Overtime in the Boss's Bed
Nicola Marsh
Penniless in her pencil skirt…Desperate for money, dancer Starr Merriday is forced to hang up her ballet shoes and accept a job as a PA – even if the last time she saw her new boss…she was naked in his bed! Her professional pumps and pencil skirt can’t hide her top-to-toe blush at remembering their blisteringly hot night together!But she won’t let that suppress her sassy spirit – after all, unbuttoning her blouse is next on her boss’s agenda. So she will switch on her out-of-office and go to a meeting – in the boss’s bed!
‘Shall we start the interview?’
It was impossible to stand there and pretend only to view him as a prospective boss when she’d seen him naked.
‘Yes, right. The interview.’
Inwardly cringing at her awkward response, she dropped her hands to her sides, flexed her fingers, shook them out, mustered her best stage face.
‘What do you want to know? My typing speed? PC skills? Microsoft literate? Multi-tasker?’
Heck, she was babbling, sounding more moronic by the second, while his expression remained impassive, his gaze focussed on her with frightening clarity, and she suddenly knew she’d been a fool to mistake this man for anything other than an imperturbable, composed businessman who’d let nothing stand in the way of getting what he wanted.
‘I need a PA.’
And she needed money desperately.
A win-win for them both.
If she could just forget the fact she’d had the best sex of her life with him.
Praise for Nicola Marsh:
About Nicola’s Modern Heat™,
TWO-WEEK MISTRESS:
‘Funny, witty and sensually enticing, TWO-WEEK MISTRESS by Nicola Marsh left me laughing at the antics of her characters while enjoying the sensuality of this novel.’
—www.cataromance.com
About BIG-SHOT BACHELOR, also from Modern Heat™:
‘Nicola Marsh writes a down-to-earth romance that will appeal to everyone…’
—www.cataromance.com
About INHERITED: BABY, from Mills & Boon® Romance:
‘Awe-inspiring characters combined with an incredible story, INHERITED: BABY by Nicola Marsh tells the story of a woman’s inspirational spirit to live her life her way, who is able to succeed in getting the man of her dreams…’
—www.cataromance.com
Overtime in the Boss’s Bed
By
Nicola Marsh
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Nicola Marsh has always had a passion for writing and reading. As a youngster, she devoured books when she should have been sleeping, and later kept a diary whose content could be an epic in itself! These days, when she’s not enjoying life with her husband and son in her home city of Melbourne, she’s at her computer, creating the romances she loves, in her dream job. Visit Nicola’s website at www.nicolamarsh.com for the latest news of her books.
Nicola also writes for Mills & Boon® Romance.
Recent titles by the same author:
MARRIAGE: FOR BUSINESS OR PLEASURE?
TWO WEEKS IN THE MAGNATE’S BED
THE BOSS’S BEDROOM AGENDA
HOT NIGHTS WITH A PLAYBOY
This one’s for my dancing buddy Jen. Remember how we used to burn up the floor at Bobby McGees and the Geebung? Fun memories…
CHAPTER ONE
THE BRONZE GOD WAS NAKED.
Gloriously, eye-poppingly naked, every muscle flexing and bunching and glistening as he carried a tray laden with cocktails and champagne flutes through the crowd.
‘You can close your jaw now, before it hits the floor.’
Starr Merriday blinked once, twice, the spell broken as she tore her reluctant gaze away from the waiter and frowned at her best friend Kit.
‘It’s your fault. You brought me to this den of iniquity.’
Kit wiggled her eyebrows suggestively, her chuckle positively wicked. ‘Yeah, and you’re loving every minute of it.’
‘It does have its benefits.’
Starr’s gaze strayed to the ripped waiter again, lingered on his pecs, the light smattering of dark hair across his broad chest, dipped to his navel, the arrowing of hair beneath it…
‘Jeez, what does a girl have to do to get a drink in this place?’
Kit smirked. ‘Bit hot under the collar?’
‘More like hot all over,’ she muttered, thankful the waiters were clothed from the waist down, beyond thankful Kit had chosen one of her entrepreneurial mother’s infamous cocktail parties for her farewell.
Nothing like a roomful of semi-naked guys to get a girl’s mind off the fact she was jobless, homeless and penniless.
‘Don’t look now, but I think he’s checking me out.’
Kit’s subtle head-jerk towards Mr Pecs had Starr darting a quick glance in his direction, just in time to see him stumble, the tray skating on his palms like a penguin on ice, sloshing cocktails everywhere, the bulk of them landing on the guy next to him.
Sympathy warred with mirth as she watched the waiter try to mop up the mess, the guy in the suit waving him away with a frown.
The cocktail-wearing recipient looked out of place, suited and buttoned-up in a roomful of semi-naked guys, and she grinned as he fiddled with the knot of his tie, straightening it, aiming for cool, despite having several mojitos and a magnum of champagne dumped on his Armani duds.
‘Yeah, he was definitely checking me out. Just one look and the guy does that. Back soon, hun. Off to mingle—find me a less clumsy one.’
Kit headed for the bar—and a tempting conglomeration of buffed waiters—while Starr found her gaze drawn back to the suit.
She’d been too busy ogling the waiters to notice the other guys in the room, but now she had…Slick guys in suits weren’t her thing, but there was something about this guy. The way he stood, tall, proud, indomitable, despite a cocktail-dousing, his class obvious, his imperious gaze scanning the crowd…clashing with hers.
Startled, she dropped her gaze, surprised by the lick of heat lapping her skin after their momentary eye-lock.
The smart thing to do would be to quickstep out of here. But considering the shambles her life was at the moment, she hadn’t done the smart thing in ages.
Curious to see if her inexplicable reaction to the stranger had been a result of a testosterone overdose from being in this room too long, she slowly raised her gaze to his. The moment of impact was just as cataclysmic as the first time.
