Читать онлайн книгу «Crazy, Undercover, Love» автора Nikki Moore
Crazy, Undercover, Love
Nikki Moore
*Shortlisted for the Joan Hessayon Award for New Writers 2015*Uber-feisty career girl Charley Caswell-Wright travels to Barcelona for a weekend assignment as PA to the gorgeous Alex Demetrio, CEO of Demetrio International.But she's there under entirely false pretenses: to get her life back on track. Having lost the job she worked so hard to earn, she’s determined not to give it up so easily, especially when she didn’t deserve to lose it in the first place.Mr Dreamy CEO is her only chance of clawing back her career – and her reputation. So she has to keep things strictly professional… boy, is she in trouble!
Crazy, Undercover, Love
Nikki Moore
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
Contents
Nikki Moore (#udf23052f-9ecb-506f-a631-81c613124895)
Dedication (#udc6893ad-b7d1-53a6-8f4a-b20f9238dbd1)
Chapter One (#u14bb8410-6692-5b77-8fda-31217b6b35e9)
Chapter Two (#u92595b1d-37e0-546d-8882-e36c0d861fbb)
Chapter Three (#u1d07cd42-0902-5c42-8044-0a093e8cfc8f)
Chapter Four (#u05d22f9e-fbe5-507a-90e5-fcec30e312d6)
Chapter Five (#u41c3ac40-5273-5e54-97b4-97180341b41c)
Chapter Six (#u450f853c-7543-53b1-9b76-ff1a9d6fa7e1)
Chapter Seven (#u512a7f57-677f-5a7e-bcc9-9552e0ae8f7a)
Chapter Eight (#u2474eee7-be31-57c6-9aa4-cc58c037d69e)
Chapter Nine (#uf85872b4-9349-5b69-9e17-17c0f5052fa8)
Chapter Ten (#udc86c775-db60-5d2a-949f-59bc8f70ae4b)
Chapter Eleven (#ucb9e5768-f438-5e26-8b78-e69f98268fae)
Chapter Twelve (#ue95ead73-a3fe-58db-bbd2-2b809a985521)
Chapter Thirteen (#u82f02121-33a1-5648-b054-fbb1bb2fdd42)
Chapter Fourteen (#uf886cf98-d75d-524f-a6a3-baeb85a8583d)
Chapter Fifteen (#u2547e199-2b13-5220-9fc7-f8c75292bec1)
Chapter Sixteen (#uede8b2eb-6083-5f01-ad9c-7d9b948102e7)
Chapter Seventeen (#u7d28ac8c-e2d7-5932-9c34-5ccd74f90dba)
Chapter Eighteen (#ue2725ce6-4078-5d53-965e-014b90743933)
Chapter Nineteen (#uae7cffad-be8a-5259-899f-58cb71ba83c6)
Chapter Twenty (#u604df964-f844-5984-bf11-e726b7ef9ab3)
Chapter Twenty One (#uaf0c14c4-d7e9-59f0-bc98-1555b680267c)
Chapter Twenty Two (#u624f432c-c2cc-582f-ba67-959972e1bceb)
Chapter Twenty Three (#u381e288c-a7a0-5d80-89c5-68feb50fc352)
Chapter Twenty Four (#u3d2786d8-2e38-588d-af9e-4f204a6850cf)
Chapter Twenty Five (#u2131e03c-65de-52df-b6eb-a01383b431a8)
Chapter Twenty Six (#u32921c08-ffed-5643-840f-afa6261de6d0)
Chapter Twenty Seven (#u8c100918-0267-57f2-ba01-875052f8bdbe)
About HarperImpulse (#u8246d280-e662-5ccb-be88-6dc7c9afadf8)
Copyright (#u7e826752-9ffa-55e8-a0a9-b5563dfec039)
About the Publisher (#ue517bcff-de88-5df2-a6ba-f6797183bfb2)
Nikki Moore (#u8e2063d2-9b9c-52a1-bb85-74fffd43d1b5)
I've adored writing and reading since forever and have always been a sucker for love stories so I'm delighted to join the fabulous HarperImpulse team!
I write short stories and fun, touching, sexy contemporary romance and really enjoy creating intriguing characters and telling their stories. A finalist in writing competitions since 2010, including Novelicious Undiscovered 2012, I'm a member of the fantastic Romantic Novelists’ Association.
I blog about three of my favourite things – Writing, Work and Wine – at www.nikkimooreauthor.wordpress.com and am passionate about supporting other writers as part of a friendly, talented and diverse community, so you'll often see other authors pop in!
You can find me at https://www.facebook.com/NikkiMooreAuthor (Author Page) or https://www.facebook.com/NikkiMooreWrites or on Twitter @NikkiMoore_Auth to chat about love, life, reading or writing … I'd love to hear from you.
This story is dedicated to;
My wonderful children for putting up with me disappearing into my writing room at odd times!
My friends and family for their unwavering support and belief that one day I would get a publishing deal.
The wonderful members of the Romantic Novelists' Association, the most friendly and professional organisation I've ever been a part of.
The fantastic HarperImpulse team – we've got the love!
And a special mention to my aunt, author Sue Moorcroft, who has been a constant source of support and inspiration to me. Without her clear constructive criticism, valuable advice and emotional cheerleading I'm sure it would have taken me much longer to achieve my dream.
Chapter One (#u8e2063d2-9b9c-52a1-bb85-74fffd43d1b5)
DAY ONE
– Friday –
I should have said no; it would have been the smart – aka sane – thing to do.
But there was a time limit on the offer and Amy caught me in a moment of desperation after I’d woke to yet another thick batch of overdue bills and polite job rejections. The feeling tripped a yes straight off my tongue, and now I’ve realised that maybe this isn’t such a good idea, it’s too late. I’m dashing across the city, yanking my purple case along behind me on squeaky wheels. So I can’t back out now; I’m committed. More importantly the reason for agreeing to this crazy Plan B, on the basis that sensible Plan A isn’t working, stands. It’s probably my last chance to hang onto life as I know it. Sounds a bit dramatic, but there it is.
The bitter wind increases its howling across the West India Quays footbridge, tearing through my belted winter coat. ‘Bugger it!’ I shudder. As well as being freezing, the force of the gale is making staying upright a challenge. My favourite (yes, okay, impractical) stiletto ankle boots are battling for grip in the snowy slush.
I’m so bloody cold it’ll be a miracle if my ears are still attached to my head, in fact they’ve gone completely numb, and there’s also a familiar ache starting deep in my throat. Great. I don’t need to get ill on top of everything else. To finish off my bad mood, the Arctic draught is trying to pick my hair out of the stylish knot I spent ages on. It’s hardly going to look professional if I arrive looking like the loser in a pro-wrestling match or as if I’m stuck in the jungle on I’m a Celebrity …
Glancing at my watch, I speed up, heels rapping out a clank-clank-clank on the metal bridge. Being late will hardly impress, either. Unfortunately, fate is conspiring against me, because as I break into a jog the jolting combined with the wind finally frees my hair. A rain of kirby grips slide into my collar and down my back. Seriously?Come on! Stopping with a skid, I yank my thick red waves into a ponytail, using the emergency hair band from around my wrist.
Setting off again, I pray the anticipated snow will hold back for another few minutes. It’s not looking hopeful; the air has that weird ozone smell to it and the temperature’s dropped loads already, grey-white cauliflower-like clouds crowding in uncomfortably low like a suffocating blanket. Yep, I’m probably going to get snowed on and I can’t help feeling it’ll be fair enough; bad karma for being so sneaky. What I’m about to do makes me want to dig a giant hole in the ground and leap into it head first. But working as a temporary Personal Assistant for the CEO of my ex-employer is an opportunity too good to miss.
Of course, it may all blow up in my face. Jess certainly believes it will, saying I’m making a massive mistake. She might be right, but I think it’s a risk worth taking. I’ve got to at least try: I owe myself that. So now I have one weekend in Barcelona to change things, whatever my best friend thinks, and if I don’t, at least the lump sum I’ll get will keep the rabid debtors at bay a while longer. In honesty, though, I really need the plan to work. It has to work.
Coming to the end of the bridge, I let out a panicked yelp as I step onto the concrete and slip on a patch of ice, regretting grabbing the handrail when my bare hand freezes to the slick metal. Peeling it off, I pick my way across a courtyard, cutting through a narrow concrete alleyway between a Japanese-themed bar and a towering hotel. The multicoloured lanterns and white fairy lights are still hanging in all the windows, even though Christmas was over a week ago. Of course leisure and retail are going to maximise the festive season and people’s celebrations; there’s more money in it for them. God, I’ve turned cynical. Sad, really, because I’ve always adored this time of year. But at the moment merriment and holidays are way down my list of priorities and for the first time I really didn’t enjoy Christmas, even though I was home with my family and friends. I think I understand Scrooge’s pre-ghosts-of-Christmas perspective now. Bah humbug.
I look for the car as I emerge onto the street, feeling sick and sweaty in spite of the chill in the air. Have I missed my ride? I’m only a couple of minutes late. Something cold kisses my cheek and I glance at the sky. Snow begins to eddy and swirl around me, getting in my eyes. No doubt I’ll end up with black Alice Cooper tracks down my face. I’m wearing cheap mascara – haven’t been able to afford the branded waterproof stuff in ages.
A wave of utter weariness drags me down. Perhaps this chance has slipped away. If so, standing here could make frostbite an unwelcome reality. How long to wait before I jack it in and head home? But then a swish black town car turns the corner and pulls in at the kerb with a quiet purr and I know this is it. It’s on. Time to meet the CEO.
