Sleeping With the Boss

by Marissa Clarke

  Will slid off his tie and shoved it in his front pocket. “I need access to your office while you’re gone. I also need the files on all deals that have been intercepted by the anonymous dealer and a full description given by the clients of the woman.” He ignored Michael’s scowl as he unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. Formal had never been his thing. “Oh, and I want access to all personnel files.”

  Michael smiled. “Yeah, well, you’ll have to fist-fight Mrs. Higgins for those.”

  He was glad to see his brother’s mood lift. “Good thing I’m trained in hand-to-hand combat. Besides, Beverly could never say no to me. Just let her know I need them so she can’t say the top boss man didn’t authorize it.”

  “I’ll shoot an email to her. You want to crash at my apartment since it’s closer than your house?”

  He unbuttoned the next two buttons of his shirt. “No. I’m sleeping right here.”

  “That’s not necessary. You’ll be more comfortable at my place.”

  Comfortable. Will almost laughed. He had slept in bombed-out buildings, all-terrain vehicles, and the middle of the desert for years. A sofa was like a resort. “You go to Greece and make a deal. I’ll stay here and catch a spy.”

  …

  Claire heaved a relieved sigh as she settled into her desk chair. When Beverly the Beast had seen her come in late, she was sure she’d be fired but only got chewed out for irresponsible behavior. Maybe the old bat was chill because she knew Claire was only a temporary employee.

  Beverly seemed much more disturbed by an email she received during their brief meeting that resulted in her shouting at her secretary to pull all personnel files. So disturbed, in fact, she simply sent Claire off with a stack of printed pages and the brusque command, “Fix this.” She knew her friend Heather was on friendly terms with Higgins the Hag and dealt with her a lot through the placement agency, but she just didn’t understand the appeal.

  Through her open office door, Claire had a view of the lobby. It was a huge open space where the company sometimes held parties and even a smaller auction now and then. This morning, it held only a couple of antique settees and a table with a floral arrangement the size of a small car. Beyond that was a set of mahogany double doors. It was the office of Michael Anderson. Everyone seemed intimidated by him, but she’d never spoken to the man herself. His younger brother, Chance, was the company lawyer and worked on the floor below. He seemed nice enough the couple of times she’d run into him in the lobby or elevator. She had known there was a third brother who had returned from fighting overseas recently, but she’d never seen him until today, and holy crap what an eyeful he was. Her face grew warm when she pictured him in the elevator. Big and hot and… God, what a fiasco. Happy Monday.

  Her own office was sparse, but everything in it was high-quality and efficient. She hadn’t bothered to give it a personal touch because, really, why bother? She’d be leaving for Egypt in a couple of weeks.

  She thumbed through the documents on her desk and flicked the mouse to wake the computer up for her mindless chore. She’d been tasked with proofing and editing copy for sales brochures—a no-brainer task that would keep her distracted from the miserable events at the hospice last month.

  She ran her fingers across the lent jacket lapel and took a deep breath, smiling as the smell of mint and something unmistakably masculine and delicious flooded through her. Yeah, editing this brochure could be a distraction from lots of things, like the tall, impossibly hot guy in the elevator who may or may not have seen her nearly naked butt when her skirt ripped. She took a deep breath and shifted in her chair.

  At least the skirt had been an easy fix. It had torn cleanly down the seam. Nothing a little packing tape from the mailroom didn’t solve. From the outside, it looked perfect. From the inside, it was barely held together by whatever means available. She choked out a laugh. She was sitting on a metaphor for her life.

  After opening a new document on the computer, she began entering the information on the item listed. Ugh. Whoever wrote the description was clueless. Run-on sentences, spelling errors—what a mess. She shook her head and dug in, relieved to be absorbed in something other than illness and death and screams of pain in the middle of the night. The screen blurred as tears filled her eyes. She missed her grandmother, Sissy, like crazy, but at least her suffering was over. Claire took a deep, shuddering breath. It was time to move on. As soon as that life insurance money hit her bank account, she was out of here and off to finally see the part of the world she’d studied and fantasized about her whole life. Then she’d begin living out the rest of her dream as an intern at the Cairo Museum under her favorite professor, Dr. Jahi. If things went as planned, she’d never come back to New York. Ever.

