by Trish Morey
Where did this guy get off? Didn’t he realise she was doing him a favour? Next time he could wait for Sam to get back from sick leave. She didn’t need this kind of aggravation in her life right now.
She swivelled the laptop around and drew it closer to where she stood so that she didn’t have to keep bending over the boss’s legs. She could almost feel his eyes boring into her back, searing her skin through her wool mix suit until it prickled, just knowing he was there, a bare metre behind her, scrutinising her every step of the way.
Knowing he was her boss in no way suppressed the sensations she was experiencing right now. Raw sexuality. It emanated from him in waves. Even the way he casually sprawled in his chair couldn’t hide the latent power contained in those long limbs. She was used to dealing with bosses on equal terms—not one had ever made her so aware of his inherent sexuality.
Not one had made her so aware that he was a man.
That she was a woman.
She shifted, comfortable with neither where her thoughts were going nor how her body was suddenly tingling. He sure wasn’t making this easy. But then, no one had ever described Damien DeLuca as easy.
Impossible; arrogant; genius—she’d heard all those words used in conjunction with his name. But easy? Ha! Not a one. The sooner she got through with this meeting and got out of here the better. If only she could focus on her presentation!
Naturally his sudden appearance at the door had thrown her. Just for a moment there had seemed something more to Damien than she’d heard, another angle, another dimension.
She’d been kidding herself. Now that his face was out of the shadows he was just another good-looking, over-achieving workaholic who had no people skills whatsoever.
She turned her head a fraction and caught a glimpse of his smug-looking face out of the corner of her eye as she manoeuvred her way through explorer to the share drive.
Okay, maybe that wasn’t quite fair. Make that drop-dead gorgeous, over-achieving workaholic who lacked people skills but exuded testosterone by the bucketload. That might be closer to the mark.
The photos in the marketing files certainly didn’t do him justice. No doubt the current photographer had been in place since the year dot. First thing she’d do when she got back to her office would be to organise a new photographer who knew how to use great material rather than take it for granted. Because whatever his personality faults, the guy sure had great genes. No doubt that with his looks and IQ his kids were bound to be intelligent and great looking, just like their dad.
Maybe what she needed was a guy like him?
Her fingers stopped dead over the mouse, her mouth suddenly, inexplicably dry.
Why would that occur to her? Clearly her other problem was starting to affect her brain. Now she was having fantasies about the men at work. Or, at least, fantasies about this one.
And having fantasies about Damien DeLuca was pointless. He was so far out of her league it wasn’t funny. Even if he wasn’t, from what she’d heard, the guy was a confirmed bachelor—a one man band all the way and probably just as well the way he treated people. You’d have to be mad to get tangled up with someone like him.
Not that getting tangled up with Damien was on the cards.
‘Is something wrong?’
She jumped as if she’d been stung. ‘Oh, no.’ She shook her head, shielding from him what she had no doubt would be a give-away red face. ‘Not at all. Um, here’s the file…’
She took a couple of steadying breaths before finally turning. With the opening slide on the screen that she hoped would pull attention from her sudden colour, she gave a weak smile. ‘Okay, all set?’ she asked before launching into her presentation.
‘What do you know about her? That Filly woman. Though I have to say she looks more like a mouse than any horse I’ve seen.’
Without looking up from her computer screen or mis-hitting a key on her one hundred words per minute typing speed, Enid responded drily, ‘And I should know?’
‘You know everything about everyone in this office, Enid, and you know it.’
She still didn’t look up, but he did notice the tiniest tweak at the corner of her line-rimmed lips.
‘Then it’s Philly, with a P-H, short for Philadelphia. Her parents had a travel urge at one time apparently, though never got farther than the maternity unit at Melbourne General.’
‘Family?’
‘Lives with her mother. A widow. There was a brother, though he died in tragic circumstances, I believe.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Anything else?’
‘Twenty-seven years old, single—was about to be married a month or two ago but something happened. Could be a left at the altar story.’
Left at the altar? Yeah, that would do it. He’d got the distinct impression that despite her professional presentation she had a real thing against men.
‘By the way,’ she said, ‘now that you’ve finished early you might like to tackle your messages.’ She swivelled around on her chair to pick up a stack of papers she handed over to him. ‘Don’t worry about the top one; Sam left a brief message on my voicemail while I was out that he was unable to do the presentation. No doubt you got that message anyway.’
He looked briefly at the stack before pocketing them. So Philly had been right. Someone had tried to let him know. So now he couldn’t even hold that against her. He wasn’t entirely sure he liked that.
‘Snippy little thing,’ he said as he rested a hip on her desk, putting down his now tepid coffee and replacing it with a card from her in-tray, spinning it between his fingers. ‘Did a good job, though—really knows her stuff. Sam would have taken three times as long. But I don’t think she likes me.’
‘No one at Delucatek likes you. You’re the original boss from hell and you love it.’
‘But you like me, Enid.’
