Metsy Hingle - Backfire

“Of course not. He’s—” Furious with herself for responding, Madeline pulled her hand free. “That’s none of your business.”

Chase grinned. “That’s where you’re wrong. Everything about the hotel’s my business. But we’ll discuss that later. Right now you need to start smiling,” he said as the cameraman and others drew near. He leaned closer and whispered in her ear, “The sweet, sultry one, Madeline. Only this time pretend it’s for me.”

He had to give her credit, Chase decided as Madeline’s lips curved up sweetly and she turned her face toward the camera. From the heated look she had leveled at him, she probably would have much preferred to slug him.

Not that he blamed her. After all, he had been the one to provoke her. He wasn’t even sure why he had done it, except that the anguish in those expressive eyes of hers had caught him off guard.

And it had made him feel guilty as hell. Feeling guilty had disturbed him, even spooked him a little—almost as much as his wanting her did.

His questions about her relationship had been out of line and he knew it. For some reason, knowing she would be meeting the guy in the morning had irritated him, like a pesky mosquito bite. But her response had pleased him.

“Great,” the reporter said as the photographer fired off another shot. “Now why don’t we take one with Madeline in the center and, Henri, you stand over here and, Mr. McAllister, you—”

“Chase,” he corrected, earning another warm look from the snoopy reporter, along with a glare from Madeline.

“…and Chase,” the woman amended. “You stand right here next to Madeline. Now smile everyone.”

The smile on Madeline’s lips wasn’t the same sultry one she had given the pretty-boy stiff with the manicured nails and three-hundred-dollar tie.

But it had the same effect. It had him wondering if her mouth was as sweet and soft and warm as it looked.

Not that he had any intention of finding out, Chase conceded as he slanted his mouth into a grin for the camera. Putting the deal together to buy into the Saint Charles had been difficult enough, especially considering his personal stake in the project. The last thing he needed was the complications a personal involvement with Madeline Charbonnet would create.

Because there would be complications. She came wrapped in an expensive package with a fancy pedigree. And while he might have learned to appreciate the finer things in life, he was strictly an off-the-rack kind of guy. As for his lineage, he would be hard-pressed to even trace his bloodlines back to his father, let alone generations of aristocrats. But even if those things didn’t factor in, the fact that she was Henri Charbonnet’s daughter did. That, in itself, made the notion of any relationship between them not only risky but downright foolish.

Tasting the champagne the waiter had provided, Chase waited for the photographer to stage the next shot and stole another glance at Madeline’s legs. But darned if the idea wasn’t tempting.

“Okay, everyone, lift your glasses in a toast to the new partnership,” the reporter instructed.

As he raised his glass, Chase caught Madeline’s eye. “To the partnership,” he said, tapping his glass against hers. His grin widened at the quick spark of anger in her green eyes that preceded the camera’s flash. He had no doubts that she would love to dump the contents of her glass over his head.

Chase laughed to himself. There was little chance of anything developing between them as long as she was furious with him. And dealing with Madeline Charbonnet spitting fire at him would be a lot safer.

“Thank you, Bitsy,” Henri said, moving over to the reporter after the photographer finished the shots. “When do you think the story and the photos will be in the paper?”

“I’m going to try for the Friday edition.”

“Excellent. And, of course, I want you to be the one who does the follow-up story on the renovations. Did I tell you they’re going to be quite extensive? Every suite in the hotel is being redone,” Henri said as he led the reporter away.

Chase turned back to Madeline who handed the waiter her untouched glass of champagne.

“What’s the matter? House brand doesn’t suit your taste buds, either?”

“What are you talking about?”

Chase took another sip from his glass. “I mean your father wanted to serve Dom Pérignon for the reception today. He wasn’t at all happy at being informed that he would have to settle for the house brand.”

“My father likes the best,” Madeline said, tossing up her chin another notch. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“No. Not if you can afford it.” He waited for her to fill the silence. When she didn’t, he asked, “What about you, Madeline? You have your father’s expensive tastes, too?”

He wasn’t being fair, goading her like this and he knew it. But then, he hadn’t counted on being moved by sad green eyes and a kissable mouth. The fact that he found her attractive was bad enough. He couldn’t afford to feel sympathy for Madeline Charbonnet, too. He was much better off having her spitting fire at him.

Or in this case ice…because the look she directed at him could freeze water on a hot July day. “I prefer to think of myself as discerning. Just because something comes with a fancy label doesn’t necessarily mean it’s the best.”

“No, it doesn’t. Does it?” That cool, controlled smile of hers was like waving a red flag at a bull. He couldn’t resist it or the chance to rattle her the way she had him. Stepping closer, he reached over to set his glass down on the table behind her. He grinned at Madeline’s small intake of breath and the light shiver of awareness that ran through her. At least she was as conscious of him as he was of her, he thought, pleased by the discovery. Tempted to touch that satiny skin, he shoved his hands into his pockets. “And what about people and their jobs, Madeline?”

“I beg your pardon?” she asked, confusion clouding her eyes. Those eyes of hers really were a dead giveaway to what she was feeling.

“I was wondering if your convictions about fancy packaging extended to people and the jobs they perform within a company or say, a hotel.”

“Mr. McAllister, I’m afraid you’ve lost me. Just what is it you’re asking?”

He allowed his gaze to skim over her again. “I was wondering whether you believed a fancy package and job title makes one person or the job they do more important than another. For example, do you see your position as director of sales more important to the operation of this hotel than say…that busboy over there.”

Madeline’s spine stiffened. She curled her hands into fists at her side. “I’m not a snob, McAllister. Just because my father owns…owned the Saint Charles, doesn’t mean I consider myself or my position of any more or any less value than anyone else’s.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Because I’ll be meeting with key members of the hotel’s staff to define and evaluate their positions. I’ve put you down for tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.”

“But I have a breakfast appointment—”

“Be there, Madeline. Nine o’clock. Unless, of course, you’d prefer to seek other employment.”

Without waiting for her reply, he turned and headed back into the reception room.

You’re a real bastard, McAllister, Chase told himself as he shook hands with some banker. But then, being a bastard was better than allowing the classy Ms. Madeline Charbonnet to sneak past his conscience and appeal to whatever noble instincts he might have. He wanted her, and wanting her was a weakness. And one of the first lessons he had learned living at St. Mark’s and the succession of foster homes that followed was people used your weaknesses against you if you let them.