Pasting on a shaky smile, I step towards the smart uniformed driver, holding back a laugh at the luxurious vehicle he’s stepped from. The formality reminds me of The Apprentice, when Lord Sugar emerges grumpy and grizzled from a flash car. I was a middle manager, so we were never kept in this style.
‘Can I help you?’ The man meets me at the back of the car, posture as rigid as his voice, whilst the wind whips grit and whirling snowflakes about us.
‘Good afternoon, I’m Charley Caswell.’
He peers down at me. ‘You are?’
‘I am.’ At least, I was last time I checked. ‘Would you like to see some ID?’
‘That would be helpful, thank you.’
Oh. I was joking. This is a bit weird.
Sliding a hand into my bag, I flip my passport open at the last page, placing my fingers strategically along the side to hide Wright, the second part of my double-barrelled surname.
He gives it a quick glance.
I stop breathing.
‘Thank you, Miss Caswell. Wait here a moment please?’
I nod, tucking the passport away and thrusting half-dead hands into my coat pockets. I should have swiped a pair of gloves from Jess on the way out of our flat. She’s used to me borrowing her stuff.
Focusing on the driver as he taps on the tinted rear car window, I watch the glass slide down but can’t hear his conversation with the passenger. The tension in his shoulders as exchanges rattle back and forth between them is obvious, though.
Gritting my teeth to stop them chattering, I scrunch my eyes against the awful weather. What’s taking so long? I can’t be busted so soon, surely? When registering with the latest batch of agencies, I only used the first part of my surname, the one I originally dropped when moving to the city, a change made back then to escape my upbringing. But for this weekend – at least initially – I needed to be safely hidden behind the name Charley Caswell, rather than marked out as Charlotte Wright.
The ex-employee.
The troublemaker.
‘I said, now!’
The order erupts from the window like something snarling with teeth and my eyes fly open. My stomach clenches in knots as the driver straightens, turning to fight his way back to me. Holding my breath, I wonder if I’m destined to go home with no prospects, no money and only numb toes and damp hair to show for my efforts.
‘Shall we go?’ he asks, stamping his feet for warmth.
My cover isn’t blown. ‘Yes!’ Oops, probably a little too enthusiastic.
He doesn’t seem to notice, opening the boot and gesturing to my case. ‘May I?’
‘No. I mean, I can manage. But thank you.’ I grab it and shove it in before he can. I won’t be waited on. If my independence is one of the few things I have left, I’ll guard it like a precious possession.
‘Fine, Miss Caswell,’ a tiny glint of humour warms his eyes, ‘but are you going to at least let me open the door for you?’
‘It’s Charley,’ I flash him a grateful smile as he swings the door open, ‘and if you’re going to insist… Yes, thanks.’
Mr CEO is on the phone as I get in, so I take a moment to appreciate the cosy, immaculate interior of the car. Heavenly. Smooth, black leather seats, walnut finish on everything, TV screens in the back of the headrests in front of us. Nice. I sink back with a sigh of relief, then ruin it by fumbling around trying to click the metal tongue of the seatbelt into place. My fingers are burning and tingling as they start to thaw, so it makes the job that much harder.
Finally buckling myself in, I glance up. And my mouth drops open. My hands clench and lust strums my knickers.
Oh … wow! I did not count on this.
I had a vague idea Alex Demetrio wasn’t bad looking but I’ve never seen a proper picture. He’s got an aversion to being photographed and any pics successfully snapped would appear in Hello or Tatler – not my type of reading material. The only photo I’ve seen was in a corporate brochure and he was standing scowling in the middle of a crowd. All I could tell was he had the same dark colouring as his father, the previous CEO.
So it’s a complete shock he’s one of the most astoundingly gorgeous men I’ve ever shared oxygen with, Brad Pitt-beautiful. Frozen, I admire his short, ruffled black hair, slightly olive skin and strong, sculpted face with angelically defined cheekbones. I’ve worked with good-looking men before but this guy is magnetic.
Thank God he’s on his mobile speaking in a language I can’t quite place and therefore oblivious to my unprofessional, uncharacteristic gawking. Then his gaze swings to mine and he loses the thread of his conversation, frowning. Bugger. Has he caught me staring? Embarrassing. But he shakes his head, responds to something the caller says and turns to face the window.
I wish ignoring him was so easy, but the deep-blue eyes I caught a flash of were captivating, framed by enviously long, black lashes that might make him pretty if he wasn’t so … manly. Icing on the cake (and I love my cake) are the kissable Tom Hardy pillow lips. And there’s The Body. Wide shoulders, broad chest and long muscular legs sprawled out in front of him. He’s not just hot, he’s mega hot.
This big handsome guy, a man who looks like a film star or a model in an American underwear ad, is the CEO? Unbelievable. Just my luck. My heart clunks to the pit of my stomach, feeling like it catches some vital organs on the way down. After all the gossip Tony circulated about me, and given the reason I’m here, my boss for the weekend is the last man in existence I can be attracted to.
I study him covertly, trying to swallow moisture back into my mouth. Being immune to his appeal fails in spectacular fashion, as an unfamiliar burn of heat sweeps along the back of my neck, spreading down my chest. I just manage not to wipe damp hands along my trouser legs. What’s wrong with me? Although a redhead, I never blush; something I’ve always been thankful for.
Boy, am I in Trouble.
There’s no time to dwell on the thought because he ends his call, throwing his phone onto the seat between us.
‘So. Who the hell are you?’ He demands as the car pulls out into the insane London traffic.
Chapter Two (#u8e2063d2-9b9c-52a1-bb85-74fffd43d1b5)
Teeth snapping shut, my shameless appreciation of his outrageous good looks nosedives. Is he for real? Why so rude? But I must keep him on side, can’t lose my cool, so I breathe in slowly, the scent of new leather making me feel slightly sick.
‘Well?’
‘Charley Caswell. Pleased to meet you.’ Forcing a brittle smile, I thrust a hand towards him. ‘The agency sent me to assist you over the next few days?’
His handshake is brisk and he withdraws as though I have a contagious disease. I ignore the tingle in my palm at his touch.
‘I know why you’re here,’ he replies, ‘I instructed the agency to hire someone. It’s just that you’re ah,’ a pause, ‘not what I was expecting.’
His gaze flickers over my chest, which I’ve always hated because my boobs are so big they make me feel like a low-grade porn star. Flushing, I button my suit jacket, trying to put aside the unwelcome excitement choking my oxygen supply.
Stop it. I should be offended by the quick glance, not flattered.
Be professional. I have to convince him I’m a sane human being, earn a little of his trust.
Rerunning his last remark, not what I was expecting I connect it with his downward glance. Is the problem I’m not a man? Not okay. But confrontation isn’t what I came here for. ‘I appreciate my first name may have caused some confusion, but I assure you I’ve lots of experience as a PA.’ It’s not exactly a lie. I was a PA for a year and a half during my climb up the corporate ladder. I’m sure the skills will come back to me.
‘I haven’t got any problem with your experience, after all you’ve been vetted by the agency.’ He jerks open one of his jacket buttons and shifts his long legs restlessly. ‘But I’ve had … issues with female staff in the past. My executive assistant has a burst appendix and is in hospital recovering and apparently no one could step in at such short notice. Or they’re still on leave.’ He looks less than impressed.
‘Well, we’re barely into the New Year, and people do have a right to take holiday don’t they?’ I shouldn’t say it but I feel sorry for the employees he has such high expectations of. ‘And if you’re limiting the number of people who can assist you to men,’ I know by the flickering pulse in his jaw I’m right, ‘you are narrowing your field a bit.’ I won’t argue outright about his blatant sexism, but I can’t let it pass unnoticed.
‘Maybe,’ he agrees stiffly, looking at me with narrowed eyes. ‘I suppose I just expected more. A sense of duty perhaps.’
Sidestepping his remark: ‘So, what issues are you referring to about women anyway?’ Carrying out my plan is going to be a teensy bit problematic if my gender means he won’t even listen to me.
‘Some people can separate work from their personal lives, respect professional boundaries,’ he says coolly, ‘but unfortunately others don’t have that ability.’
‘You’re joking?’ I laugh. Is he suggesting men do and women don’t, or that he’s so attractive every female who works for him will try it on? Okay, he’s hot, but a large proportion of the female population demand equality and respect, and he’s hardly giving off those vibes.
‘No, I’m not.’ He frowns. ‘I was trying to be the opposite of funny.’
‘Okay.’ I bite the inside of my mouth. Talk about taking yourself too seriously.
‘What are you smiling at?’ he barks.
Blanking my face and voice, ‘Nothing, sir. Absolutely nothing. I apologise, I didn’t realise I was.’
‘Don’t be silly. You don’t have to apologise for smiling.’
I ache to exclaim I don’t, Sah? in a surprised, mock southern drawl, with a splayed hand to my chest whilst fluttering my eyelashes, but hold back.
‘And don’t call me sir. I hate it.’
He should try sounding less stern then. ‘Yes s – I mean, Mr Demetrio.’
‘Alex.’
‘Yes, Alex.’ I want to ask if he’s sure letting me use his first name is appropriate given his need to maintain boundaries, but it’d probably be pushing it.
A horrible thought chokes me. Is the point about boundaries something he tells all female staff or is it just directed at me? Does he know who I am? A trickle of cold sweat runs down my spine, the droplet trickling into the waistband of my trousers.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asks, broad body swaying with the movement of the car. ‘You look like you’ve been told your grandma’s been run over by a bus.’
