Forbidden To Touch. JC Harroway

an iconic landmark in Chelsea these days, and more than a business, more than a hotel, as I’m sure you understand—I grew up there.’

      ‘Of course.’ Her smile thuds my heart harder. ‘Graham and I have discussed the hotel’s sentimental value to your family in great detail. He even showed me some old photographs of the place when he first purchased it.’ She pauses, taking a delicate sip of water. ‘My designs are sympathetic to the heritage of the Faulkner. And I only have one major structural renovation to suggest.’

      I bristle, feeling my overprotectiveness for my childhood home and concern over the changes my father may or may not have sanctioned rising up. I have no idea what state of mind Graham was in when he contracted Blair, but I know one thing: ‘major’ suggests delay, which means greater costs. The more these renovations are dragged out, the longer the hotel is out of business and the bigger her bill.

      The reminder of a time when the roles were reversed, when it was my mistake with Sadie costing the Faulkner Group money, and my father had intervened to financially and emotionally bail me out of my marriage, stiffens my resolve to keep control of every inch of this project. I won’t be hoodwinked again.

      ‘Which is?’ I swallow bile, wishing I’d been present at the initial discussions. The idea my father might have been vulnerable, made decisions he might not have contemplated a year ago, leaves me jittery with guilt, shrinking my dick quicker than a lapful of ice. Not that Blair necessarily took advantage of Graham, but she must have rejoiced when the call came. Renovating a Faulkner hotel is a major coup for anyone, least of all a small company.

      ‘I plan to knock down the south wall behind the current reception desk in the foyer.’

      I hold in my splutter of outrage and offer a cool stare, so she continues with her justification.

      ‘There’s just dead space behind—a cloakroom and storage room. And without that wall you’ll achieve so much more natural light into an area that’s a little gloomy, currently.’

      ‘Hmm, I’m not sure I like the sound of that.’

      Over my dead body springs to mind, but I’m the first to admit my knee-jerk reaction is all about preserving the hotel’s heritage and looking out for my father.

      She raises her eyebrows, a confident smile tugging at her pink-glossed lips. ‘Trust me—I know what I’m talking about; you’ll love the results, and opening up that space will improve the options for the foyer. You can have a separate concierge desk and a seating area.’ She’s showing her passion again, her excitement, or perhaps it’s the ruthless streak that she might have the upper hand causing the sparkle in her eyes.

      I rub my chin, drawn to every move she makes, my mind returning to the reel of fantasies I’ve had about Blair Cameron in the past eighteen hours. The idea of her in control is not an unwelcome image. That hair wild as she rides me, and those shapely legs gripping my waist, while I explore the sensitivity of those nipples I see peeking through the fabric of her dress. I spread my thighs a fraction under the table to accommodate the burgeoning tightness in my trousers.

      Blair pulls out her tablet once more and slides it over the table. ‘Take a look at the concept plans—try to visualise the end result.’

      I glance at the images on the screen, still unconvinced.

      My reticence wobbles her confident spiel, but she rallies. ‘If it’s the guest bookings that are concerning you, we can minimise delays by staging the renovations—close off one floor at a time to redecorate the guest rooms and then finish with the ground floor and the communal areas. Surely you can accommodate the minimal disruption by housing guests at your other hotels?’

      She’s determined to make this work. ‘Searching for wiggle room to satisfy us both?’ I say, my respect for her persistence and flexibility growing.

      She flushes as though I’ve hit a nerve, leaving me curious about what exactly is running through her mind and if it in any way correlates to the pleasurable distractions in mine.

      ‘It makes good business sense that we’re both happy—repeat work from satisfied clients forms a large part of my business, so I would, of course, aim to give you everything you want.’

      Her words, and the double meaning my brain interprets, make my blood pound harder.

      ‘Ruthless and accommodating—admirable.’ My smile seems to bring a delightful flush to her skin, but the bitter tang in my mouth reminds me that I’ve fallen prey to such ruthlessness before—never again, no matter how appealing the package. And ensuring Dad hasn’t fallen prey to Blair’s charms, her radical changes, will be my top priority going forward, no matter how good her designs.

      ‘Yes...’ she says, ‘well...running my own business has taught me it’s the only way to stop unscrupulous people taking advantage.’ Her stare dips to the table. Perhaps because she’s just intimated I’m unscrupulous and not to be trusted. If only she knew the lack of trust is totally reciprocated.

      ‘Well, ruthlessness in a business setting is a worthy skill. One we share.’ Best she understands from the start I’m not simply going to roll over because she waves her contract or cites our family connections. My suspicious mind hasn’t abandoned all its wild theories—she could have cornered Graham at the golf club, played on his confusion, and now she’s here to pick over the bones, for all I know. Perhaps she plans to sabotage her father’s main competition by painting my beloved hotel lime green...