He arched an eyebrow, his dark eyes filled with questions she had no hope of answering, the sardonic twist of his mouth tempting her to march right over there and set him straight.
She wasn’t interested.
His lips curved in a decadent smile, shattering that particular delusion.
Damn, she was a sucker.
The only reason she’d come tonight was to avoid mulling. She’d already done the pity party earlier that week, complete with crashing cymbals, tooting horns and a banner that had read ‘Fallen Starr’, reminding her of the utter mess she now faced, courtesy of one lousy decision.
She’d fallen for the wrong guy.
Never again.
So what the hell was she doing, standing here, en-couraging some serious eye contact flirtation with absolutely no intention of following through?
Sculling the rest of her drink, she headed for the glass-enclosed balcony fifty storeys above Sydney. Maybe some fresh air might give her a little perspective. Yeah, right, and a miracle might drop from the heavens too.
Leaving the jam-packed room, laden with expensive perfume and excessive testosterone, she stepped onto the balcony, grateful for its solitude, impressed by the view.
No doubt about it—Kit’s mum knew how to throw top shindigs. Sydney came alive at night, shimmied and salsa-ed and samba-ed from dusk to dawn, and she loved it—loved every vibrant inch. As she watched a Manly ferry leave Circular Quay on a journey it made many times a day, the lights of the bustling city twinkling far beneath, the impact of leaving slammed into her hard, hurting despite the week she’d had to adjust.
Sydney was her past, Melbourne her future.
‘Running away?’
The deep voice washed over her, and she shivered despite the balmy summer evening as he stepped in front of her—so much more striking up close, so much more appealing, so much more everything.
She couldn’t see the colour of his eyes, or read their expression out here in the shadows, but there was no mistaking the amusement lacing his smoother-than-velvet voice.
He’d followed her out here, was trying to get a rise out of her, and while her first instinct was to tell him where to go, she swallowed it.
She’d never been one to wallow, and while her life as she knew it had just been flushed down the toilet and discharged into Sydney Harbour, there was no time like the present to test her new male-immunity programme.
‘Just needed some fresh air. What’s your excuse?’
‘Too many people back there—’ he jerked his thumb towards the packed room ‘—and the only interesting ones are out here.’
‘Smooth.’
‘I like to think so.’
‘Also terribly lame.’
He crooked his finger, and she inadvertently leaned forward.
‘Care to help me improve my technique?’
‘Nope. Not in the mood for meaningless small talk and pitiable one-liners.’
He laughed. ‘How about a meaningful exchange?’
‘Not interested, mister.’
She jabbed at his chest, realising her mistake a second too late as she connected with a hard wall of tempting male flesh.
His mouth twitched as she removed her finger tout de suite, the initial electricity zap from touching him fading into a residual tingle.
‘Point taken.’
He didn’t budge, didn’t move a muscle even as she belatedly realised a big, strong, he-man like him would see her reluctance as a challenge.
‘Doesn’t mean I’m going to back down, though.’
She raised an eyebrow, surprised by his commanding tone. Who was this guy anyway?
‘Look, unless you have a dream job in Melbourne’s premier dance company to coerce me into listening to any more of your drivel, beat it.’
Her feistiness didn’t deter him. He folded his arms, propped himself against the balcony railing, his expression intrigued.
‘You need a job?’
‘Oh, yeah.’
Desperately. Dance companies in Sydney were out, so she’d booked a ticket to Melbourne, ready to audition her little tap shoes off in order to find a job—any job—and start rebuilding her life.
‘I’ve got a vacancy.’
She screwed up her nose, her withering glare doing little to discourage him if his confident grin was any indication.
‘Let me guess. Cleaner? Cook? Shoe-shiner?’
‘Close. I’m after a Girl Friday.’
‘Too bad I’m a weekend kind of gal.’
He leaned closer, heart-stoppingly closer, and as she submerged the urge to bury her face in that broad chest she took a steadying breath, only to be bombarded with an intoxicating blend of fresh limes, tequila and straw-berries. Fruity and tart, a heavenly cocktail mix, shaken and stirred, and served by one hell of a guy.
‘You always this brash?’
‘You always this forward with someone you don’t know?’
‘Easily rectified.’
He held out his hand, leaving her no option but to take it, gritting her teeth against the insane surge of heat sizzling up her arm.
‘Callum Cartwright. CEO of Cartwright Corporation. In desperate need of a temp PA ’til I find a long-term replacement.’
She slipped her hand from his, dropped it to her side, curled and uncurled her fingers several times to eradicate the residual tingling.
‘Starr Merriday. Dancer, not PA.’
‘Too bad.’
He slid a card from his top pocket, handed it to her.
‘In case you change your mind.’
With an annoyed huff, she shook her head. ‘You just don’t give up, do you?’
‘Not in my vocabulary.’
She toyed with the card, flipping it between her thumb and index finger, dying to glance at it but not wanting to give him the satisfaction.
‘Let me guess. You’re one of those demanding, controlling, determined bosses who won’t take no for an answer.’
An odd expression she couldn’t decipher creased his brow for a second before vanishing.
‘You don’t get to be the best by settling. For anything.’
Excitement rippled through her—whether from his drive, his power or his proximity, she had no idea.
‘I’ll keep that in mind.’
‘Sure I can’t tempt you?’
She could play it safe, give him a boring brush-off. But she was through playing it safe. Look where safe had got her for the last few years.
Uh-uh. Safe was for being the best at her job, staying loyal to one dance company for seven years, trusting her partner. And look where she’d landed anyway.
Forget safe.
‘That depends.’ She leaned into his personal space, her reeling senses on overload. ‘What’s on offer?’