  Glancing up, she caught sight of Will Anderson emerging from the double doors across the enormous lobby. Before he’d made more than six long, confident strides, Higgins the Hag headed him off and turned over a stack of files. He then disappeared back through the double doors. At least she knew where to find him to return his coat.

  An hour or so later, movement drew her eye to the set of doors across the lobby again. Will backed through the threshold, his attention held by something or someone inside.

  Mmm. What a fantastic view. Wide shoulders, trim waist, and yum, the way those pants fit over his tight…

  He turned suddenly, and piercing blue eyes met hers as if he’d read her thoughts or something. One dark eyebrow arched and he smiled, confirming he knew she’d been checking him out.

  Well, shit. Totally busted. She returned his smile in a failed attempt at nonchalance, then pretended to go back to work, eyes glued to her monitor. The words on the screen might as well have been in Greek, as her body responded to the man who’d smiled from across the lobby with a jolt of adrenaline that made her clothes feel too heavy and tight. What on earth was going on? Maybe being on her own for the first time was affecting her sense of reason—or jump-starting her hormones. “Do not look at him,” she muttered under her breath.

  “Why not?”

  Shit, shit, shit. How had he sneaked up so silently? A big man like that should lumber like a bear, not slink soundlessly.

  She took a deep breath, eyes still fixed on the screen. This was embarrassing, not fatal. Since Claire-isms were a constant of her everyday life, she’d grown a thick skin and tended to simply own her mistakes outright. “Because, Mr. Anderson, I need to be looking at the computer monitor, not you. This description has to be edited by lunch.”

  He leaned against her doorframe, seeming surprised by her honesty. And intrigued. He studied her for a beat, as though making up his mind about something, and then nodded slightly. “Well, I have the perfect solution. Look at your monitor until lunch, then look at me during lunch.”

  Had he just asked her out? He was her boss or something. Surely there was a rule against this. And that alone made her want to accept—to finally break a rule and do something irresponsible, unexpected, or forbidden.

  Her pulse stuttered. Yes. She wanted to say yes, and he knew it. A satisfied smile stretched his mouth, and Claire realized she was way out of her depth. Why would he want to go out to lunch with her? He could have anyone he crooked his finger at…

  No. She needed to say no. She must have heard him wrong or was reading too much into his offer. Maybe he planned to meet in the lunchroom where most of the employees ate together, and he hadn’t meant that the way it sounded. Besides, he didn’t strike her as a total loser, and that’s pretty much all she seemed to attract.

  The photo of the urn she was staring at was reduced to a blur as every molecule in her screamed for her to meet his gaze. Dammit! Pull yourself together, Claire. This is not the time and place to begin crushing on someone—and certainly not him. Still, she couldn’t help meeting his eyes. Her heart beat faster and her whole body tightened under his intense stare.

  “I’ll take that as a yes to my lunch offer.” At her sharp intake of air, his smile broadened. “The jacket is a
nice look for you,” he said.

  She slid it off her shoulders. “Oh, yeah. Thanks for the loan. I fixed the tear in my skirt, so I don’t need it anymore.” Carefully, she folded it in half and held it out to him.

  He stepped closer and her pulse stuttered like a pinball machine. He reached out and took the coat from her, brushing her arm in the process. “My job for years was to cover people’s asses. Never before has the job been so pleasant.”

  Blood rushed to her face in a hot wave. Yeah. Way out of her depth. “Listen, about lunch. I don’t think it’s a good idea, but thanks anyway, Mr. Anderson.”

  “Please call me Will, and I think it’s a great idea. The best idea I’ve had in a long time.”