Enid’s fingers stopped dead on the keyboard, her index finger hovering pointedly over the “I”. She looked up at him over her reading glasses, her eyes narrowed to slits, and she let her head tip to the side in a bare nod. ‘I have a great deal of respect for you—yes, that’s true. In addition to which I have to admit you do wonderful things for my cash flow. But like you?’ The movement of her head now looked less of a nod and more of a shake.
He held up his hand before she could say any more. ‘Okay.’ He laughed, rich and loud. Of course she was kidding. She was crazy about him. ‘Why is it you’re the only person in this building who doesn’t take me seriously?’
‘Somebody has to do it,’ she replied, adding a wink for good measure before she turned back to her keyboard.
He stopped flipping the card in his hands long enough to read it.
‘Damn. Whoever decided on a masked fancy dress theme for this year’s Christmas party?’
‘You did,’ came the terse response. ‘You said it would help break down barriers between the staff—get them warmed up and mixing without copious quantities of alcohol. And I think it’s a great idea.’
‘What are you going as, Enid? Little Bo Peep?’
The look she gave him was pure ice and the lines around her pursed lips condensed to form canyons.
‘And there I was thinking Xena, Warrior Princess was more my style. Besides,’ she continued, ‘I’m not telling. You’ll have to work it out on the night. Masks only come off at midnight.’
He shrugged. It was a good idea to break the ice. Break down the barriers he could already see developing between his managers and their staff. Barriers were the last thing he wanted and it was clear, if Sam and the Marketing Department were any example, that those barriers were already being put up. He’d had no idea there was someone in that area with the skills Philly possessed—Sam had certainly never mentioned her.
And it would be interesting to see what his staff came up with for their disguises. Some people wouldn’t need much help of course. Already he could see Miss Brown Mouse—with the addition of a couple of little pink ears and a tail she’d be utterly convinci
ng.
CHAPTER THREE
‘YOU look like a princess!’
Philly smiled and did a twirl as she entered her mother’s room, the ends of her black wig flicking out as she spun. ‘You don’t think it’s too much? The woman in the costume shop said it was fine.’
‘Too much? No, dear, it’s just perfect. You’ll be the belle of the ball.’
‘I don’t know about that.’
‘Oh, but I’ve got some lovely perfume I never wear any more that would be perfect with that outfit.’ She pointed the way to the cabinet and Philly followed her directions, giving a spray to her neckline and wrists. It was nice, rich and exotic, and quite a change from her usual apricot scent. Well, tonight was the night for change, or so it seemed.
She plumped the pillows behind her mother’s frail back, making sure she was comfortable before fetching her a cup of tea. Then she sat down on the bed alongside and held out a small saucer holding several brightly coloured pills.
‘I still don’t know why I’m going, really. If you’d prefer, I’m quite happy to stay home.’
‘You don’t get out enough as it is,’ said her mother, her fingers hunting down a fat capsule. ‘You should enjoy it when you get the chance.’ She dropped the pill on her tongue, washing it down with a swig of tea as she foraged for another.
‘I guess going out just doesn’t bother me all that much,’ she said with a shrug.
‘Then it should. It’s not natural for a young woman to shut herself away from the world when she should be out there enjoying it and meeting people.’
‘I’ve got a job. I meet plenty of people.’
Her mother took another sip of tea, picking up the last few pills.
‘You’re not still pining over that Bryce, are you?’
Philly pulled a face in response, putting the now empty dish over on the bedside table. Of course it had hurt, being dumped for another woman like that just before their wedding—another woman she’d discovered he’d been seeing for a year, another woman he’d made pregnant. She’d felt stupid, naïve and desperately hurt. Most of all she’d felt cheated of the child she was so desperate to have, a child he’d so freely given someone else, and for a while she’d longed to have him back. For a while.
‘No,’ she said on a sigh, knowing it was true. Abandoning her one week before their wedding had come as a huge shock. He’d let her down badly and knocked her confidence for a six but she wasn’t exactly without blame over the failure of the relationship herself.
She’d fallen in with his plans for marriage, indeed his plans for everything, because it had suited her to do so. And while she’d believed she loved him, she knew now that she’d talked herself into it because she’d so desperately wanted it to be right, to make forming a family with him and having his child right.
But it hadn’t been right. She would have been marrying him for all the wrong reasons.
‘Marriage to Bryce would have been a mistake; I know that now,’ she said, squeezing her mother’s hand. ‘He did us both a favour by walking away when he did.’
Her mother nodded. ‘He just wasn’t the one for you. But the right man is out there, you mark my words. Look at Monty; he took out dozens of girls before he found that one special woman. Annelise was so sweet. They were so happy together.’
Her mother sighed wistfully, and together their gazes drifted to the framed photo standing in pride of place on her dressing table. The smiling couple, beaming their happiness and their pride as together they held up their newborn son for the camera.
It was happiness that had been tragically short-lived. The very next day, on their way to show off the new arrival to his grandmother, all three lives had been wiped out, victims of foul weather conditions and a horrendous light plane crash.
Philly drew in a breath and turned to her mother, still transfixed by the photo and clearly thinking, remembering, as two tears slid a crooked path down her hollow cheeks. Then her mother sniffed, still looking at the photo.
