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For the first time in her life she was deviating from her strict code of conduct and she wasn’t going to question it or doubt it, because waiting for her right now, standing by a small private jet, was the tall figure of Antonio Chatsfield and Orla’s mind blanked of anything but him.
Antonio watched the car approach and could see the petite shape of Orla in the back. His pulse grew fast, blood heating up. His jeans already felt tight against his crotch as he responded helplessly to even that provocation.
He’d told her earlier that he wanted her to come away with him so this desire could burn itself out, and she’d reacted with predictable spikiness. After all, he’d hardly couched it as a romantic proposition. But the truth was that his motivations for asking her to this place were far more complex.
He’d never asked anyone else here. His own family didn’t even know he owned it. It was completely private, where he’d gone to battle the demons of his mind after the Legion and where he’d finally got well again. Or at least on the path to wellness.
But now he was bringing this woman and he could drum up no sense of regret. Only intense need. He wasn’t afraid that Orla would get the wrong idea; he’d never met a more driven woman whose career came first. Well, apart from his own sister. His conscience struck him—he’d been deliberately vague with Lucilla about what he was doing, when he’d fired off an email telling her that he had to take care of some personal business. Which was true. She just didn’t know how personal.
He frowned now as Orla’s car pulled up and came to a halt. In fact, now that he thought of it, his sister’s response had seemed distracted. Less than interested about his progress with the Kennedy Group, when it had been uppermost of her concerns just days ago. And had she in fact mentioned something about going away herself? He’d been so intent on avoiding her scrutinising his actions that he’d almost forgotten about that now….
But then the car door was opening and Antonio’s mind emptied of anything else, except this. The sense of triumph that had gone through him when Orla had stopped and turned back to him in the hotel had been so strong that he’d had to hide it from her, knowing it would make her turn on her heel again.
As he went to open her door and saw her bright head of hair, down around her shoulders, and that beautiful face, triumph was only a fraction of what he was feeling. And what he was feeling was far too disturbing to focus on now. It made him think of how vulnerable she’d looked as she’d admitted to him how badly she wanted to save her hotels. And the reality behind her mother’s brittle fun-loving facade.
Her defence of her mother had echoed within him, making him wonder about the reality behind the scandalous headlines of his own siblings. Bringing up that sense of fear at how his brothers and sister would react if he got in touch.
But now Orla’s hand was slipping into his, scattering his thoughts, and he closed his fingers around hers and pulled her from the car, mindful of her delicacy in spite of the steely strength she hid it with. He took in the tight figure-hugging jeans and plimsolls. The pretty violet-coloured silk sleeveless top with a frilled neckline.
‘Why, Ms Kennedy,’ he drawled, ‘I would have thought you were allergic to jeans.’
She scowled and pulled her hand free but her eyes were bright. Bright enough to mesmerise him.
‘One more crack like that, Chatsfield, and you’ll have to entertain yourself in your little hideaway.’
Antonio took her hand again and found himself feeling serious as he said, ‘Not a chance. You’re not escaping now.’
He pulled her towards the plane where some officials were waiting to check their passports and then he was allowing her to precede him up the steps and forcing his hands away from that pert backside. There would be time for that … later. All the time in the world. And then this hunger would have left his system and he could get on with his life.
‘Wow.’ Orla could only emit one ineffectual word as she stepped out of Antonio’s Jeep when she saw the property laid out before her, about three hours later. It was stupendously idyllic.
The property was at the end of a long drive, set into a forest of gnarly trees with the glittering sea close enough to touch. Insects buzzed in the warm sultry air; Orla could taste the sea on her tongue.
The house itself made something very private within her resonate. That desire for home. It was a palatial vill
a. Three-storeyed. Lots of windows and huge central front doors with stone steps leading down to a charmingly haphazard pathway. The stones of the house were obviously well worn with age and the sun, cream in colour, and the roof was made up of terracotta slates. Quintessentially French.
Antonio’s voice was gruff as he took Orla’s hand. ‘Come on, I’ll show you around.’
Orla was afraid to look at him. Afraid he might see something she wasn’t ready to reveal. The magnitude of what she was doing had hit her on the plane, some twenty thousand feet in the air, and instead of hurtling her back into reality it had only intensified her sense of excitement and rebellion and made her want this more.
The small plane had made Orla acutely aware of how gorgeous Antonio was in faded jeans and a polo shirt that stretched across his wide chest and powerful biceps. It had taken every last ounce of control not to jump on him there and then. But his knowing heavy-lidded looks had stopped her. She’d been loath to reveal how hot he made her feel, and so she’d sat on her hands and ignored his provocative glances as much as possible.
But now, with her hand in his … transported to another world, literally, everything felt much closer to the surface, stripped away. And Orla could feel her defences slipping and crumbling, much as they had when she’d allowed him into her rooms last night….
Antonio was leading her in through the main doors which were open, revealing a huge open-plan downstairs-reception area off which were several rooms. The walls were the original exposed bricks, and there were flagstone floors. Orla stifled a gasp when Antonio led her into a stunning formal dining room with open French doors that led out to a glorious side garden. It was exquisitely decorated in cooling tones of whites and greys.
A vase of extravagant colourful blooms was a centrepiece on a small serving table near the doors.
She heard Antonio remark dryly, ‘Not bad for a meathead ex-soldier, hmm?’
Orla blushed. He was no meathead ex-soldier. She tried to cover her discomfiture and the realisation that this was not far off how she would have decorated such a space herself. She shrugged one shoulder lightly. ‘Not bad, I guess…. The exposed walls add the requisite roughness.’
Antonio’s eyes flashed dangerously but he just shook his head wryly before leading her on, into a very comfortable and homely den area with state-of-the-art TV and music systems. Bookshelves lined the walls and were bursting with books. To diguise the growing sense of vulnerability to see yet another piece of her innermost desires manifesting, Orla quipped, ‘I presume the books are just for show?’
‘Cheeky.’ His hand tightened on hers and she was about to look up when a high-pitched shriek pierced the air and seemingly out of nowhere a tiny blur of brown limbs and black hair ran through the other side of the den, quickly followed by a similar smaller blur, also shrieking.
For a second Orla was just in shock and confusion … until she registered the way her entire body had pulsated with what felt like a wave of longing. It was so strong that she didn’t even realise how tightly she was gripping Antonio’s hand until he squeezed back and said, ‘Hey, it’s only Marie-Ange’s kids.’