  She shook her head, not knowing what to say. He terrified her—not in a bad way, but just from the unnatural pull she felt toward him. He seemed too good to be true, and Claire had learned a long time ago—that kind of luck wasn’t meant for her.

  “Are you married?” he asked.

  She shook her head again and continued shaking it as he ran through several more options.

  “Engaged? Attached? Committed to? Living with? …No?” He snapped his fingers. “Ah! Living without. Perhaps men aren’t your thing?”

  That caused her to gasp, and the blush burned all the way over her scalp. “No, no. It’s—”

  “Good.” He folded the jacket over the back of a chair facing her desk, the hint of a smile teasing the corners of his eyes again. “Because in all my years of covering people’s asses, yours is by far the best I’ve ever covered. And I want to take the both of you out for lunch.”

  How could she say no to that? Um. Like this. “Thanks. Both my backside and I are flattered, but we can’t.”

  “Perhaps you should let it speak for itself.”

  God, his grin was gorgeous. And he was funny. She needed funny. She needed a lot of things, but this had disaster written all over it. Temp job or not, she was placed here by her best friend and he was her boss, for Pete’s sake. “Sorry. It’s shy.”

  “That’s a shame. I was hoping to get to know both of you much better. Maybe get on a first-name basis.”

  Holy crap, he had a dirty mouth and mind. She fought the urge to shift in her chair and relieve the ache traveling through her body. She’d never encountered a man this straightforward. She loved it.

  Her eyes traveled from her monitor and landed on a vee of tanned skin exposed by his partially opened dress shirt. He’d seemed out of his element in a coat and tie. This, though still not quite right, was much better. Her eyes paused momentarily on his lips, and when his smile broadened, her gaze jerked to his eyes. Busted again.

  “You want to say yes,” he whispered and leaned closer from across her desk. “Both of you do. Both of you should.”

  Holy freaking shit. She remained stone-still as he placed his palms on her desk and leaned even closer, sending shivers down her spine. There was that smell again—mint and man. And breathing it in made her a little dizzy. She held her breath as he spoke. “I survived against all odds for two tours because of my uncanny instinct to read people. I’m pretty sure I read this correctly, Claire Maddox. I certainly hope I did.”

  And right before she turned into a puddle of mush, he backed away. “I’m across the lobby if you get hungry.”

  “I already have lunch plans,” she muttered halfheartedly, hoping Heather was free so she wouldn’t get caught in a total lie.

  “You could always cancel and join me instead,” he said with a wink.

  Claire was sure she’d used up half of her heart’s lifetime quota of beats by the time he sauntered out of her office and across the lobby, disappearing behind the mahogany double doors. He’d known her name. She was sure she hadn’t introduced herself on the elevator—perhaps her backside had. She chuckled at his silly sense of humor, then noticed he’d left the jacket. God, how she wanted to go slip it back on and surround herself with his intoxicating scent, but she took a deep, calming breath instead.

  It was a good thing he left when he did or one of two things would have happened: one, Claire would have died on the spot from sheer lust overload, or two, she would have climbed over the desk to see if the seam on his pants was as easy to rip as the one on her skirt had been.

  She leaned back in her chair and sighed, unsure if she should curse her friend Heather for placing her in this job, or thank her.

  Chapter Three

  Will cursed and adjusted himself under the restaurant table. When he’d seen Claire Maddox leave for lunch, it was all he could do to not follow her. Instead, he’d watched her leave the building on his security monitor and gritted his teeth as he wondered who she was meeting.

  When he’d looked across the lobby that morning and discovered the little blonde from the elevator checking him out, he couldn’t simply ignore it. He couldn’t get the image of her pink-thong-clad body out of his mind. And then there was her face. Fine, angular features and huge hazel eyes, and she had a great sense of humor, too. A triple threat: body, brains, and personality.

  Back at the office, he’d only planned to chat briefly with her and collect his jacket. He hadn’t intended to ask her out, but for some reason, he couldn’t stop himself—his brain and body shifted to autopilot. She made him laugh, and that was something he hadn’t had occasion to do in a long, long while.