‘N–nothing.’ I shake my head. Paranoia is setting in. Studying his face for any hint of a hidden agenda, I clock only bewilderment and annoyance shining in his eyes and curling his mouth. ‘But let me assure you I’ve no problem keeping my work and personal lives separate. I’m more than capable of being professional.’
‘Good.’ He runs a tanned hand through his hair, leaving it ruffled in messy spikes that make fireflies circle in my stomach. ‘Keep it that way.’
‘No problem.’ Crossing my arms and legs, I turn to stare out the window, wishing I could leap out of it. Gorgeous or not, the man needs a major attitude adjustment. Plus his behaviour has reinforced why I’m off men; my career and putting my life back together are what matter, not a pretty face and a hard set of muscles.
During the next few minutes of suffocating silence I gaze at passengers in passing cars, smiling slightly as I take in a piece of leftover mistletoe stuck up hopefully in a rear windscreen. Alex alternates between fiddling with his phone and staring out of his window.
‘Miss Caswell, I should apologise,’ he mutters, glancing at me from the corner of his eye.
I look over at him. If he’s trying to say sorry it’s a poor attempt, ‘And are you?’
‘Am I what?’ He looks half confused, half cross.
‘Apologising?’
‘Yes, I am.’ He lets out an exasperated laugh, a shade of tension dropping from his expression. ‘I’m sorry.’
Scrutinising his face to gauge his sincerity turns out to be a dangerous move, because my breath catches in my throat, my heart beating so hard I can detect every pulsing rush of blood.
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.
My brain and body are definitely not on the same page. My head says stay away! in massive, neon, flashing letters whilst a warning klaxon sounds,but my rebellious sex drive is suggesting it’s right and natural to slide along the seat towards him and–
Stop! Check yourself Charley. This isn’t like you. Angling myself so the door handle digs into my left kidney, I use the discomfort to refocus, fixing on one of Alex’s defined cheekbones to avoid getting lost in his deep-blue eyes. ‘Apology accepted,’ I reply at last. He seems genuine enough. ‘However, I’d ask you not to judge me by other people’s actions. You don’t know me.’ Do you?
‘You’re right.’ He sits straighter, eyebrows folding together. ‘And I know it must sound like I’m making a generalisation, but I have my reasons—’
‘I’m sure you do, but you don’t have to explain them to me.’ I interrupt. Better to keep my distance.
‘Thank you.’
I nod rather than get caught in further conversation but am aware of him studying me as I turn to the tinted car window. The dual carriageway and metal barriers slide by outside but I don’t see them, too distracted by irritation and confusion. At him. At myself.
Yeah, I’ve got to keep my distance.
However, it doesn’t take much for my attention to boomerang back to Alex. When he pulls out a computer tablet and starts flicking things across the screen with a long-tanned finger, my gaze lands on his muscular thighs, superbly shown off by expensively tailored trousers. The idea of being flung over his shoulder and carried off to his cave and ravished pops into my head. It doesn’t make sense at all; I can’t stand male chauvinists. Which is surely what he is if he thinks no woman can make it in the corporate world without surrendering to romance. I mean, what about men? They’re just as guilty as getting involved in workplace relationships.
Added to which, growing up with three older brothers who delighted in winding me up at every opportunity means I hate chauvinist behaviour. In my teens they always taunted me about kitchen sinks and ironing boards and how real women should have dinner on the table when their husbands got home. I lost count of the number of times they provoked me into losing my temper or embarrassed me in front of my latest crush.
Now we’re all adults I’ve forgiven them their comments. They only made them to get a reaction. Still, I learnt from the older generation in my home village that some men really do view women like that. Outdated attitudes I was keen to escape. So it’s easygoing, supportive guys I date, not alpha males who have liquid testosterone running through their veins. Men like Alex.
No, it can’t be genuine attraction. It’s a hormonal thing, I’ve been sex-starved for too long. Perhaps it’s time to change that. Just not with Mr Standoffish.
Stamping hard on the brakes, the driver gives a muffled curse as the car skids to a stop with a squeal of tyres. I’m wrenched out of my thoughts and, despite my seatbelt, fly sideways with a lurch, ending half-sprawled across Alex’s lap, my boobs against his shoulder and my hand on his upper thigh.
It’s very hard, and very hot.
Chapter Three (#u8e2063d2-9b9c-52a1-bb85-74fffd43d1b5)
‘Oops, sorry.’ Straightening, I gaze into his eyes, cheeks scalding, heart racing again. It takes enormous willpower not to squeeze his thigh to test exactly how firm it is.
‘No problem,’ he replies, ‘it was an accident.’ He lifts my hand off his leg. ‘But if you don’t mind, you can have this back.’
‘Thanks.’ I can’t help noticing how big and warm his hand is, the palm rough against my fingers, which flex automatically, fingertips brushing his wrist. His touch transmits a basic message to my ultra-aware body and my unruly hormones go into party mode again. ‘Mr Demetrio,’ I breathe.
‘Yes?’
‘I … um.’ Hot and extremely bothered, my skin tingles with waves of sexual awareness. My toes are curling, no, practically corkscrewing in my boots. Bet he’s phenomenal in bed. Not that it matters. Snap out of it. Clearing my throat. ‘Nothing.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ the driver calls through. ‘Someone cut across me to get to the exit. I don’t think he saw me.’
‘No problem,’ Alex replies. ‘The main thing is we’re all okay.’ He looks down at our joined hands and frowns.
I snatch mine away, sliding across the back seat as the car starts moving again. With a small shake of his head, Alex retrieves his tablet and resumes work.
Rubbing my shoulder where the belt burnt into it, I cast around for a distraction. ‘How far to the airport?’ Fresh air and a change of scenery may do me good.
He glances at his expensive gold watch. ‘Another twenty minutes or so.’
‘Right, thank you.’
‘Is there a problem?’
Shifting on the leather beneath me, I open my jacket, needing to cool down. ‘No, not at all, I was just wondering.’ The seatbelt tightens across my chest as the car purrs up a slip road and comes to a roundabout. I need to get a grip. Back to the task at hand. What would a new employee with little knowledge of his business ask?
‘Can you brief me on the arrangements for this weekend please? And provide some background information about you and the organisation?’ I know the casino chain inside out and can list the types of companies sitting alongside it under the umbrella organisation, but if I show that knowledge off he might get suspicious.
He turns to face me. ‘Didn’t you do any research? Or ask the agency to brief you?’
I take a deep breath, refusing to react to the implied criticism. ‘There wasn’t enough time. The agency gave me the broad outline, but once I accepted the assignment, it was a rush to pack and get across the city. Plus my phone died, so I couldn’t look it up online.’ Liar. I switched to a pay-as-you-go mobile months ago and only have enough credit to make emergency calls to Jess whilst abroad. Raising my eyebrows, I inject gratitude into my tone. ‘So if you wouldn’t mind?’
‘Fair enough.’ He stretches his arms out then drops them, the movement making me aware of how big and broad he is. ‘This weekend is for the AGM,’ annual general meeting I translate silently, ‘of Demetrio International. The organisation has Greek roots but we trade worldwide.’ The car rocks slightly as an articulated lorry roars past.
‘You don’t sound very Greek.’ It pops out.
‘What do you want? Dios and agape mou in darkly accented muttered tones?’
My stomach squelches. That actually sounds quite nice. But it appears to be a sore point. ‘No, of course not. Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it.’
‘No,’ he sighs, ‘I’m sorry for snapping. Anyway, I came to the UK as a child from Corfu, went to boarding school and then on to study at Oxford.’ Which explains his unaccented English. ‘I can speak some Greek. German and French too.’
‘Right.’
‘My grandfather built the original companies, primarily based on shipping, oil and transport.’ As he speaks a crooked smile curves his mouth, making my knickers twang. ‘When he met my grandmother, who’s British, she was a high-ranking army officer. After they married she left the army and had my father and younger sister within a few years but wanted to do something as well as raise children. Together they set up and managed a number of vineyards across Europe, olive farms and some restaurants and bars throughout the Greek islands. That was the start of it.’
‘She was an officer,’ I echo, impressed. The corporate induction information mentions the organisation’s humble beginnings, but I didn’t know his grandmother was in the army. She must have been a tough lady.
‘Yes, but it’s not well known. Pretend you didn’t hear that.’
‘No problem.’ I mime zipping my lips. So he likes his privacy. It must be pretty difficult to achieve. After all, he’s a wealthy, young and dynamic CEO and therefore someone naturally of interest to the press. The David Beckham of the business world. I could be intimidated, but he’s still a person who eats, sleeps and breathes, even if it’s hard to ignore the cut of the sharply tailored suit, hand-crafted leather shoes and healthy sheen of his skin. And that he could probably buy the flat I’m mortgaged to the hilt on a hundred times over.
‘Thank you. So, my father came into the business in his twenties and ran the company alongside my grandfather for over thirty years, expanding the enterprise, until seven years ago when I became CEO. My grandfather retired very late, my father earlier than planned, and they convinced the Board someone in the family should run the company.’ His expression turns grim.
Shifting in my seat to look at him better. ‘Can I ask a question?’
His shoulders tense. ‘It depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On what the question is.’
Wow. Talk about uptight. ‘I wanted to ask how old you are,’ I say easily, ‘but if it’s a national secret, one of those if I tell you I’ll have to kill you pieces of information, please feel free not to answer.’
Opening his mouth, he pauses, then shocks me by throwing his head back and laughing. It’s a low, rumbling sound and does funny things to my insides. As he chuckles, the tension seems to leak from him.
