which was making money, and he resented the presence of his uninvited guest.
‘Perhaps you didn’t understand me, Miss Ashdown,’ he said as he strode across the room. ‘I’m not interested in the shareholders’ meeting, or in anything that your boss has to say.’ He placed his hand on her shoulder and spun her round, feeling faintly amused when her eyes widened in shock as he marched her over to the door. ‘Christos
