Virgin's Sweet Rebellion

‘Yes...’

‘I’m a chef, not a front-of-house man. I leave all that to other people.’

‘You’ll be fine,’ Spencer assured him. ‘It’s just a lot of smiling and handholding, honestly.’

Right. Ben shook his head, still wanting to refuse, knowing he wouldn’t. Knowing he hadn’t changed as much as he thought he had. He was just angry about it now.

‘I haven’t had anything to do with The Chatsfield for fourteen years,’ he reminded Spencer. Reminded himself. ‘Nearly half of my life.’

‘All the more reason to come back to it now,’ Spencer told him, and Ben heard the throb of sincerity in his brother’s voice. ‘I’ve missed you, Ben. I’m sorry you ran away all those years ago. I know you were trying to protect me...’

‘Forget it.’ Ben felt his throat close up, although whether from anger or grief or just pure, nameless emotion he couldn’t say. He didn’t want to talk about the past. He didn’t even want to think about it.

‘I appreciate what you were trying to do,’ Spencer insisted, and Ben cut him off with a quick shake of his head. He really didn’t want to talk about this.

When he finally trusted himself to speak, he said, ‘Fine. I’ll deal with the Berlin hotel for you. But I want something in return.’ His brother wouldn’t get his unquestioned loyalty any more. Things had changed too much for that. He’d changed.

Spencer raised his eyebrows, waiting. ‘Okay. What do you want?’

‘I want you to open a branch of my bistro in The Chatsfield, London.’

Spencer blinked, started shaking his head. ‘London already has a Michelin-starred restaurant...’

‘And the chef is about to retire. He’s been losing his touch for years anyway.’ Ben raised his eyebrows in cool challenge. ‘So?’

Spencer stared at him for a long moment, and Ben stared back. Tension simmered in the air between them, tension and resentment that was decades old that neither of them had ever acknowledged.

Finally Spencer nodded. ‘Fine. Oversee the film festival and I’ll look into opening your restaurant in London.’

‘More than just look into it,’ Ben replied evenly. ‘I want a signed contract.’

Spencer arched an eyebrow, gave a small smile. ‘Don’t you trust me?’

‘This is business.’

‘Fine.’ Spencer nodded his assent. ‘Send something to my office and I’ll sign it. Now are we good?’

Ben nodded slowly. ‘Yeah, we’re good.’

Spencer let out a laugh as he shook his head. ‘You drive a hard bargain, Ben. You’ve toughened up since I last saw you.’

When he’d been eighteen and utterly naive? Yeah, he’d changed just a little. But for the first time it really hit Ben that Spencer was here, that his family had, at least in part, been restored to him, and through the anger he felt something else, something clean and cool and welcome. Happiness.

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_8a1ce2ff-126d-5207-8ebd-f4694e9dd585)

OLIVIA HARRINGTON STARED at the standard room she’d booked at The Chatsfield and suppressed a groan. She’d seen broom cupboards that were bigger. By a lot.

Letting out a weary sigh, she kicked off the heels she’d worn for her red-eye flight from LA, and let go of her suitcase before sinking onto the edge of the narrow bed. Reaching one foot out, she swung the door shut and stared again at the prison cell she was supposed to call her home for the next week or so.

All right, she hadn’t been expecting the Presidential Suite. She wasn’t an A-lister by any means, but she was here for the film festival and a standard room at the best hotel in town surely meant more than this tiny closet? She didn’t even have an en-suite bathroom, and the window was facing a concrete wall that she could reach out and touch if she were so inclined. She was not.

Plus it didn’t look as if the room had been cleaned properly since the last guest—or should she say inmate?—had stayed here. There were crumbs on the carpet and the bed covers were decidedly rumpled and, peering closer, she saw, stained.

Ugh.

With a gusty sigh she leaned forward and opened the door of the tiny fridge wedged under the tinier TV. This called for a drink.

Except the minibar had been raided by some former disgruntled or desperate guest; the only thing left in it was a bottle of water and an already opened bar of chocolate with two bites missing. Olivia stared at the chilled expanse of emptiness in disbelief. Could today get any worse?

She’d had two flights cancelled from LA, had been wedged into an economy seat with a mother with a screaming baby on one side and an officious businessman who hogged the armrest on the other. She’d been dressed to impress, knowing the paparazzi loved taking photos of stars without make-up as they stumbled off a plane, and her feet had been killing her now for a good thirteen hours. Sleep was a distant memory.

And this pathetic excuse for a hotel room was the last straw. Fired by indignation, Olivia rose from the bed, jammed her aching feet back into her heels and refreshed her lipstick, squinting into the tiny square of mirror above the bureau. She was not a diva, but this was ridiculous. She could barely breathe in a room this size, much less get ready for film premieres and networking parties. And she knew exactly why she had been given a broom cupboard.

Because she was a Harrington. Because her sister Isabelle had refused Spencer Chatsfield’s offer to buy her shares in The Harrington, and let the Chatsfields swoop in and take over their family business. And mostly, she suspected, because Spencer Chatsfield thought it would be amusing to see a Harrington crammed into a Chatsfield cupboard.

Ha bloody ha ha.

All right, maybe she shouldn’t have booked into The Chatsfield, knowing the current tension between the two families. But everyone who was everyone at the Berlin Film Festival stayed at The Chatsfield, and Olivia wasn’t about to miss out simply because of family pride. She had too much riding on this festival, had worked too hard for too long to lose the first chance she’d had of actually proving herself simply because she wasn’t staying at the right hotel. She knew how these things worked. It was all schmooze, schmooze, schmooze, and kiss, kiss, kiss. Networking. And she needed to do it. She’d do just about anything to secure her film career. To prove she’d made the right decision, sinking everything she had and was into being an actress. To honour her mother’s memory, and make her proud.

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?’