‘No, it’s not a national secret,’ he murmurs, giving me a wide, genuine, ridiculously sexy smile, ‘and I can tell you, but I won’t have to kill you. So if you’re looking for a merciful death to escape this assignment I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.’
‘What a shame,’ I drawl, playing along. Then freeze. God, are we flirting? I mustn’t, I can’t, even if it’s accidental. I’ve been here before and look how it turned out.
Disaster.
Major bloody disaster.
No, it’s fine. I shake my head internally. He’s just being nice and I’m doing the same. ‘So, how old are you?’ I’d put him at thirty-five when he’s scowling and twenty-seven when he’s smiling. Funny how a change of emotion can make such a difference to someone’s face.
‘Thirty-one. Why?’
‘You said you’d been in charge for seven years, I wondered how old you were when you took over, given the level of responsibility. Twenty-four. Pretty young.’ Ouch. Most people that age are still finding themselves, dabbling around the edges of life, and there he was, running a massive organisation.
Lips compressing, any humour flees. ‘I’m the oldest son and they trusted me,’ he states, face going curiously blank.
I’m intrigued about the story there but it’s none of my business. ‘It wasn’t a criticism, just an observation.’
‘Yes, well, back to the facts. The business has grown more recently to include chains of hotels, casinos, media companies and a small banking arm. The organisation currently employs over ten thousand people.’
Interesting how he refers to it as ‘the organisation’ and doesn’t take personal credit for it, like he’s talking about something someone else has done. But he should be proud. He may not have clawed his way to the top through hard grind, but he’s made the business more successful since taking over and he must work punishing hours for such rapid expansion. The spoilt rich playboy I was worried he might be would surely have run a company into the ground over the years, or at best let it stagnate?
‘Thanks for the summary.’ I cross my legs. ‘So what do you need this weekend?’
‘You’re here to support me, set up presentations, attend meetings, take minutes and so on. Any problems with that?’
‘No, none whatsoever.’ I may be rusty but I’ll manage.
‘Great. Do you need to know anything more right now? It’s just that I need to finish off some emails.’ He waves the tablet at me.
‘No, that’s fine. Go ahead.’
‘Thank you.’
As he turns back to his task, I twist my hands together. This plan has to work. If I don’t get a proper job soon, a move back home is in the offing, along with asking Jess to buy me out of my half of the mortgage, which I know she’ll struggle to do. To my shame I’ve not been able to pay my share for the last two months. She can’t afford to keep propping us up, we both know it – we just haven’t had the conversation yet. I guess we keep hoping something will change, that something good will happen. Maybe this assignment is it?
Blowing out a long breath, I chew my bottom lip. Imagine having to move back in with my parents after so many years of independence. They’ll think they were right all along, that I should never have left the village. I can just picture having to face everyone. They’ll be so smug my adventure to the big city didn’t work out because they all love living in a quaint little corner of the world with traditional values. I shudder at the thought of being on the receiving end of all those pitying looks, the object of gossip. And the thought of leaving London makes me breathless. Before Tony arrived I had a job I loved, a nice flat, a fun social life, dates with creative musicians and jobbing actors, a fantastic circle of friends and great colleagues. Most of that’s gone … I can’t handle losing the last of it.
I wonder what my ex-colleagues are up to. Do they still have the same nights out, the after-hours parties? Despite being manager I was still part of the group, and Kitty (best croupier in the casino, according to her) and I were friends. I worked really hard, sometimes stupidly long hours, but I played hard too. Kitty and I had lots of adventures together, occasionally joined by Jess, and got ourselves into some pretty memorable situations. Walking through the city barefoot in the rain at three in the morning because our high heels were killing us; wearing giant cardboard boxes painted and taped up to look like Rubik’s cubes for a fancy-dress party; playing poker on a random rich guy’s yacht moored up at Canary Wharf. If I have to move back to my parents’, I’ll miss the bright lights of the city, the music and gigs, bustle of people and our laughter, usually fuelled by a mixture of white wine and Cosmos.
There haven’t been any fun nights out in months. I miss them. I glance over at Alex. Fun isn’t a word I’d use to describe him. Okay, so he’s laughed and cracked a couple of smiles and this is a business situation not a social one but still, he’s wound so tight, is so snappy and defensive. Perhaps not surprising given the responsibility he’s had since he was twenty-four – just three years younger than I am now. Maybe he doesn’t get a lot of down time.
I don’t think I’d be ready to take on a role with such massive accountability.Alex is responsible for keeping thousands of people in jobs; it’s a hell of a pressure for one person. No doubt he’s got a great team, but at the end of the day it all comes down to him. Could I do it? Would I want it? Building on a Business Studies NVQ from college, I got a distinction in a distance-learning professional qualification in people management and business administration a few years ago whilst working full-time and it damned near killed me. I loved learning and it helped when applying for the management job, but my social life went into sharp decline as a result. I was constantly turning down dates and cancelling plans in favour of staying in to do research or write assignments.
It made me wonder whether you can hold down a high-level job and still have time for other things, like love and family. None of the guys I dated during that time understood what I was trying to achieve. One of them labelled me a geek, nose stuck in a book when I could be out enjoying myself. He was right, I am a geek, and proud of it, so the stereotype didn’t bother me. The issue was that he didn’t respect my ambition and desire to better myself. Which makes my current situation even more agonising. I loved working hard and contributing to the bottom line of a company, leading and being part of a team. I have to get that back if I can.
Sitting up, I anchor myself in the now. Even if I wouldn’t want to be CEO, there’s clearly an upside – the job must really pay – because our car’s stopping on the edge of a private airstrip. The smooth concrete runway is frosted with ice and surrounded by snow-covered shrubs, grass and miles of empty space. The mega-wealthy really do live in a different world. I expected a charter flight from a regional airport, not a private jet like on Criminal Minds. This is well out of my league, but oh, what a lovely league. Undoing my seatbelt as the car stops, I try to hide my eagerness to get on the plane and look around. There’s still an excited little girl inside the corporate woman.
‘Ready?’ Alex asks, unbuckling his belt.
‘Definitely.’
He smiles and it ignites a tripwire straight to my knickers. Thankfully the driver opens the door so I scramble out the car, handbag clutched to my side.
‘Thank you.’ I nod at the driver, holding my hair back from my face in the battering wind.
‘No problem, Miss Caswell.’
Trailing after him, I shiver as he walks to the rear of the car.
As he pops open the boot lid I reach across him to grab my case but he’s too quick for me, hauling it out onto the concrete. ‘Allow me.’
Acknowledging his win with a wry smile, I watch him lift out a weekend bag, suit carrier and briefcase, before carrying everything over to the awaiting cabin crew.
Climbing from the car, Alex tucks all gadgets away in his pockets and strides over to his driver, clasping the man’s shoulder. ‘Thanks Evan, have a safe journey home and enjoy your long weekend off. Say hello to your wife for me.’
‘I certainly will, sir, on all counts. Thank you.’
‘Good. I’ll see you here on Monday evening?’
‘Yes, I’ll be here. You have a safe journey as well.’ Tipping his cap, he marches back to the car.
Interesting there’s a respectful relationship between the two men. But then, it’s only female employees my temporary boss has a problem with, isn’t it?
Alex walks over to join me as the long black vehicle pulls away smoothly. ‘Ready to go?’
Not at all. My feet are stuck to the floor. If I get on the sleek-looking plane, that’s it, no going back. Plan B. Temporary PA. In Barcelona. Undercover ex-employee. Working with the hot CEO. But what would I say if I don’t go? To Alex? More, to myself, for not at least trying? So I take a deep breath and reply, ‘Sure.’
He points at the metal steps set against the side of the luxury plane. ‘You first.’
‘Thank you.’ Careful to watch my footing as I clank upwards, I pray I won’t slip and tumble backwards on to Alex. There’s an inherent clumsiness running through me like a current and I’ve no wish for it to be on show this weekend. It’s something I can normally keep under wraps, but my reactions this afternoon have been anything but normal so far.
I duck under the door frame as I step aboard. At five foot nine I usually feel like a towering behemoth, especially since I hit that height at thirteen and curves erupted all over the place. It doesn’t help that adorably petite women seem to occupy the world. Wearing high heels makes me even taller but they give me confidence. I ignore the little voice inside my head whispering Alex is a good few inches over six foot and I don’t feel like a behemoth standing beside him.
Entering the main cabin, I hold back the uncool gasp longing to break free, but my eyes feel a metre wide and my mouth drops open. When people talk about the height of luxury, they’re not kidding. Plush velvety black carpet gives the cabin a cosy feel and a dozen matching executive chairs and small, expensive-looking tables are bolted to the floor in three groups, instead of the narrow, torturous seats on the planes I usually fly on. The plastic walls are white with the bottom half navy, almost the same shade as Alex’s eyes. Everywhere I look there are lights and sockets.
Alex squeezes past me, oblivious to the tiny space between us. Shame I can’t say the same. My nipples stand to attention at the waves of heat emanating from his body and my cheeks flush. It’s become a humiliating habit in the last hour.
‘Bathroom through there,’ Alex nods to a narrow door across the cabin, ‘why don’t you sit, get comfortable?’ His tone is offhand. ‘Just like all the rest.’ He mumbles beneath his breath, looking furious.
‘Pardon?’
‘Nothing.’ He shakes his head. ‘Just … sit down and strap up. We’re taking off soon.’
‘Please don’t tell me to shut up!’ But I drop into one of the padded chairs anyway and glare at him.