This close, she could see his eyes were dark—deliciously dark and enigmatic—though she didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out the mystery behind them right now.
He was turned on: pupils dilated, eyes wide, pheromones creating a sensual cocoon around them.
The buzz she’d experienced when jabbing his chest had returned tenfold, multiplying and stultifying and defying her to take a risk.
‘You don’t want the job, so what do you want?’
She wanted to push the boundaries, to flirt, to feel feminine and desirable and wanted—all sadly lacking in her last relationship.
But was it worth inviting a potential one-night stand on her last night in Sydney?
For one drawn-out, exciting, tension-fraught moment, with Callum Cartwright staring into her eyes, she was sorely tempted.
CHAPTER TWO
COURTING a potential business partner was the only reason Callum had attended another boring cocktail party tonight.
He’d made the requisite circle of the room, shaken hands, slapped backs, and had been counting down the minutes deemed polite enough before leaving when that klutz of a waiter had bumped into him.
He’d been less than impressed—until he’d locked eyes with the gorgeous blonde on the other side of the room, and suddenly his drenched shirt hadn’t mattered, the evening had not been so mundane.
He was a firm believer in following instincts. His gut reaction had made him millions in the financial arena, where Cartwright Corporation ruled.
So when she’d fled, he’d followed.
She’d verbally retreated. He’d verbally sparred.
And he’d been getting somewhere too. Her flashing eyes and lush mouth had been at odds with her defensive body language…until this.
Fishing his vibrating mobile phone out of his pocket, he glanced at the caller ID and begged off the luscious blonde, asking her to wait for him as he headed for the far side of the balcony.
He never turned off his mobile phone—the height of rudeness, as his last PA had kept reminding him. But then she didn’t run a corporation and control billions of dollars. The money market never slept, and neither did he these days.
He hadn’t slept in a long time—not since the fateful night that had catapulted him into this business in the first place.
And that was why he had to take this call.
Not because it would make or break Cartwright Corporation, but because it was from the one person who understood exactly what had happened that night, and was still dealing with it in his own way.
Taking a deep breath, he stabbed the answer button. ‘Rhys, how’s it going?’
‘Not bad, bro. You?’
‘Same old. Where are you?’
‘Japan for a few more days, then I head for the States.’
‘You coming home eventually?’
‘We’ll see.’
A resounding no, as usual. While he’d thrown himself into the family business after the accident, Rhys had fled. Studying interstate, escaping overseas once his degree came through, avoiding Melbourne and everything being a Cartwright entailed.
Callum envied him.
He’d been like that once, a lifetime ago, when he’d been carefree and selfish and irresponsible.
When he’d still had an older brother.
The Cartwright boys, people had called them, lumping them all in together. They’d been a team—before the accident, before Archie died, before their lives had been turned upside down.
‘Where are you?’
‘Sydney. Some boring cocktail party for work.’
Rhys paused, the faint static doing little to disguise the concern in his voice.
‘Better than being alone tonight?’
Callum mumbled a noncommittal response, rammed his free hand into his pocket, and deliberately relaxed his tense shoulders.
He didn’t want to discuss this.
He never wanted to discuss it.
Talking about what had happened this night fourteen years ago wouldn’t change it. Nothing would.
‘I’m hanging out with some mates tonight.’
‘Good.’
Silence stretched, as it always did on their rare phone calls. They didn’t have much to say to one another these days, what with most topics invariably leading to the past and what they’d done.
He glanced at his watch, cleared his throat. ‘Do you need anything? Money?’
‘I’m all right, but thanks.’
‘Okay, then. Gotta go.’
‘Cal?’
‘Yeah?’
He heard the faintest hiss of breath before Rhys said, ‘It wasn’t your fault.’
Callum disconnected in a hurry, the gut-wrenching twist of sorrow deep in his gut telling him otherwise.
It was his fault—every shocking, mind-numbing moment of that night fourteen years ago.
He could forget most days, chase away his demons by submerging himself in business until the figures blurred before his eyes, but on nights like this it all came rushing back in an agonising avalanche of horrific memories.
Rubbing a weary hand across his eyes, he shoved the phone back in his pocket, turned, scanned the crowd for the blonde.
She’d vanished.
He wanted to pick up where they’d left off, to continue their flirtation. She’d be a firecracker, he could tell. All sass and mouth. Just the type of distraction he needed right now.
Tonight he wanted to forget.
Everything.
He’d thrown the job offer out there as a challenge, though a small part of him had hoped she’d take him up on it. He needed a fill-in PA desperately. The only temp agency he trusted had no one available for eight weeks and he was seriously floundering.
Even a beautiful dancer, with a smart mouth, a movie star name and a body built for ballroom rather than clerical, would be better than his current predicament.
He scanned the crowd, the entrance, finally spotting her beneath a towering indoor plant near the lobby.
He should leave, head back to his hotel, find solace in a pricey single malt Scotch. Instead he found his feet veering towards her, and at that moment she glanced up, tossed her blonde hair and pinned him with a curious stare.
The impact of those large blue eyes slugged him all the way to his toes.
She glowed with vitality, from the tips of her silver-painted toenails to the top of her mussed, just-out-of-bed hair.
She wasn’t his type—far from it. But there was something about her, something about her boldness, that reached to him on an instinctual level.
‘Is it too much to hope you’re waiting for me?’
‘Way too much.’
‘I asked you to wait around for me back there.’
Shrugging, she flicked a less-than-impressed stare his way. ‘Guess I don’t always do as I’m told—so sue me.’
Oh, yeah, she was a firecracker all right. Exactly what he needed tonight: hot, feisty, sassy, a world away from wallowing in memories he’d rather forget.
‘Yet you’re still here?’
