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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 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.