‘I’d just love to see you settled, dear, bef…’ Her words trailed off mid-sentence but she didn’t have to finish them. Philly knew what she’d been going to say—the unspoken words hung fat and heavy in the air, weighed down with the inevitability of what was to come.
Before I die.
Something squeezed tight in her chest.
Less than twelve months to live. Her mother deserved some happiness, something to look forward to. Something that promised a future that would take her mind and thoughts beyond the doctors’ sad prognosis. Something to help her—not forget, she could never forget—but maybe just ease the pain she was feeling at the premature deaths of a young family who’d had everything to live for.
Instead she was giving herself up to the disease, accepting her fate almost as if she was looking forward to being reunited with her late husband and especially Monty, his beautiful wife and the grandchild she knew by this one lone photograph.
The doctors had been sympathetic when the drugs just didn’t seem to work any more in arresting the disease. ‘She has to want to live,’ they’d said. ‘People often need something to live for, a reason to survive.’
Philly had failed her. She’d promised to give her mother a grandchild but now, with a failed relationship, an aborted marriage behind her and not even eligible for IVF, she’d run out of options. Sure, there was a chance she might find a boyfriend in that time, but there was no way she was likely to settle down and form a family within the next twelve months—no way she was going to be able to brighten her mother’s last few months with the promise of a child.
But then, what real chance did she have of even finding a boyfriend? Every time she’d thought about men or dating lately only one man had sprung to mind. Every guy she met paled in comparison. He was better looking, better built, more intelligent and had a charisma that reeled her in.
She shook her head. Work must really be getting to her if Damien DeLuca kept crowding her thoughts. Sure, he had great genes but if she kept comparing every guy she met with him she was never going to find anyone who made the grade. And she couldn’t even say that she liked him—he was far too arrogant and autocratic—though he sure had plenty going for him besides.
What would he be dressed as tonight? Probably a pirate with his looks. A buccaneer, swashbuckling and dangerous, in a soft shirt, ruffled at the sleeves and open over his chest, the stark white a contrast against his dark hair and tanned olive skin, and tucked into tight black breeches…
Her mother tugged a tissue from the box on her bedside table, pulling Philly out of her thoughts with a jolt. Her nervousness at attending this costume ball must be getting to her. Now she was imagining all sorts of strange things.
‘Oh dear, I am getting maudlin,’ her mother said, blotting away her tears and then blowing her nose. ‘Don’t listen to me. I’m just tired.’
‘You get some sleep then,’ Philly said, squeezing the older woman’s hand gently and kissing her softly on the cheek before she picked up the empty cup.
‘I won’t be late.’
She shouldn’t have come.
From behind her sequinned mask she took one look inside the door, saw the myriad of characters in the lavishly decorated auditorium, the mirror balls spinning crazy colours against the bizarre outfits of the crowd dancing to the loud music, and knew she should have stayed at home.
What was she doing here anyway?
Standing in the lobby, tossing up whether or not to enter the party, she didn’t know. Yes, it had been nice to dress up, to put on something pretty rather than shrug into her sensible work wardrobe for a change—Lord knows it had been long enough since she’d taken so much care with her appearance. But what did she hope to achieve by it?
Who did she think she was trying to impress—Damien? Fat chance. In terms of being a woman, he didn’t know she was alive and he probably didn’t even care. The way he’d tried to make her feel so inconsequential when she’d given that presentation…It was pure fantasy to thin
k that she might make an impression on him tonight.
As if he cared.
She wouldn’t go in. There was no point at all. Even if she didn’t harbour a tiny desire to turn the tables on the one guy who’d made her feel as insignificant as a gnat, she was just no good at this sort of thing. No good at mixing with near strangers. Sure, she’d met plenty of pleasant people in the few short months she’d been at Delucatek, but no one she knew well enough yet to term a friend. Though admittedly that was nobody’s fault but her own. She’d been the one to turn down the Friday after work drinks invitations, always too anxious to go home and see to her mother.
And, of course, after Bryce and the fiasco of their wedding, trusting people enough to get close to them hadn’t been high on her list of priorities. Just because he’d made the right decision in calling off the wedding didn’t mean she’d forgotten the pain of cancelling the church and reception and explaining to the invited guests that the wedding was now off.
The external doors behind her swung open as a new party of guests arrived and the summer night air rushed inside, clashing with the air conditioning in a gust that swirled across her bare shoulders and under her slim-fitting gown. She hugged her arms to her, fighting the unfamiliar sensations as she sidled as inconspicuously as possible out of their path, using a potted palm as a screen.
She must be crazy!
As soon as this group extinguished their cigarettes and entered the party the coast would be clear and she’d make her escape.
‘Hello? Who have we here? Don’t tell me—Cleopatra. Am I right?’
She looked up at the gruff voice, startled to see a large nun, complete with moustache and cigar, bearing down on her, the eyes of the rest of his group all turned in her direction. The most disturbing thing was that the nun sounded exactly like Sam Morgan.
‘Don’t you look something! Aren’t you Sylvia from Accounts?’ He took hold of her hand in his own meaty paw and pulled her out from behind the pot plant where she’d sought refuge.