She cocked her head to one side, studying him. ‘I was waiting to say goodbye to a friend, but I think she’s ditched me for one of those hunky waiters.’
‘What? Those fake-tanned, muscle-bound Neanderthals?’
Her glossed lips curved into a smile and he couldn’t tear his gaze away.
She had the most beautiful mouth he’d ever seen: full lips, even white teeth, and a smile that could make a man forget where he was and why.
‘Naked himbos not your thing?’
‘Himbos?’
‘Male equivalent of bimbo.’
She rolled her eyes, her tolerant expression reading don’t you know anything? as he chuckled.
‘Looks like she’s a no-show.’
She pushed off from the monstrous terracotta pot where she’d propped herself, partially hidden amid the lush foliage of a palm, and it hit him all over again how utterly beguiling this woman was.
It had little to do with the sexily mussed blonde hair hanging halfway down her back, the wide luminous blue eyes or the saucy smile curving her lips, and more to do with the aura of vibrancy that shimmered and danced around her. Intriguing for a guy like him, who focussed on business all the time.
He’d never met anyone like her—only dated well-dressed, well-heeled, well-put-together socialites who played things cool.
Starr Merriday was hot, the antithesis of every woman he’d ever been with, and he couldn’t walk away.
‘Let me take you home. Make sure you get there safely.’
He’d expected an instant rebuttal and waited, captivated by her inherent beauty, her natural grace, her spunk.
He wanted to demand she let him drive her home, give him more time with her. His last PA had called it his God Complex—his need to control everything and everyone around him. He preferred to see it as staying on top of things. He was a guy used to being in charge and liked it that way.
‘You want to take me home, huh?’
She cocked a hip, boldly provocative.
‘That’s what I said.’
She worried a gloriously full bottom lip for a moment, and he clamped down on the urge to do the same.
He wanted her.
Irrationally.
Madly.
Passionately.
With a brisk nod, she tucked her hand into his elbow.
‘Fine. Have it your way.’
Gritting his teeth against the urge to grab her hand and make a run for the lifts leading to the hotel’s exquisite rooms, he took a step forward, surprised when she didn’t fall in beside him.
‘Where to?’
‘This way.’
He didn’t trust her mischievous smile, the wicked sparkle in her eyes, and when she led him away from the monstrous glass entrance and towards the lifts, the rush of blood pounding in his ears signalled he was in way over his head with this one.
‘You’re staying here?’
She nodded, her smile widening. ‘Just for tonight. My friends’ shout for my last night in Sydney.’
Where you headed?’
‘Melbourne.’
‘Great city.’
He should know. He’d taken it by storm years ago, had built his fortune there.
‘You know I wasn’t joking about that job offer, right?’
‘I think we can find more fun things to talk about than my unemployed status.’
She stabbed at the lift button, raised her head to watch the numbers descend from ten to zero while he studied her.
He wanted her. Now. Wanted to lose himself in her, lose himself in the pleasure of hot, wild sex, lose focus of everything but her.
The doors pinged open. The lift’s interior was a dazzling gold and chrome combination, with mirrors reflecting their images, showing a mixture of excitement and anticipation.
She stepped in, tugged on his hand. ‘You coming?’
These days he always did the right thing, the cautious thing, the sensible, well-thought-out thing. But in that instant, with her eyes insolent and her lips curved into a brazen challenge, he did the thing he’d used to be famous for in his youth.
‘Hell, yeah.’
Without releasing her hand, he stepped into the lift as she stabbed at the twenty-five button, the adrenalin rush of doing something out of character making his head spin faster than the lift’s acceleration.
‘You’re awfully quiet.’
‘Just thinking.’
‘About?’
He pinned her with the glare that made most of his employees quiver.
‘What it is about you that’s so fascinating.’
She batted her eyelashes, her coquette’s smile adorably tempting. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
‘You should.’
‘So, have you figured me out yet?’
He trailed a fingertip down her cheek, tracing the soft curve.
‘I’m getting there.’
His fingertip reached the end of the trail, lingered on her jaw, savouring the soft skin. ‘You’re unique.’
‘And?’
‘And I want to know more.’
The bell pinged again as the doors slid soundlessly open.
‘I want to spend all night discovering more.’
He held his breath as she reached up, hooked a finger under his collar and tugged gently, bringing him tantalisingly close to her kissable lips.
‘That can be arranged.’
CHAPTER THREE
STARR fumbled with the key card to her suite, sliding it through the slot three times before Callum placed his hand over hers.
‘Let me.’
He tried the card again, the tiny button lit green, and she yanked on the handle, stumbled through the door. She was never this gauche, this flustered, but riding up in the elevator with this incredibly sexy man had been pure torture.
They’d barely touched, their hands simply brushing when she’d first punched in her floor, yet the tension between them had been indescribable.
Her skin prickled, her muscles clenched, and her pulse pounded in a rhythm she hadn’t experienced for ages.
She’d been a one-man woman too long. A woman who’d been sadly neglected in the bedroom. A woman who wasn’t terribly impressed with the supposed joys of sex.
Time to reawaken her flirty side.
As he reached out, his steady hand resting firmly in the small of her back, burning a sizzling path straight through the thin silk of her dress, zapping her in places in desperate need of some serious zapping, she could barely restrain herself from launching at him.
‘Come in. Make yourself at home.’
She silently cringed at her moronic, trite welcome, and the corners of his mouth curved upwards, creasing his right cheek with a delectable dimple.
‘I intend to.’
Flinging her sparkly evening bag on the hall table, she trailed her hand along the shiny glass surface, rearranged the fronds of a floral arrangement, fiddled with the miniature alcohol bottles on top of the mini-bar, while he stood just inside the doorway, looking utterly cool and controlled and scrumptious.