  He scanned the restaurant again for signs of his brother. Where was Chance anyway?

  Cursing, he pulled the file out of his briefcase next to him in the booth. Might as well not waste time. The sooner he solved this, the better. He flipped open the file and reread the description of the woman who’d intercepted the lost deals, then skimmed through the employee files of the women at Anderson Auctions who might remotely fit the description. Claire Maddox, his blonde from the elevator, seemed like the prime candidate for the spy. The person intercepting deals was described as petite woman in her mid to late twenties with a fantastic knowledge of antiques who called herself Flo. Hair and eye color varied, but wigs were easy to come by, as were temp hair dyes and colored contacts. The only other employee in the editorial department who fit the age and size of the spy was Mallory White. And though pretty in a wet dream sort of way, Mallory couldn’t possibly hold down the appearance of a savvy antiquities broker intermediary. And after a brief conversation with her this morning, he was certain she couldn’t pull it off intellectually, either.

  Despite his doubts, all evidence pointed to Claire. And that really pissed him off. Why did it matter so much? Because she had a great ass and he wanted a piece of it? Was he really that pathetic?

  No. It was the girl herself. She was different.

  And she’d been insanely honest, even to her great embarrassment.

  He closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair, playing their conversation over in his head. She was different and smart. Smart enough to carry off a slick game of corporate espionage, but she didn’t seem like the type. Surely his instincts weren’t that far off.

  It was an odd coincidence though, that a woman matching the exact description of the woman poaching their clients just happened to get a job at Anderson Auctions around the same time the deals started being intercepted.

  What hung him up most was the lack of information in Claire’s personnel file. She had come from a temp agency they used often, but nothing personal was in her file. Only education and date of birth. No work experience or reference letters. Not even a fucking address, like she’d come out of nowhere.

  Damn if that wasn’t right. She came out of nowhere like a two-by-four against the skull, knocking all common sense out of him and turning him into a walking woody.

  He sat up and grabbed his cell phone from under his menu. Jim would be able to dig up something on her to prove she wasn’t the spy. He texted his longtime buddy and former CIA agent the info on a Miss Claire Elaine Maddox. Twenty-five years old, single, master’s degree in history with a focus in ancient civilizations from a prestigious New York university—a seeming
ly perfect match for their spy.

  And hot as hell. Take those smart wire-rimmed glasses off and let that hair down and damn. Once more, he pictured the reflection in the elevator door of her hot-pink lace thong flossing her perfectly formed ass. He groaned and adjusted himself again. Welcome back to New York City, brother. Have we got a case for you—a case of blue balls.

  “Hey, sorry I’m late,” Chance said, sliding into the booth opposite him. “I was looking over the original agreement between Anderson Auctions and Elite Placement Agency, which, by the way, is owned by a Heather Larksay, who Mrs. Higgins says is first-rate. This recent temp is evidently a personal friend of Larksay and came with a ringing endorsement.”

  That might explain the incomplete personnel file. Beverly Higgins and the agency owner were tight. Jim would need to pay this Heather Larksay a visit. Will slid a menu across the table. “The contract?”

  “Standard, terminable at will.”

  After the waitress came by and they ordered burgers, they went through the file on the lost deals together and discussed the conclusion that Will didn’t buy. Most evidence pointed to the new temp, Claire Maddox.

  “We should terminate her without cause,” Chance said. “She has no claim for unemployment or wrongful termination since she’s a temp, so even if we’re wrong and she’s not the spy, we’ve not harmed ourselves. Her agency will simply place her somewhere else.”

  Will took another bite of burger and shook his head. “Michael wants to find out who she’s working with.” He chased the bite with a swallow of Coke. “Not really liking the Maddox woman for the spy anyway.”

  “Why not? Everything points to her.”

  Will shrugged and pushed his now-empty plate away. “Just a hunch.”

  Chance stared at him for an uncomfortably long time. Will knew what he was thinking—although his hunches were usually right, he had been way, way off with Beth.