Seven
“TAKE CARE OF it now,” Christos Giatrakos said into the phone, his voice hard and clipped and way sexier than Lucilla would have liked. Oh, how she hated Christos! And yet, sitting here in his office, waiting for him to finish whatever dictatorial phone call he was currently making, her belly churned with heat at the mere sound of that voice.
Certainly it did not help that he looked more like a male underwear model than a CEO. Christos should have been strutting his stuff on a runway in Milan, dressed in nothing but his tightie-whities, instead of sitting in what should be her chair—at what should be her desk—and making everyone’s lives miserable.
Especially her life. She’d worked too damn hard and too damn long, and sacrificed too damn much, to have this Greek god of an up-start usurping her position in her own family company.
Lucilla ran a hand over her sleek twist, making sure her hair wasn’t out of place, and fumed. She wanted to get up and walk out, but she couldn’t let Christos see that he had that much power to anger her. He’d summoned her by email, as he so often did, and then forced her to cool her heels on his couch while he made phone calls.
She sat ramrod straight, with her tablet on her lap, scrolled through emails and pretended not to care that Christos was ignoring her. Her gaze took in the office that should have been hers. Christos hadn’t claimed the desk in the manner that she’d expected, but there were subtle differences—the way the computer sat at a precise angle, the pen—worth more than her monthly salary—perfectly positioned in line with the keyboard, and a small coin sitting just to the right of the pen. From where she was sitting she could only tell that the coin wasn’t English. The photographs that had once lined her father’s desk had been pushed back into the corner of the bookcase behind the desk. Her mother’s ancient edition of Aesop’s Fables was still in its usual position in the case, however.
“If you can’t get this done, then don’t call back. The Chatsfield has other suppliers, Ron. And I will not hesitate to use them.”
Christos put the phone back in the cradle with a firm click and muttered something in Greek. And then he looked up, hitting her with the full force of those icy blue eyes. Lucilla shrugged off the internal shiver making its way down her spine and met his gaze evenly.
“What is the problem with the Frost wedding reception this weekend?”
Lucilla’s insides boiled at his tone. No polite greeting, no reasonable query. Just a demand. And an insulting one at that.
“Problem? There is no problem, Christos.” She refused to call him Mr. Giatrakos, though he insisted on it from all the employees. Well, damn him, she wasn’t just any employee. She was the rightful CEO of this company and she refused to act subservient just because her father had chosen this man over her. Not happening.
His gaze did not soften. “I have heard there is a problem.”
At times like this, Lucilla wanted to wrap her hands around his gorgeous neck and squeeze. “Then you heard wrong.” She flipped through the schedule on her tablet and ran down the page of tasks for the Frosts. “The only thing that could have ever been considered a minor issue—and trust me, it is not an issue for us—is the seating arrangements for the bride’s mother and father. I have taken care of it.”
“And why would this have been an issue?”
“Because they are divorcing, acrimoniously as it happens, and Mr. Frost is attending with his new, much younger girlfriend. Something he should know better than to do but apparently does not.”
Christos’s eyes were chips of ice. “Lucca may have pulled off the coup of the century and made a success of the royal wedding in Preitalle, but this means now, more than ever, the world’s eye is upon us. And the Frosts’ wedding has the potential to explode in our faces, Lucilla. You will see that it does not.”
Lucilla stood and tried not to look flustered. Dammit. Every time he said her name, a heated shudder rolled through her. His accent wasn’t heavy, but it was definitely pronounced, and the way it rolled over the syllables of her name was too sensual, too disturbing. Yet he would not call her Ms. Chatsfield because she would not call him Mr. Giatrakos. In that respect, it was her own fault. If she didn’t like her name on his lips, she had no one to blame but herself.
“I have been seeing that things do not explode for quite some time. I will continue to do so, even when you are history.”
And he would be history, if she had anything to say about it. If Antonio came through with the hostile takeover of the Kennedy Group, they could prove to their father that they did not need Christos Giatrakos. However, given that Antonio had missed their meeting last week she was starting to worry.
Lucilla frowned. The only thing that bothered her about the scheme was Antonio himself. Although Antonio was living in this hotel, she wasn’t seeing him any more than she had over the past few years. And when she’d seen him this last time he’d looked … different somehow. More agitated and preoccupied.
Concern speared into her at the thought of her big brother, but she pushed it aside and concentrated on the man before her. If they could just get rid of Christos, life could be good again. They would all be happier when she and Antonio were in control of the family empire once more.
And that was a goal she intended to work tirelessly for.
One corner of Christos’s mouth lifted in a grin. It was not a friendly grin, however, and she cursed herself for showing her irritation yet again. Sometimes, she just could not help her reaction.
“I am not history at the moment, Lucilla mou, and you will do as you are told or face the consequences.”
Lucilla