Deliberately stilling her hands, she clasped them in front of her before realising how prim that looked, quickly releasing them and settling for propping them on the table behind her.
‘I’m clueless as to the etiquette here. Do I offer you a drink? A chocolate bar? Me?’
His dimple deepened. ‘The last, thanks.’
Her heart leaped, and she clenched the table so tight the mini-bar bottles rocked and rattled. One tumbled.
‘Shaken or stirred?’
Laughing, he stalked towards her. Her pulse accelerated with each step. He stopped inches away from her personal space, his intentions clear in the dark depths of his eyes. The simmering heat sparked a response deep within her.
‘Relax.’
He reached out, ran a fingertip down her bare arm, and she shivered in anticipation.
‘Easy for you to say.’
‘You’re nervous?’
‘A little.’
‘Don’t be.’
The trail of his fingertip ended at her hand and he captured it, intertwined his fingers with hers, giving her a much needed anchor in a suddenly stormy sea of passion.
His hand engulfed hers, strong, capable, and a lick of heat shot up her arm. She searched her scrambled brain for the right words—any words that would sound remotely sane and nothing like ravish me now, I’m yours.
‘I can leave if you want.’
Cue the exit music. Cue the curtain call.
But not before they’d had a rousing performance.
Reaching out with her free hand, she bunched a fistful of his soft cotton shirt and tugged. Hard.
‘I don’t want you to go—’
He crushed his mouth to hers, snatching the rest of her words, the rest of her breath, in an explosion of heat and passion and driving need.
She clung to him, desperate to get closer, elated when he hauled her into his arms and backed her up against the nearest wall.
Wrapping her legs around him, she gasped at the bulge pressing against her core, her pelvis moving of its own volition, eager for more, demanding satisfaction.
‘Oh, yeah,’ she murmured, as he cupped her butt, moved back and forth, rubbing against her, teasing her, making her wild with wanting him.
He tore his mouth from hers, his passion-glazed stare mirroring hers.
‘This is crazy.’
‘Yeah, crazy…’
Resting his forehead on hers, he shook his head. ‘I don’t do impulsive stuff like this.’
‘Me either.’
Sliding her hands up from his chest, to cradle his face and push it back until she could look him in the eye, she knew she couldn’t stop this.
She didn’t want to.
The old Starr had crashed to earth around the time she’d walked in on Sergio, in their apartment, in bed with another woman.
Time to say farewell to her old life. Time for the new Starr to rise and shine brightly. Starting with losing herself for one incredible night with a hot guy.
‘What do you want to do?’
‘This.’
She didn’t second-guess her decision, didn’t give it another thought as she drew his face back to hers and plastered her lips to his, arching her pelvis, locking her legs tighter around his waist and squeezing.
His low, guttural groan ripped the air as he deepened the kiss, ravaging her mouth, their tongues mating in a sensuous dance as old as the waltz.
Long, hot, moist French kisses went on for ever, bringing her to the edge without him laying a finger anywhere near her throbbing core.
Tension tightened within her body, built, climbed, until she was boneless with desire. She clung to him as he left her mouth, his lips trailing downwards, nipping her erect nipples through the thin silk of her dress. His hands toyed with the edge of her panties beneath her bunched skirt.
Clamping her knees around his hips, she groaned, arched upwards—demanding more, demanding everything he had to give.
‘If you keep making sounds like that, this isn’t going to last long.’
‘Fast is good,’ she bit out as he nibbled her neck. She grabbed his hand from her butt and guided it between their bodies. ‘Hard and fast.’
He tensed, every magnificent inch of him straining towards her. ‘You sure?’
‘Sure…Ooh…yeah…’
Holding on tight, he moved her from the wall to a nearby chair, rested her butt on the padded edge before leaning back to devour her with his hungry gaze.
‘You’re gorgeous,’ he said, his husky tone bordering on reverent as he made quick work of the buttons holding her dress together, almost ripping it in his haste to get her naked.
She quivered with anticipation as he let out a long, low whistle, snapping the front clasp on her bra, pushing it aside before ducking his head to feast on her.
First the right breast, then the left. He licked and suckled and laved until her head thrashed, her hips arched and her hands delved between them, eager to feel him inside her. Now.
‘Wow.’
Her hand briefly encountered an erection, a very large erection, and then he pulled back.
‘You want fast? I’m assuming not that fast?’
She laughed, amazed they were trading banter as if they’d known each other a lifetime.
Sex with Sergio had been lacklustre, had never given her the true intimacy she craved. Not that this mind-blowing foreplay with a guy she’d just met could be classed as intimate, but there was something about him that set her at ease, despite the fact she was almost naked in front of him.
Reaching up, she scraped her nails lightly down his chest.
‘I want you. Now.’
‘Decisive. I like that.’
He tugged her panties off, delved his fingers into her slick heat and pleasured her until she screamed his name. Twice.
‘You’re so hot,’ he murmured, reaching into his back pocket, pulling a condom out of his wallet and sheathing himself before she’d even realised he’d ditched the pants.
Eyeing his impressive arousal, she said, ‘So are you.’
His blistering stare never left hers as he slid into her, inch by exquisite inch, until he filled her, fulfilled her.
‘Jeez…’
He braced himself over her, moved out a fraction, back in, the delicious erotic friction sparking fire as her hips bucked, her insides clenched.
With a low moan he drove into her, again and again and again, harder, faster, his breathing ragged as her hands dug into his hips, urging him on.
This time her orgasm smashed into her with the force of a Sydney hailstorm and she arched upwards, her mouth slamming into his as he tensed and exploded in his climax.
His barely audible expletive echoed her thoughts, echoed what they’d just done.
She’d just had mind-blowing sex with a virtual stranger.
The best sex of her life.
A life which was out of control—which explained why she’d done this.