Something in his gaze flickers and he strides over to crouch down in front of me, putting his hands to my waist. What the hell is he doing?
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Nikki Moore
*Shortlisted for the Joan Hessayon Award for New Writers 2015*Uber-feisty career girl Charley Caswell-Wright travels to Barcelona for a weekend assignment as PA to the gorgeous Alex Demetrio, CEO of Demetrio International.But she's there under entirely false pretenses: to get her life back on track. Having lost the job she worked so hard to earn, she’s determined not to give it up so easily, especially when she didn’t deserve to lose it in the first place.Mr Dreamy CEO is her only chance of clawing back her career – and her reputation. So she has to keep things strictly professional… boy, is she in trouble!
Crazy, Undercover, Love
Nikki Moore
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
Contents
Nikki Moore (#udf23052f-9ecb-506f-a631-81c613124895)
Dedication (#udc6893ad-b7d1-53a6-8f4a-b20f9238dbd1)
Chapter One (#u14bb8410-6692-5b77-8fda-31217b6b35e9)
Chapter Two (#u92595b1d-37e0-546d-8882-e36c0d861fbb)
Chapter Three (#u1d07cd42-0902-5c42-8044-0a093e8cfc8f)
Chapter Four (#u05d22f9e-fbe5-507a-90e5-fcec30e312d6)
Chapter Five (#u41c3ac40-5273-5e54-97b4-97180341b41c)
Chapter Six (#u450f853c-7543-53b1-9b76-ff1a9d6fa7e1)
Chapter Seven (#u512a7f57-677f-5a7e-bcc9-9552e0ae8f7a)
Chapter Eight (#u2474eee7-be31-57c6-9aa4-cc58c037d69e)
Chapter Nine (#uf85872b4-9349-5b69-9e17-17c0f5052fa8)
Chapter Ten (#udc86c775-db60-5d2a-949f-59bc8f70ae4b)
Chapter Eleven (#ucb9e5768-f438-5e26-8b78-e69f98268fae)
Chapter Twelve (#ue95ead73-a3fe-58db-bbd2-2b809a985521)
Chapter Thirteen (#u82f02121-33a1-5648-b054-fbb1bb2fdd42)
Chapter Fourteen (#uf886cf98-d75d-524f-a6a3-baeb85a8583d)
Chapter Fifteen (#u2547e199-2b13-5220-9fc7-f8c75292bec1)
Chapter Sixteen (#uede8b2eb-6083-5f01-ad9c-7d9b948102e7)
Chapter Seventeen (#u7d28ac8c-e2d7-5932-9c34-5ccd74f90dba)
Chapter Eighteen (#ue2725ce6-4078-5d53-965e-014b90743933)
Chapter Nineteen (#uae7cffad-be8a-5259-899f-58cb71ba83c6)
Chapter Twenty (#u604df964-f844-5984-bf11-e726b7ef9ab3)
Chapter Twenty One (#uaf0c14c4-d7e9-59f0-bc98-1555b680267c)
Chapter Twenty Two (#u624f432c-c2cc-582f-ba67-959972e1bceb)
Chapter Twenty Three (#u381e288c-a7a0-5d80-89c5-68feb50fc352)
Chapter Twenty Four (#u3d2786d8-2e38-588d-af9e-4f204a6850cf)
Chapter Twenty Five (#u2131e03c-65de-52df-b6eb-a01383b431a8)
Chapter Twenty Six (#u32921c08-ffed-5643-840f-afa6261de6d0)
Chapter Twenty Seven (#u8c100918-0267-57f2-ba01-875052f8bdbe)
About HarperImpulse (#u8246d280-e662-5ccb-be88-6dc7c9afadf8)
Copyright (#u7e826752-9ffa-55e8-a0a9-b5563dfec039)
About the Publisher (#ue517bcff-de88-5df2-a6ba-f6797183bfb2)
Nikki Moore (#u8e2063d2-9b9c-52a1-bb85-74fffd43d1b5)
I've adored writing and reading since forever and have always been a sucker for love stories so I'm delighted to join the fabulous HarperImpulse team!
I write short stories and fun, touching, sexy contemporary romance and really enjoy creating intriguing characters and telling their stories. A finalist in writing competitions since 2010, including Novelicious Undiscovered 2012, I'm a member of the fantastic Romantic Novelists’ Association.
I blog about three of my favourite things – Writing, Work and Wine – at www.nikkimooreauthor.wordpress.com and am passionate about supporting other writers as part of a friendly, talented and diverse community, so you'll often see other authors pop in!
You can find me at https://www.facebook.com/NikkiMooreAuthor (Author Page) or https://www.facebook.com/NikkiMooreWrites or on Twitter @NikkiMoore_Auth to chat about love, life, reading or writing … I'd love to hear from you.
This story is dedicated to;
My wonderful children for putting up with me disappearing into my writing room at odd times!
My friends and family for their unwavering support and belief that one day I would get a publishing deal.
The wonderful members of the Romantic Novelists' Association, the most friendly and professional organisation I've ever been a part of.
The fantastic HarperImpulse team – we've got the love!
And a special mention to my aunt, author Sue Moorcroft, who has been a constant source of support and inspiration to me. Without her clear constructive criticism, valuable advice and emotional cheerleading I'm sure it would have taken me much longer to achieve my dream.
Chapter One (#u8e2063d2-9b9c-52a1-bb85-74fffd43d1b5)
DAY ONE
– Friday –
I should have said no; it would have been the smart – aka sane – thing to do.
But there was a time limit on the offer and Amy caught me in a moment of desperation after I’d woke to yet another thick batch of overdue bills and polite job rejections. The feeling tripped a yes straight off my tongue, and now I’ve realised that maybe this isn’t such a good idea, it’s too late. I’m dashing across the city, yanking my purple case along behind me on squeaky wheels. So I can’t back out now; I’m committed. More importantly the reason for agreeing to this crazy Plan B, on the basis that sensible Plan A isn’t working, stands. It’s probably my last chance to hang onto life as I know it. Sounds a bit dramatic, but there it is.
The bitter wind increases its howling across the West India Quays footbridge, tearing through my belted winter coat. ‘Bugger it!’ I shudder. As well as being freezing, the force of the gale is making staying upright a challenge. My favourite (yes, okay, impractical) stiletto ankle boots are battling for grip in the snowy slush.
I’m so bloody cold it’ll be a miracle if my ears are still attached to my head, in fact they’ve gone completely numb, and there’s also a familiar ache starting deep in my throat. Great. I don’t need to get ill on top of everything else. To finish off my bad mood, the Arctic draught is trying to pick my hair out of the stylish knot I spent ages on. It’s hardly going to look professional if I arrive looking like the loser in a pro-wrestling match or as if I’m stuck in the jungle on I’m a Celebrity …
Glancing at my watch, I speed up, heels rapping out a clank-clank-clank on the metal bridge. Being late will hardly impress, either. Unfortunately, fate is conspiring against me, because as I break into a jog the jolting combined with the wind finally frees my hair. A rain of kirby grips slide into my collar and down my back. Seriously?Come on! Stopping with a skid, I yank my thick red waves into a ponytail, using the emergency hair band from around my wrist.
Setting off again, I pray the anticipated snow will hold back for another few minutes. It’s not looking hopeful; the air has that weird ozone smell to it and the temperature’s dropped loads already, grey-white cauliflower-like clouds crowding in uncomfortably low like a suffocating blanket. Yep, I’m probably going to get snowed on and I can’t help feeling it’ll be fair enough; bad karma for being so sneaky. What I’m about to do makes me want to dig a giant hole in the ground and leap into it head first. But working as a temporary Personal Assistant for the CEO of my ex-employer is an opportunity too good to miss.
Of course, it may all blow up in my face. Jess certainly believes it will, saying I’m making a massive mistake. She might be right, but I think it’s a risk worth taking. I’ve got to at least try: I owe myself that. So now I have one weekend in Barcelona to change things, whatever my best friend thinks, and if I don’t, at least the lump sum I’ll get will keep the rabid debtors at bay a while longer. In honesty, though, I really need the plan to work. It has to work.
Coming to the end of the bridge, I let out a panicked yelp as I step onto the concrete and slip on a patch of ice, regretting grabbing the handrail when my bare hand freezes to the slick metal. Peeling it off, I pick my way across a courtyard, cutting through a narrow concrete alleyway between a Japanese-themed bar and a towering hotel. The multicoloured lanterns and white fairy lights are still hanging in all the windows, even though Christmas was over a week ago. Of course leisure and retail are going to maximise the festive season and people’s celebrations; there’s more money in it for them. God, I’ve turned cynical. Sad, really, because I’ve always adored this time of year. But at the moment merriment and holidays are way down my list of priorities and for the first time I really didn’t enjoy Christmas, even though I was home with my family and friends. I think I understand Scrooge’s pre-ghosts-of-Christmas perspective now. Bah humbug.
I look for the car as I emerge onto the street, feeling sick and sweaty in spite of the chill in the air. Have I missed my ride? I’m only a couple of minutes late. Something cold kisses my cheek and I glance at the sky. Snow begins to eddy and swirl around me, getting in my eyes. No doubt I’ll end up with black Alice Cooper tracks down my face. I’m wearing cheap mascara – haven’t been able to afford the branded waterproof stuff in ages.
A wave of utter weariness drags me down. Perhaps this chance has slipped away. If so, standing here could make frostbite an unwelcome reality. How long to wait before I jack it in and head home? But then a swish black town car turns the corner and pulls in at the kerb with a quiet purr and I know this is it. It’s on. Time to meet the CEO.
