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For a moment I say nothing. I’m not sure I even move. I’m still trying to figure out if I heard him right.

“Theo owns the hotel?” I whisper.

“His family does, yes.” He beams.

The words reverberate around my brain like a pinball. It’s like somebody walked up and slapped me in front of everybody. My eyes sting, my face feels bright red.

Oh god, he’s not just a stupid player. He’s a stupid liar who lied to me about who he is. Could this get any worse?

He must have been laughing at me, the same way Patrick was. Why am I so stupidly gullible? I was honest with a man who doesn’t even know the meaning of the word. And I should have known better.

“Thank you,” I manage to get out, trying not to let him see the horrified expression on my face.

“Will you be having breakfast with us today?” he asks.

I shake my head, on the verge of crying. I need to get out of here, to call Jennifer. I need to check out. Does he do this with all his female guests? Flirt with them, lie to them, and make them feel like they’re idiots when they discover the truth?

I need to be anywhere but The Hunt Hotel. Owned by Theo Hunt, the rich asshole who pretends to play piano for a living and likes spending time with multiple women each night.

Okay, Georgia, breathe. Eight counts in, eight counts out. You’re going to go back upstairs, get your coat and your purse, and then you’ll head straight to the nearest café.

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay, Miss Ingram?” the concierge asks. He’s so perfectly polite. Everybody in this hotel is. They’re all part of that bastard’s world, where it’s fine to pretend to be somebody else.

I nod, still keeping my mouth shut. And somehow I manage to force a smile onto my lips, because I don’t want him worrying about me.

Blood is rushing through my ears as I head back toward the elevators. I grit my teeth to keep myself from crying, but tilt my head down in case I can’t. I almost make it to the end of the lobby when I hear my name being called.

I look to my right to see him striding toward me.

He’s in a dark suit and white shirt, his navy tie perfectly knotted. His hair is brushed back from his face, his skin freshly shaven. Of course he isn’t a pianist. Pianists don’t wear designer suits or arrange for Rolls Royces to pick up their dates.

But God, every cell in my body responds even though I hate him.

I turn away, stabbing at the button because I do not want to talk to him. I’m ramrod straight, willing the elevator to hurry up.

But it doesn’t.

“Georgia.” His voice is softer as he reaches me. I stare straight at the metal doors in front of me, refusing to acknowledge him.

The damn owner of the hotel.

“Please talk to me. I’m sorry about last night. It couldn’t be avoided.”

He’s still trying to control this. Not bothering to explain, just expecting me to blithely accept his words. And I want to. I want to be calm. But my muscles feel too tight and the lights are too bright making me blink and I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I swear I draw blood. Anything to keep from letting him see me cry.

And then he makes the mistake of touching my arm. I immediately yank myself away from him, finally turning to look at him, a furious expression on my face.

His eyes widen as he takes it in. “I’m sorry,” he says again.

And that’s it. Apparently I’ve reached my limit. Because I explode.

“Sorry for what?” I ask, adrenaline rushing through me. “For ditching me last night because you got a better offer? Or are you sorry because you lied to me? Because somehow you forgot to tell me that you’re not a damn piano player, but that you own the place? Is that why you’re sorry, Mr. Hunt? Because I gotta say, you don’t look very sorry. You look smug and rather put together for a man who had something so vitally important to do that you left me hanging in my hotel room feeling like a used-up piece of trash.” I narrow my eyes. “Sorry, someone, not something. I saw you talking to her in the bar.”

The words tumble out of my mouth until I run out of breath and I have to stop talking. The elevator has arrived, and it’s full of people who are all trying to get out around us. They look at me as they nudge past. I must look stupidly irrational, shouting at the hotel owner in front of everybody.

He runs his thumb over his jaw. “Can we talk about this somewhere more private?” he asks, his voice low. “Come to my office. Or I can come to your room.”

“No,” I say, more loudly than I plan. Tears start to sting at my eyes. “I don’t want to talk to you, I don’t want to hear your excuses. Go off and charm another woman. God knows two in a night isn’t enough. I just want you to leave me alone.” I step back into the elevator, and jab at my floor number, trying – and failing – to keep the final shred of dignity I have left.