What she couldn’t explain was the compulsion to do it all over again. Repeatedly.
Holding her close, he strummed her back and she closed her eyes, blindsided by the yearning to have him hold her and do this all night long.
‘I should leave,’ he said.
He should.
But she didn’t want him to—didn’t want to spend her last night in the only city she’d ever truly called home alone.
Leaning back, she cupped his cheek, looked him in the eye.
‘Don’t go.’
CHAPTER FOUR
STARR stared at the rumpled business card clutched in her hand and reread the address twice, before hoisting her backpack higher on her shoulder and pushing through the wrought-iron gate—the side gate, which would have been imposing in itself if it hadn’t been positioned next to the hugest pair of intricately carved black iron gates she’d ever seen.
Some place, she thought, straining for a glimpse of the house as she strolled up the hedged garden path.
Sydney Harbour was lined with posh suburbs, with mega-million mansions vying for the best views and highest position, but from what she’d seen of the swanky Melbourne suburb of Toorak, it had its fair share of ritzy manors too.
She’d once dreamed of living in a place like this—around the time she’d scored the coveted lead dancer role at Bossa Nova. Ironic that now she might be working in one.
With her résumé and reputation she should have waltzed into a top dancing role in Melbourne. But Sergio’s vengeance knew no bounds, and the few doors she’d tentatively knocked on had been well and truly slammed in her face.
He’d been at fault, unable to keep his tights hiked up while getting it on with a fellow dancer, and she’d gladly left him—yet she was the bad guy in all of this?
Prima donna. She should have left him a long time ago—had chastised herself countless times since for sticking around so long for the convenience of having a great apartment within walking distance of work, a partner who understood the demands of being a dancer, and a guy she felt comfortable around.
Waste of time and money, considering she’d ended up paying the rent while he invested in a new dance company for them.
He’d promised her stardom and she’d let her ego get the better of her—had ended up almost broke when she’d walked out on the jerk.
No home, no money and no dance prospects explained why she was here.
Now all she had to do was go through with it.
Battling a surge of bitterness, she picked up her pace, rounded a corner and caught her first glimpse of the mansion.
Absolutely breathtaking.
She’d devoured Jane Austen novels as a kid, and standing in the shade of towering hedges, staring at the grandeur, she could have sworn she’d stepped into the pages of Pride and Prejudice.
The house—though how anything this size could remotely be called a house—sprawled across a halfacre, its polished windows glittering in the morning sun, its pristine cream walls were blinding. Balconies dotted the upstairs rooms—elaborate twisted iron that accentuated the simplicity of the façade.
Classic, elegant, a grand old dame you couldn’t help but admire. If the house was a dance, it would be an elegant waltz, gliding into the present from a bygone era, demanding recognition, admiration.
I could work here, she thought, wriggling her backpack into position before continuing down the path, hoping this interview went well.
She might not want this job but she needed it—desperately.
Admiring the shining marble of the front steps, she traipsed up to the front door, stabbed at the intercom button. A crackly voice filtered through the speaker, ‘Around the back.’
Great. He wanted to make sure she knew her place right from the start. With a resigned huff, she followed the sandstone paved path to the rear.
If the front of the house had left her gob-smacked, the rear came a close second as she spied an Olympic-sized in-ground pool, a tennis court, a gazebo, and a terrace twice the size of the stage at the Sydney Opera House.
A lone figure sat a table on the terrace, phone glued to one ear, free hand hovering over a laptop keyboard.
He didn’t glance up as she dumped her backpack and tripped up the steps. She waited for him to finish his call, forcing her feet to settle as she realised she was enpointe, a nervous reaction she’d had since she’d first started ballet at five years of age.
When he flung the mobile on the table and didn’t glance up she cleared her throat, took several steps forward, hating how her knees wobbled a tad.
‘Thanks for seeing me.’
Callum stood, turned towards her, his lips thin, compressed, at odds with her memory of how warm and soft and sensual they’d felt against hers.
‘Good to see you again, Starr.’
His low, modulated tone reeked of formality, without a hint of what they’d shared.
‘Though I must say I’m surprised you called.’
‘Why? You gave me your business card, offered me a job.’
‘One you scoffed at, if I recall.’
Hating his coolness, she squared her shoulders. ‘Circumstances change. I’m interested in the position.’
His mouth quirked. ‘Oh, really?’
Heck, she had stepped into a Jane Austen novel, complete with her very own Mr Darcy: pompous, arrogant, and way too gorgeous despite the urge to slap him upside the head.
‘Is the job still available?’
‘Very available.’
There it was—the first hint of something more than a job interview, a subtle reminder of what they’d shared laced through his smoother-than-caramel voice.
And in that instant it all came flooding back. Every magical moment of their night together. Every cataclysmic, erotic detail.
How he’d stroked her to orgasm with his fingers, his tongue.
How he’d made her feel wanton and wicked and alive for the first time in for ever.
How he’d made love to her standing and sitting and in front of the bathroom mirror.
How she hadn’t slept over the last week, replaying every moment of that life-altering night.
Technically, that wasn’t right. Needing a job so badly she was now willing to work with the man she’d had an unforgettable one-night stand with rated right up there with life-altering.
Pressing her fingers to her eyes, she squeezed them shut in an attempt to block him out, blot out the enormity of all this. Spots danced and shimmered before them, and when she finally opened them, peeked between her fingers, her heart sank lower than the splits.
It was impossible to stand here and pretend to only view him as a prospective boss when she’d seen him naked.
‘Shall we start the interview?’
His mouth kicked up into a semi-smile—a simple action that slammed straight into her, its impact just as brutal as she remembered.
‘Yes, right. The interview.’
Inwardly cringing at her awkward response, she dropped her hands to her side, flexed her fingers, shook them out, mustered her best stage face.