Pasting on a shaky smile, I step towards the smart uniformed driver, holding back a laugh at the luxurious vehicle he’s stepped from. The formality reminds me of The Apprentice, when Lord Sugar emerges grumpy and grizzled from a flash car. I was a middle manager, so we were never kept in this style.
‘Can I help you?’ The man meets me at the back of the car, posture as rigid as his voice, whilst the wind whips grit and whirling snowflakes about us.
‘Good afternoon, I’m Charley Caswell.’
He peers down at me. ‘You are?’
‘I am.’ At least, I was last time I checked. ‘Would you like to see some ID?’
‘That would be helpful, thank you.’
Oh. I was joking. This is a bit weird.
Sliding a hand into my bag, I flip my passport open at the last page, placing my fingers strategically along the side to hide Wright, the second part of my double-barrelled surname.
He gives it a quick glance.
I stop breathing.
‘Thank you, Miss Caswell. Wait here a moment please?’
I nod, tucking the passport away and thrusting half-dead hands into my coat pockets. I should have swiped a pair of gloves from Jess on the way out of our flat. She’s used to me borrowing her stuff.
Focusing on the driver as he taps on the tinted rear car window, I watch the glass slide down but can’t hear his conversation with the passenger. The tension in his shoulders as exchanges rattle back and forth between them is obvious, though.
Gritting my teeth to stop them chattering, I scrunch my eyes against the awful weather. What’s taking so long? I can’t be busted so soon, surely? When registering with the latest batch of agencies, I only used the first part of my surname, the one I originally dropped when moving to the city, a change made back then to escape my upbringing. But for this weekend – at least initially – I needed to be safely hidden behind the name Charley Caswell, rather than marked out as Charlotte Wright.
The ex-employee.
The troublemaker.
‘I said, now!’
The order erupts from the window like something snarling with teeth and my eyes fly open. My stomach clenches in knots as the driver straightens, turning to fight his way back to me. Holding my breath, I wonder if I’m destined to go home with no prospects, no money and only numb toes and damp hair to show for my efforts.
‘Shall we go?’ he asks, stamping his feet for warmth.
My cover isn’t blown. ‘Yes!’ Oops, probably a little too enthusiastic.
He doesn’t seem to notice, opening the boot and gesturing to my case. ‘May I?’
‘No. I mean, I can manage. But thank you.’ I grab it and shove it in before he can. I won’t be waited on. If my independence is one of the few things I have left, I’ll guard it like a precious possession.
‘Fine, Miss Caswell,’ a tiny glint of humour warms his eyes, ‘but are you going to at least let me open the door for you?’
‘It’s Charley,’ I flash him a grateful smile as he swings the door open, ‘and if you’re going to insist… Yes, thanks.’
Mr CEO is on the phone as I get in, so I take a moment to appreciate the cosy, immaculate interior of the car. Heavenly. Smooth, black leather seats, walnut finish on everything, TV screens in the back of the headrests in front of us. Nice. I sink back with a sigh of relief, then ruin it by fumbling around trying to click the metal tongue of the seatbelt into place. My fingers are burning and tingling as they start to thaw, so it makes the job that much harder.
Finally buckling myself in, I glance up. And my mouth drops open. My hands clench and lust strums my knickers.
Oh … wow! I did not count on this.
I had a vague idea Alex Demetrio wasn’t bad looking but I’ve never seen a proper picture. He’s got an aversion to being photographed and any pics successfully snapped would appear in Hello or Tatler – not my type of reading material. The only photo I’ve seen was in a corporate brochure and he was standing scowling in the middle of a crowd. All I could tell was he had the same dark colouring as his father, the previous CEO.
So it’s a complete shock he’s one of the most astoundingly gorgeous men I’ve ever shared oxygen with, Brad Pitt-beautiful. Frozen, I admire his short, ruffled black hair, slightly olive skin and strong, sculpted face with angelically defined cheekbones. I’ve worked with good-looking men before but this guy is magnetic.
Thank God he’s on his mobile speaking in a language I can’t quite place and therefore oblivious to my unprofessional, uncharacteristic gawking. Then his gaze swings to mine and he loses the thread of his conversation, frowning. Bugger. Has he caught me staring? Embarrassing. But he shakes his head, responds to something the caller says and turns to face the window.
I wish ignoring him was so easy, but the deep-blue eyes I caught a flash of were captivating, framed by enviously long, black lashes that might make him pretty if he wasn’t so … manly. Icing on the cake (and I love my cake) are the kissable Tom Hardy pillow lips. And there’s The Body. Wide shoulders, broad chest and long muscular legs sprawled out in front of him. He’s not just hot, he’s mega hot.
This big handsome guy, a man who looks like a film star or a model in an American underwear ad, is the CEO? Unbelievable. Just my luck. My heart clunks to the pit of my stomach, feeling like it catches some vital organs on the way down. After all the gossip Tony circulated about me, and given the reason I’m here, my boss for the weekend is the last man in existence I can be attracted to.
I study him covertly, trying to swallow moisture back into my mouth. Being immune to his appeal fails in spectacular fashion, as an unfamiliar burn of heat sweeps along the back of my neck, spreading down my chest. I just manage not to wipe damp hands along my trouser legs. What’s wrong with me? Although a redhead, I never blush; something I’ve always been thankful for.
Boy, am I in Trouble.
There’s no time to dwell on the thought because he ends his call, throwing his phone onto the seat between us.
‘So. Who the hell are you?’ He demands as the car pulls out into the insane London traffic.
Chapter Two (#u8e2063d2-9b9c-52a1-bb85-74fffd43d1b5)
Teeth snapping shut, my shameless appreciation of his outrageous good looks nosedives. Is he for real? Why so rude? But I must keep him on side, can’t lose my cool, so I breathe in slowly, the scent of new leather making me feel slightly sick.
‘Well?’
‘Charley Caswell. Pleased to meet you.’ Forcing a brittle smile, I thrust a hand towards him. ‘The agency sent me to assist you over the next few days?’
His handshake is brisk and he withdraws as though I have a contagious disease. I ignore the tingle in my palm at his touch.
‘I know why you’re here,’ he replies, ‘I instructed the agency to hire someone. It’s just that you’re ah,’ a pause, ‘not what I was expecting.’
His gaze flickers over my chest, which I’ve always hated because my boobs are so big they make me feel like a low-grade porn star. Flushing, I button my suit jacket, trying to put aside the unwelcome excitement choking my oxygen supply.
Stop it. I should be offended by the quick glance, not flattered.
Be professional. I have to convince him I’m a sane human being, earn a little of his trust.
Rerunning his last remark, not what I was expecting I connect it with his downward glance. Is the problem I’m not a man? Not okay. But confrontation isn’t what I came here for. ‘I appreciate my first name may have caused some confusion, but I assure you I’ve lots of experience as a PA.’ It’s not exactly a lie. I was a PA for a year and a half during my climb up the corporate ladder. I’m sure the skills will come back to me.
‘I haven’t got any problem with your experience, after all you’ve been vetted by the agency.’ He jerks open one of his jacket buttons and shifts his long legs restlessly. ‘But I’ve had … issues with female staff in the past. My executive assistant has a burst appendix and is in hospital recovering and apparently no one could step in at such short notice. Or they’re still on leave.’ He looks less than impressed.
‘Well, we’re barely into the New Year, and people do have a right to take holiday don’t they?’ I shouldn’t say it but I feel sorry for the employees he has such high expectations of. ‘And if you’re limiting the number of people who can assist you to men,’ I know by the flickering pulse in his jaw I’m right, ‘you are narrowing your field a bit.’ I won’t argue outright about his blatant sexism, but I can’t let it pass unnoticed.
‘Maybe,’ he agrees stiffly, looking at me with narrowed eyes. ‘I suppose I just expected more. A sense of duty perhaps.’
Sidestepping his remark: ‘So, what issues are you referring to about women anyway?’ Carrying out my plan is going to be a teensy bit problematic if my gender means he won’t even listen to me.
‘Some people can separate work from their personal lives, respect professional boundaries,’ he says coolly, ‘but unfortunately others don’t have that ability.’
‘You’re joking?’ I laugh. Is he suggesting men do and women don’t, or that he’s so attractive every female who works for him will try it on? Okay, he’s hot, but a large proportion of the female population demand equality and respect, and he’s hardly giving off those vibes.
‘No, I’m not.’ He frowns. ‘I was trying to be the opposite of funny.’
‘Okay.’ I bite the inside of my mouth. Talk about taking yourself too seriously.
‘What are you smiling at?’ he barks.
Blanking my face and voice, ‘Nothing, sir. Absolutely nothing. I apologise, I didn’t realise I was.’
‘Don’t be silly. You don’t have to apologise for smiling.’
I ache to exclaim I don’t, Sah? in a surprised, mock southern drawl, with a splayed hand to my chest whilst fluttering my eyelashes, but hold back.
‘And don’t call me sir. I hate it.’
He should try sounding less stern then. ‘Yes s – I mean, Mr Demetrio.’
‘Alex.’
‘Yes, Alex.’ I want to ask if he’s sure letting me use his first name is appropriate given his need to maintain boundaries, but it’d probably be pushing it.
A horrible thought chokes me. Is the point about boundaries something he tells all female staff or is it just directed at me? Does he know who I am? A trickle of cold sweat runs down my spine, the droplet trickling into the waistband of my trousers.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asks, broad body swaying with the movement of the car. ‘You look like you’ve been told your grandma’s been run over by a bus.’
