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Besides, Isabelle was the one who couldn’t say the name Chatsfield without spitting; Olivia had never been that involved with the family business or its competitors.
But damned if she was going to sit by and let anyone, especially a Chatsfield, walk all over her.
With one last determined glance at her reflection, she wrenched open the door of her hotel room and stormed out, slamming it satisfyingly behind her as she went in search of the man who had thought it would be amusing to see a Harrington brought low.
Downstairs in the lobby of the hotel, actors, actresses and media types swarmed the lobby, all soaring gilt and marble and art nouveau glamour. Olivia saw a few people she knew, and she worked her way across the room, air-kissing and finger-waggling with the best of them, before she finally reached the concierge desk.
‘I’d like to speak to the manager, please.’
The coiffed woman at the desk raised elegant eyebrows in polite incredulity. ‘I’m afraid Mr Chatsfield is busy, Miss...?’
‘Harrington. Olivia Harrington.’ The receptionist looked decidedly unimpressed, and Olivia gritted her teeth. Okay, so she wasn’t recognisable. Yet. But she had a supporting role in one of the films being shown this week, and the promise of an even bigger role in a film she really cared about, the kind of film that would touch hearts and win awards. She didn’t need this receptionist to know who she was, but she did need her to cooperate.
‘I’m sure Mr Chatsfield is busy,’ she told the woman with honeyed sweetness, ‘but considering I’m a Harrington, of the Harrington Hotel, I think he’ll see me, don’t you?’
Uncertainty 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.