‘What do you want to know? My typing speed? PC skills? Microsoft literate? Multi-tasker?’
Heck, she was babbling, sounding more moronic by the second, while his expression remained impassive. His gaze focussed on her with frightening clarity, and she suddenly knew she’d been a fool to mistake this man for anything other than an imperturbable, composed businessman who’d let nothing stand in his way of getting what he wanted.
‘I need you.’
‘You need me?’
She laughed—a harsh, humourless cackle that startled a nearby magpie, which squawked in protest.
‘By the looks of this place you don’t need anybody. You’re doing quite well on your own.’
His eyes narrowed, appraising, and she squared her shoulders and tossed her hair, glad she’d gone to the trouble of blow-drying it straight.
She needed to present a confident front—something she had no trouble with on the stage. Yet here, now, standing in front of this powerful man, she felt something deep inside quiver at the enormity of what she was doing: aiming to work for a guy who’d initiated her into the joys of sex. In a big way.
‘I need a PA. Desperately.’
And she needed money. Desperately.
A win-win for them both.
If she could just forget the fact she’d had the best sex of her life with him.
She’d weighed her options and chosen to follow up his job offer when she’d withdrawn twenty bucks from an ATM this morning and seen her bank balance slip to under a hundred dollars.
Time for further job-hunting wasn’t a luxury she could afford, and his offer had niggled at the back of her mind—so tempting, so easy to chase up, so available…if only she could get past this. Him. The glorious memory of him naked that constantly flashed across her mind as she stood there.
But memories were worth nothing. The cost of starting a new life in a new city was way beyond her means if she didn’t start working ASAP, and right now she’d be a fool to pass up an opportunity like this for the sake of her inner vixen, cringing with embarrassment at working for a guy she’d bedded.
‘How soon could I start?’
He didn’t blink, didn’t move a muscle, his expression patient, as if dealing with a problem child.
‘Immediately. You have all those skills you mentioned earlier?’
She refrained from rolling her eyes. Not good interview skills for a woman desperate for this job.
‘I’ve temped before, in my early days as a dancer. Helped pay the rent.’
‘Good.’
‘Will I need book-keeping skills? Because—’
‘Your duties may include some housekeeping, alongside the personal assistant stuff.’
‘Housekeeping? But—’
‘You’ll find your remuneration more than fair.’
He ran roughshod over her, treating her like a subordinate, and she bristled, pulling herself up to her impressive five-ten. Pity it wasn’t a patch on his six-four.
‘Thanks. How much—?’
‘And of course you’ll be living in. The cottage will be yours, as part of your salary package, for as long as you work here.’
A cottage? All hers?
The next question died on her lips as she envisaged where she’d been staying for the last week: at a friend of Kit’s, whose ramshackle inner city rental doubled as a local hangout for uni students without a place to sleep.
If she hadn’t been haunted by memories of Callum she wouldn’t have been able to sleep anyway—not with the crush of bodies littering the floor, the constant doorslamming at all hours, and the noisy bodily functions of uni students existing on a diet of stale pizza and baked beans.
She’d crashed there out of desperation and a lack of funds—counted on this job to get her out, depended on it for her first decent meal, something other than instant noodles and a recycled green teabag.
‘You’re welcome to check it out.’
Inwardly shuddering at the thought of any more tasteless noodles and weak tea, she said, ‘Great.’
She followed him past the pool and a glass poolhouse, tucked behind immaculately trimmed hedges, and into a small clearing.
A small clearing that featured the most gorgeous little house she’d ever seen.
A cottage, just as he’d said, but what he’d failed to mention was its lemon rendered exterior trimmed in duck-egg blue, a criss-cross veranda housing a white wicker love-seat with striped cushions, and a border of petunias.
It was beyond cute, and the terracotta-tiled roof, reflecting the sun, seemed to shine directly into her eyes with some secret code that said Live here!
‘Go on—take a look inside.’
He flung open the door and she exhaled, confronted by paradise. Her version of paradise: buttercup walls, their rich gold depths enhanced by honey floorboards, solid pine furniture, pot belly heater, monstrous suede sofas piled high with scattered cushions and a four-poster bed straight out of a fairytale.
This wasn’t just any old ordinary cottage, no sirree. This place was a home—a place where she could start to rebuild her life, a place where she could instigate plans to get where she wanted to go.
‘What do you think?’
‘It’s nice.’
Nice? Nice? The place was a flipping palace compared to the dumpster she’d been living in the last week.
‘So you’ll take the job?’
Ah…the job…The major catch in all this.
If she wanted to live here, she needed to work for His Lordship.
Whom she’d seen in all his naked glory.
Whom she’d kissed and caressed and kept up all night.
Oh, heck.
Folding her arms, she propped herself on the back of the sofa’s headrest, ignoring how comfy it was.
‘Isn’t this at all awkward for you?’
There—she’d said it, flung it out there, trying to get a reaction out of him.
It didn’t work. He didn’t flinch, cringe, move a muscle. His expression was impassive.
‘Why? Because we slept together?’
‘You and I both know there was very little sleeping involved.’
It had been incredible—one of those once-in-a-lifetime nights that you stored away for wistful reminiscing in your old age.
The problem was the object of that fantasy night was standing right in front of her, looking way too cool in his designer duds, and the memory of the magic they’d shared was way too fresh.
‘That night was a little crazy. I guess we both felt like company. Let’s just leave it at that.’
She wanted to push the issue, wanted him to acknowledge there’d been far more between them than two people seeking company, but what was the point?
Nothing she could say or do would erase that night, and it sure wouldn’t make working for him any easier.
Working for him.
She was seriously contemplating working for a guy she couldn’t get out of her head, no matter how hard she tried?