‘N–nothing.’ I shake my head. Paranoia is setting in. Studying his face for any hint of a hidden agenda, I clock only bewilderment and annoyance shining in his eyes and curling his mouth. ‘But let me assure you I’ve no problem keeping my work and personal lives separate. I’m more than capable of being professional.’
‘Good.’ He runs a tanned hand through his hair, leaving it ruffled in messy spikes that make fireflies circle in my stomach. ‘Keep it that way.’
‘No problem.’ Crossing my arms and legs, I turn to stare out the window, wishing I could leap out of it. Gorgeous or not, the man needs a major attitude adjustment. Plus his behaviour has reinforced why I’m off men; my career and putting my life back together are what matter, not a pretty face and a hard set of muscles.
During the next few minutes of suffocating silence I gaze at passengers in passing cars, smiling slightly as I take in a piece of leftover mistletoe stuck up hopefully in a rear windscreen. Alex alternates between fiddling with his phone and staring out of his window.
‘Miss Caswell, I should apologise,’ he mutters, glancing at me from the corner of his eye.
I look over at him. If he’s trying to say sorry it’s a poor attempt, ‘And are you?’
‘Am I what?’ He looks half confused, half cross.
‘Apologising?’
‘Yes, I am.’ He lets out an exasperated laugh, a shade of tension dropping from his expression. ‘I’m sorry.’
Scrutinising his face to gauge his sincerity turns out to be a dangerous move, because my breath catches in my throat, my heart beating so hard I can detect every pulsing rush of blood.
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.
My brain and body are definitely not on the same page. My head says stay away! in massive, neon, flashing letters whilst a warning klaxon sounds,but my rebellious sex drive is suggesting it’s right and natural to slide along the seat towards him and–
Stop! Check yourself Charley. This isn’t like you. Angling myself so the door handle digs into my left kidney, I use the discomfort to refocus, fixing on one of Alex’s defined cheekbones to avoid getting lost in his deep-blue eyes. ‘Apology accepted,’ I reply at last. He seems genuine enough. ‘However, I’d ask you not to judge me by other people’s actions. You don’t know me.’ Do you?
‘You’re right.’ He sits straighter, eyebrows folding together. ‘And I know it must sound like I’m making a generalisation, but I have my reasons—’
‘I’m sure you do, but you don’t have to explain them to me.’ I interrupt. Better to keep my distance.
‘Thank you.’
I nod rather than get caught in further conversation but am aware of him studying me as I turn to the tinted car window. The dual carriageway and metal barriers slide by outside but I don’t see them, too distracted by irritation and confusion. At him. At myself.
Yeah, I’ve got to keep my distance.
However, it doesn’t take much for my attention to boomerang back to Alex. When he pulls out a computer tablet and starts flicking things across the screen with a long-tanned finger, my gaze lands on his muscular thighs, superbly shown off by expensively tailored trousers. The idea of being flung over his shoulder and carried off to his cave and ravished pops into my head. It doesn’t make sense at all; I can’t stand male chauvinists. Which is surely what he is if he thinks no woman can make it in the corporate world without surrendering to romance. I mean, what about men? They’re just as guilty as getting involved in workplace relationships.
Added to which, growing up with three older brothers who delighted in winding me up at every opportunity means I hate chauvinist behaviour. In my teens they always taunted me about kitchen sinks and ironing boards and how real women should have dinner on the table when their husbands got home. I lost count of the number of times they provoked me into losing my temper or embarrassed me in front of my latest crush.
Now we’re all adults I’ve forgiven them their comments. They only made them to get a reaction. Still, I learnt from the older generation in my home village that some men really do view women like that. Outdated attitudes I was keen to escape. So it’s easygoing, supportive guys I date, not alpha males who have liquid testosterone running through their veins. Men like Alex.
No, it can’t be genuine attraction. It’s a hormonal thing, I’ve been sex-starved for too long. Perhaps it’s time to change that. Just not with Mr Standoffish.
Stamping hard on the brakes, the driver gives a muffled curse as the car skids to a stop with a squeal of tyres. I’m wrenched out of my thoughts and, despite my seatbelt, fly sideways with a lurch, ending half-sprawled across Alex’s lap, my boobs against his shoulder and my hand on his upper thigh.
It’s very hard, and very hot.
Chapter Three (#u8e2063d2-9b9c-52a1-bb85-74fffd43d1b5)
‘Oops, sorry.’ Straightening, I gaze into his eyes, cheeks scalding, heart racing again. It takes enormous willpower not to squeeze his thigh to test exactly how firm it is.
‘No problem,’ he replies, ‘it was an accident.’ He lifts my hand off his leg. ‘But if you don’t mind, you can have this back.’
‘Thanks.’ I can’t help noticing how big and warm his hand is, the palm rough against my fingers, which flex automatically, fingertips brushing his wrist. His touch transmits a basic message to my ultra-aware body and my unruly hormones go into party mode again. ‘Mr Demetrio,’ I breathe.
‘Yes?’
‘I … um.’ Hot and extremely bothered, my skin tingles with waves of sexual awareness. My toes are curling, no, practically corkscrewing in my boots. Bet he’s phenomenal in bed. Not that it matters. Snap out of it. Clearing my throat. ‘Nothing.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ the driver calls through. ‘Someone cut across me to get to the exit. I don’t think he saw me.’
‘No problem,’ Alex replies. ‘The main thing is we’re all okay.’ He looks down at our joined hands and frowns.
I snatch mine away, sliding across the back seat as the car starts moving again. With a small shake of his head, Alex retrieves his tablet and resumes work.
Rubbing my shoulder where the belt burnt into it, I cast around for a distraction. ‘How far to the airport?’ Fresh air and a change of scenery may do me good.
He glances at his expensive gold watch. ‘Another twenty minutes or so.’
‘Right, thank you.’
‘Is there a problem?’
Shifting on the leather beneath me, I open my jacket, needing to cool down. ‘No, not at all, I was just wondering.’ The seatbelt tightens across my chest as the car purrs up a slip road and comes to a roundabout. I need to get a grip. Back to the task at hand. What would a new employee with little knowledge of his business ask?
‘Can you brief me on the arrangements for this weekend please? And provide some background information about you and the organisation?’ I know the casino chain inside out and can list the types of companies sitting alongside it under the umbrella organisation, but if I show that knowledge off he might get suspicious.
He turns to face me. ‘Didn’t you do any research? Or ask the agency to brief you?’
I take a deep breath, refusing to react to the implied criticism. ‘There wasn’t enough time. The agency gave me the broad outline, but once I accepted the assignment, it was a rush to pack and get across the city. Plus my phone died, so I couldn’t look it up online.’ Liar. I switched to a pay-as-you-go mobile months ago and only have enough credit to make emergency calls to Jess whilst abroad. Raising my eyebrows, I inject gratitude into my tone. ‘So if you wouldn’t mind?’
‘Fair enough.’ He stretches his arms out then drops them, the movement making me aware of how big and broad he is. ‘This weekend is for the AGM,’ annual general meeting I translate silently, ‘of Demetrio International. The organisation has Greek roots but we trade worldwide.’ The car rocks slightly as an articulated lorry roars past.
‘You don’t sound very Greek.’ It pops out.
‘What do you want? Dios and agape mou in darkly accented muttered tones?’
My stomach squelches. That actually sounds quite nice. But it appears to be a sore point. ‘No, of course not. Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it.’
‘No,’ he sighs, ‘I’m sorry for snapping. Anyway, I came to the UK as a child from Corfu, went to boarding school and then on to study at Oxford.’ Which explains his unaccented English. ‘I can speak some Greek. German and French too.’
‘Right.’
‘My grandfather built the original companies, primarily based on shipping, oil and transport.’ As he speaks a crooked smile curves his mouth, making my knickers twang. ‘When he met my grandmother, who’s British, she was a high-ranking army officer. After they married she left the army and had my father and younger sister within a few years but wanted to do something as well as raise children. Together they set up and managed a number of vineyards across Europe, olive farms and some restaurants and bars throughout the Greek islands. That was the start of it.’
‘She was an officer,’ I echo, impressed. The corporate induction information mentions the organisation’s humble beginnings, but I didn’t know his grandmother was in the army. She must have been a tough lady.
‘Yes, but it’s not well known. Pretend you didn’t hear that.’
‘No problem.’ I mime zipping my lips. So he likes his privacy. It must be pretty difficult to achieve. After all, he’s a wealthy, young and dynamic CEO and therefore someone naturally of interest to the press. The David Beckham of the business world. I could be intimidated, but he’s still a person who eats, sleeps and breathes, even if it’s hard to ignore the cut of the sharply tailored suit, hand-crafted leather shoes and healthy sheen of his skin. And that he could probably buy the flat I’m mortgaged to the hilt on a hundred times over.
‘Thank you. So, my father came into the business in his twenties and ran the company alongside my grandfather for over thirty years, expanding the enterprise, until seven years ago when I became CEO. My grandfather retired very late, my father earlier than planned, and they convinced the Board someone in the family should run the company.’ His expression turns grim.
Shifting in my seat to look at him better. ‘Can I ask a question?’
His shoulders tense. ‘It depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On what the question is.’
Wow. Talk about uptight. ‘I wanted to ask how old you are,’ I say easily, ‘but if it’s a national secret, one of those if I tell you I’ll have to kill you pieces of information, please feel free not to answer.’
Opening his mouth, he pauses, then shocks me by throwing his head back and laughing. It’s a low, rumbling sound and does funny things to my insides. As he chuckles, the tension seems to leak from him.
‘No, it’s not a national secret,’ he murmurs, giving me a wide, genuine, ridiculously sexy smile, ‘and I can tell you, but I won’t have to kill you. So if you’re looking for a merciful death to escape this assignment I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.’
‘What a shame,’ I drawl, playing along. Then freeze. God, are we flirting? I mustn’t, I can’t, even if it’s accidental. I’ve been here before and look how it turned out.
Disaster.
Major bloody disaster.
No, it’s fine. I shake my head internally. He’s just being nice and I’m doing the same. ‘So, how old are you?’ I’d put him at thirty-five when he’s scowling and twenty-seven when he’s smiling. Funny how a change of emotion can make such a difference to someone’s face.
‘Thirty-one. Why?’
‘You said you’d been in charge for seven years, I wondered how old you were when you took over, given the level of responsibility. Twenty-four. Pretty young.’ Ouch. Most people that age are still finding themselves, dabbling around the edges of life, and there he was, running a massive organisation.
Lips compressing, any humour flees. ‘I’m the oldest son and they trusted me,’ he states, face going curiously blank.
I’m intrigued about the story there but it’s none of my business. ‘It wasn’t a criticism, just an observation.’
‘Yes, well, back to the facts. The business has grown more recently to include chains of hotels, casinos, media companies and a small banking arm. The organisation currently employs over ten thousand people.’
Interesting how he refers to it as ‘the organisation’ and doesn’t take personal credit for it, like he’s talking about something someone else has done. But he should be proud. He may not have clawed his way to the top through hard grind, but he’s made the business more successful since taking over and he must work punishing hours for such rapid expansion. The spoilt rich playboy I was worried he might be would surely have run a company into the ground over the years, or at best let it stagnate?
‘Thanks for the summary.’ I cross my legs. ‘So what do you need this weekend?’
‘You’re here to support me, set up presentations, attend meetings, take minutes and so on. Any problems with that?’
‘No, none whatsoever.’ I may be rusty but I’ll manage.
‘Great. Do you need to know anything more right now? It’s just that I need to finish off some emails.’ He waves the tablet at me.
‘No, that’s fine. Go ahead.’
‘Thank you.’
As he turns back to his task, I twist my hands together. This plan has to work. If I don’t get a proper job soon, a move back home is in the offing, along with asking Jess to buy me out of my half of the mortgage, which I know she’ll struggle to do. To my shame I’ve not been able to pay my share for the last two months. She can’t afford to keep propping us up, we both know it – we just haven’t had the conversation yet. I guess we keep hoping something will change, that something good will happen. Maybe this assignment is it?
Blowing out a long breath, I chew my bottom lip. Imagine having to move back in with my parents after so many years of independence. They’ll think they were right all along, that I should never have left the village. I can just picture having to face everyone. They’ll be so smug my adventure to the big city didn’t work out because they all love living in a quaint little corner of the world with traditional values. I shudder at the thought of being on the receiving end of all those pitying looks, the object of gossip. And the thought of leaving London makes me breathless. Before Tony arrived I had a job I loved, a nice flat, a fun social life, dates with creative musicians and jobbing actors, a fantastic circle of friends and great colleagues. Most of that’s gone … I can’t handle losing the last of it.
I wonder what my ex-colleagues are up to. Do they still have the same nights out, the after-hours parties? Despite being manager I was still part of the group, and Kitty (best croupier in the casino, according to her) and I were friends. I worked really hard, sometimes stupidly long hours, but I played hard too. Kitty and I had lots of adventures together, occasionally joined by Jess, and got ourselves into some pretty memorable situations. Walking through the city barefoot in the rain at three in the morning because our high heels were killing us; wearing giant cardboard boxes painted and taped up to look like Rubik’s cubes for a fancy-dress party; playing poker on a random rich guy’s yacht moored up at Canary Wharf. If I have to move back to my parents’, I’ll miss the bright lights of the city, the music and gigs, bustle of people and our laughter, usually fuelled by a mixture of white wine and Cosmos.
There haven’t been any fun nights out in months. I miss them. I glance over at Alex. Fun isn’t a word I’d use to describe him. Okay, so he’s laughed and cracked a couple of smiles and this is a business situation not a social one but still, he’s wound so tight, is so snappy and defensive. Perhaps not surprising given the responsibility he’s had since he was twenty-four – just three years younger than I am now. Maybe he doesn’t get a lot of down time.
I don’t think I’d be ready to take on a role with such massive accountability.Alex is responsible for keeping thousands of people in jobs; it’s a hell of a pressure for one person. No doubt he’s got a great team, but at the end of the day it all comes down to him. Could I do it? Would I want it? Building on a Business Studies NVQ from college, I got a distinction in a distance-learning professional qualification in people management and business administration a few years ago whilst working full-time and it damned near killed me. I loved learning and it helped when applying for the management job, but my social life went into sharp decline as a result. I was constantly turning down dates and cancelling plans in favour of staying in to do research or write assignments.
It made me wonder whether you can hold down a high-level job and still have time for other things, like love and family. None of the guys I dated during that time understood what I was trying to achieve. One of them labelled me a geek, nose stuck in a book when I could be out enjoying myself. He was right, I am a geek, and proud of it, so the stereotype didn’t bother me. The issue was that he didn’t respect my ambition and desire to better myself. Which makes my current situation even more agonising. I loved working hard and contributing to the bottom line of a company, leading and being part of a team. I have to get that back if I can.
Sitting up, I anchor myself in the now. Even if I wouldn’t want to be CEO, there’s clearly an upside – the job must really pay – because our car’s stopping on the edge of a private airstrip. The smooth concrete runway is frosted with ice and surrounded by snow-covered shrubs, grass and miles of empty space. The mega-wealthy really do live in a different world. I expected a charter flight from a regional airport, not a private jet like on Criminal Minds. This is well out of my league, but oh, what a lovely league. Undoing my seatbelt as the car stops, I try to hide my eagerness to get on the plane and look around. There’s still an excited little girl inside the corporate woman.
‘Ready?’ Alex asks, unbuckling his belt.
‘Definitely.’
He smiles and it ignites a tripwire straight to my knickers. Thankfully the driver opens the door so I scramble out the car, handbag clutched to my side.
‘Thank you.’ I nod at the driver, holding my hair back from my face in the battering wind.
‘No problem, Miss Caswell.’
Trailing after him, I shiver as he walks to the rear of the car.
As he pops open the boot lid I reach across him to grab my case but he’s too quick for me, hauling it out onto the concrete. ‘Allow me.’
Acknowledging his win with a wry smile, I watch him lift out a weekend bag, suit carrier and briefcase, before carrying everything over to the awaiting cabin crew.
Climbing from the car, Alex tucks all gadgets away in his pockets and strides over to his driver, clasping the man’s shoulder. ‘Thanks Evan, have a safe journey home and enjoy your long weekend off. Say hello to your wife for me.’
‘I certainly will, sir, on all counts. Thank you.’
‘Good. I’ll see you here on Monday evening?’
‘Yes, I’ll be here. You have a safe journey as well.’ Tipping his cap, he marches back to the car.
Interesting there’s a respectful relationship between the two men. But then, it’s only female employees my temporary boss has a problem with, isn’t it?
Alex walks over to join me as the long black vehicle pulls away smoothly. ‘Ready to go?’
Not at all. My feet are stuck to the floor. If I get on the sleek-looking plane, that’s it, no going back. Plan B. Temporary PA. In Barcelona. Undercover ex-employee. Working with the hot CEO. But what would I say if I don’t go? To Alex? More, to myself, for not at least trying? So I take a deep breath and reply, ‘Sure.’
He points at the metal steps set against the side of the luxury plane. ‘You first.’
‘Thank you.’ Careful to watch my footing as I clank upwards, I pray I won’t slip and tumble backwards on to Alex. There’s an inherent clumsiness running through me like a current and I’ve no wish for it to be on show this weekend. It’s something I can normally keep under wraps, but my reactions this afternoon have been anything but normal so far.
I duck under the door frame as I step aboard. At five foot nine I usually feel like a towering behemoth, especially since I hit that height at thirteen and curves erupted all over the place. It doesn’t help that adorably petite women seem to occupy the world. Wearing high heels makes me even taller but they give me confidence. I ignore the little voice inside my head whispering Alex is a good few inches over six foot and I don’t feel like a behemoth standing beside him.
Entering the main cabin, I hold back the uncool gasp longing to break free, but my eyes feel a metre wide and my mouth drops open. When people talk about the height of luxury, they’re not kidding. Plush velvety black carpet gives the cabin a cosy feel and a dozen matching executive chairs and small, expensive-looking tables are bolted to the floor in three groups, instead of the narrow, torturous seats on the planes I usually fly on. The plastic walls are white with the bottom half navy, almost the same shade as Alex’s eyes. Everywhere I look there are lights and sockets.
Alex squeezes past me, oblivious to the tiny space between us. Shame I can’t say the same. My nipples stand to attention at the waves of heat emanating from his body and my cheeks flush. It’s become a humiliating habit in the last hour.
‘Bathroom through there,’ Alex nods to a narrow door across the cabin, ‘why don’t you sit, get comfortable?’ His tone is offhand. ‘Just like all the rest.’ He mumbles beneath his breath, looking furious.
‘Pardon?’
‘Nothing.’ He shakes his head. ‘Just … sit down and strap up. We’re taking off soon.’
‘Please don’t tell me to shut up!’ But I drop into one of the padded chairs anyway and glare at him.
Something in his gaze flickers and he strides over to crouch down in front of me, putting his hands to my waist. What the hell is he doing?
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