‘Fine, we’ll leave it at that.’
It wasn’t fine, but what choice did she have?
The old cliché ‘beggars can’t be choosers’ sprang to mind, and as she cast a longing look around the cosy cottage she knew what she had to do.
‘I’ll take the job.’
She stuck her hand out to cement her decision, but as his hand enclosed hers, firm, solid, way too warm, she wondered if she still had time to flee.
CHAPTER FIVE
CALLUM strode towards the house without looking back, annoyance lengthening his strides.
He’d miscalculated.
Made a big mistake.
Hiring Starr Merriday should have barely caused a blip in his busy schedule, but the moment he’d seen her standing on the veranda, wearing a black pencil skirt that accentuated her long legs and a tight ivory satin blouse, her hair silky-straight around her perfect heart-shaped face, he’d known.
He was in serious trouble.
The kind of trouble that couldn’t be eradicated with a stab at the delete key. The kind of trouble that couldn’t be fixed with money. The kind of trouble that would gnaw away at his subconscious until it drove him crazy.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
He’d made that job offer on the spur of the moment—had flung it out as part of their sparring on an evening when he would have said and done practically anything to obliterate his memories.
He’d been disconcerted, on edge, considering the date—an anniversary he couldn’t forget no matter how hard he threw himself into work, no matter how many millions he made.
Later, after Rhys’ unsettling phone call, she’d helped him forget. Had blown his mind with hot, wild sex the likes of which he’d never had, and he’d lost himself in her rather than stew.
The way he’d seen it, the sex had guaranteed she’d never call him.
Yet she had. And when he’d answered the phone that morning, heard her voice as husky and sexy as he remembered, he’d agreed to see her.
For business purposes, of course. He was desperate, having had four temps walk out on him in the last twelve months, and he’d reached the end of his tether.
He’d tried every temp agency in Melbourne over the years, had been pushed to the limits every time. The temps they’d sent had covered the spectrum from too timid, too slow, too unmotivated, all the way to over-efficient, controlling, bossy types who’d tried to tell him how to run his business.
He refused to settle for anyone less than capable any more, and only worked with the best agency—the only one he trusted to deliver exactly what he needed. The one that couldn’t send him anyone for eight weeks, apparently.
Then Starr had called, conjuring up an instant reminder of her feisty attitude, her dedication to her dancing in travelling to a new city to follow her dream, and the undeniable spark between them.
He’d had to hire her.
Desperation might have been his primary motivator, but he knew in his gut she’d be as driven to succeed in this job as in the rest of her life.
But working with the woman who for one unforgettable night had brought out an inner wildness he’d gone to great lengths to tame? Crazy.
He’d been determined her reappearance wouldn’t rattle him. Yeah, that had worked.
Rattled? He was beyond rattled. Try unsettled, agitated, perturbed. Seriously perturbed on a level he didn’t want to acknowledge, let alone recognise for what it was.
Seeing her again had resurrected the arguments he’d been having with himself since that night in Sydney: his voice of reason urging him to forget her while he’d contemplated looking her up, the impact she’d made on him versus concentrating on work, the one solid, dependable thing that had got him through the last fourteen years.
That was part of the problem too: his business had suffered because he couldn’t stop thinking about her—something he wouldn’t tolerate.
So he’d come to a decision: wait another week, then instigate steps to find her. If he saw her again, got this ‘thing’ for her out of his system, his equilibrium would be restored and everything back to status quo.
All nice in theory, and he should be thankful she’d approached him, but…he still burned for her. Seeing her in the flesh had dealt a total whammy to the cool, unemotional persona he’d spent half a lifetime developing.
And that didn’t sit well with him. He didn’t have time for emotions, let alone for a woman with a cheeky smile and twinkling eyes.
While he might have solved his PA dilemma, he had a feeling his troubles were only just beginning.
Starr waited until Callum had disappeared up the garden path before plopping onto a lovely squishy sofa and fishing her mobile out of her bag.
Hitting number two on her autodial—number one had been reserved for Sergio, and now stood satisfyingly empty—she waited for Kit to pick up.
‘Hey, guys and dolls, you’ve called Kitty. Leave a message. I’ll get back to you pronto. Toodles.’
After wrenching the phone from her ear and glaring at it, she shouted into Kit’s answering machine.
‘It’s just after eleven so I know you’re there. Pick up or else.’
She waited, counted to ten on her fingers, and had just raised her pinkie when a loud click signalled her nocturnal friend had finally surfaced for the day.
‘Whaddayawant? Can’t a girl get a little beauty sleep—?’
‘Rise and shine, cupcake. Because I have news!’
Kit grunted in response, a loud rattle indicating she’d pulled her Roman blind down further.
‘I found a job.’
Another grunt, followed by a muffled, ‘What?’ as Kit snuggled further under her duvet.
‘It isn’t a dancing position, but the cottage I get to live in is sublime, and I’ll keep job-hunting for something suitable, and—’
‘Who you working for?’
‘Callum Cartwright.’
‘Hot.’
‘Pardon?’
More duvet-ruffling before a much clearer and more exasperated sigh filtered down the phone line. ‘I said hot. Apparently Callum Cartwright is a babe.’
‘That’s not the problem.’
‘Problem?’
‘He’s the guy from the party.’
‘What party—? Ooooh! That party. Working for a sexy boss. Putting in some serious overtime. Lucky you.’
‘Lucky? I have to act all professional and organised and immune, when all I can think about is—’
‘How hot he was in the sack?’ Kit let rip with a big fake sniffle. ‘Boo-hoo.’
Starr smiled and tapped the phone.
‘Hello? Looking for a little sympathy here. A little Ooh, you poor thing, Starr, having to work for a guy you feel uncomfortable around.
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