Falling For Her Bad Boy Boss (Island Girls: 3 Sisters In Mauritius)

by Zee Monodee

  Diya shot out of her seat and reached for the baby. “He woke up?”

  “And started crying for you, Mum,” the lad replied, gently placing the child’s head on Diya’s shoulder.

  The sobs stopped the minute the kid burrowed his face into his mother’s neck.

  “Oh, Luke. Mummy’s here,” Diya crooned in his ear, looking like a responsible adult in the blink of an eye.

  “Hey, Matt,” Suzanne called out.

  “Hiya, Suzie.” He walked into the kitchen towards Neha. “And how are you, Auntie?” he asked as he dropped a kiss on her cheek. “Hmm, cupcakes.”

  “Go ahead,” Neha said with a smile.

  Suzanne waited until he’d wolfed down the treat, then she tugged on his arm and pulled him out of the kitchen. “You’ve got to see this. I stumbled on this video today on YouTube …”

  The rest of her words drifted incoherent as they went upstairs to her room.

  “These two make a stunning couple, don’t they?” Lara asked. “And it’s obvious Suze’s got a major crush on him. Matthew is the only one who gets away with calling her Suzie.”

  “But nothing’s gonna happen there,” Neha said in a rush. Her daughter was too young to be thinking about love and men.

  Though Neha herself had had her sights already set on a boy when she’d been younger than Suzanne. But she’d been old-fashioned—something her daughter was not. On that front, she was glad of this fact.

  “Matthew’s her cousin by marriage only.” Diya bestowed a tender glance on the baby who had gone back to sleep on her shoulder.

  Neha couldn’t shake the image of Diya with her eldest stepson in her kitchen. At sixteen, Matthew could pass for twenty, a grown man already. He and Diya seemed to be of the same age, in fact. “Don’t people mistake Matthew for the twins’ father?”

  Diya rolled her eyes. “Tell me about it. Half the time when I’m alone with him and one or both of the babies, people give us these dirty looks, like we’re teenage parents or something. Then, their jaws drop when Matt calls me Mum.”

  They all laughed.

  “Is it my fault if I don’t look my age? Speaking of which—” she stared right at Neha. “—you could seriously lose five to ten years off your face with a better haircut.”

  Oh, no, here we go again. Tenacity was a big, bad trait of Diya’s.

  “Don’t start.”

  “What about the job?” Lara said. “The kids are all into school now, and you’ve got a degree gathering dust in a forgotten drawer. Why not put it to good use?”

  “I did the degree to kill time, and also because the campus was so close to our house. Rahul thought it’d keep me busy since we had household staff in South Africa.”

  “Think about it.” Lara would not let her off the hook. “Neha, sweetie, money doesn’t grow on trees. How long do you think you can keep on like you’ve been living?”

  Her sister did have a point here, and she cringed.

  “I can manage.”

  Lara gave her a brook-no-nonsense glare. “For now. Tell you what. I was on the phone just yesterday with a university friend. He and his business partner have opened a branch of Global Village Media Studios here. You know, the Internet TV and radio station. I kept thinking you’d be perfect for a job there with your qualifications.”

  Neha put her hand up. “Don’t get me wrong, but no. It would seem too much like favouritism if I landed a job there when you’re friends with the owner.”

  Lara chuckled. “You’ll go through the interview process like any other candidate. Swear to God.”

  Suddenly, the idea of a job didn’t appear so dreadful. Finance-wise, she lay nowhere near the red, but for how long could she keep this up? She’d enrolled the kids in private school, which did cost some dough. Their savings wouldn’t run forever …

  “What do you have to lose?” Lara asked.

  Nothing, and she’d gain a purpose. The image of her with a dirty apron and a cleaning spray in her hand, as Suzanne had pointed out earlier, materialized in her mind, and she flinched. That wasn’t her real purpose in life, innit?

  Maybe, for once, she could prove she’d be worth something outside the house—that she, too, could become acquainted with corporate career heights. Some days, she hated being the middle sister, the sensible, neutral ground, as their father affectionately described her.

  Well, to Hell with neutral. She wouldn’t go to extremes, either, since Lara and Diya handled those really well already, but make her mark, she would.

  “I’d be treated like all other candidates?” she asked.

  “Yup. Do I call him?”

  Neha gulped, then nodded. Lara pulled out her phone and tapped a number after scrolling through her call log.

  “Griffin? Hi, it’s Lara,” she said as she stood and exited the kitchen. A few moments later, she walked back in, a triumphant smile on her face. “You have an appointment on Monday, one o’clock. Their offices are located in cyber tower one at Ebène cyber city.”

  Neha’s stomach did flips and somersaults, but she had to contain her jitters when she faced another, more dreadful, perspective lying in ambush for her.

  “Now, you definitely need a makeover,” Diya said. “I’ll book us all at the spa tomorrow, in case you’ll think of escaping.”

  Neha groaned. What had she gotten herself into?

  ***

  That’s it. Today, I’ll finally kill him.

  Logan Warrington stared across the steel and glass desk in his office at his business partner. “You did what?”

  Why, in Heaven’s name, had he allowed Griffin McDougall to become his best friend? On some days, he swore Griffin didn’t have half a brain. Erasing him from the surface of the Earth would be no big loss for mankind. Might even be a blessing.

  “Come on, Logan. I only gave a candidate an appointment.”

  “For one of the most important jobs of the station. Someone you know nothing about, for whom you don’t even have a CV, or an application letter.” He sighed. “What were you thinking? Or have you again blown the fuse on your logical reasoning?”

  “It’s no big deal. An appointment, is all. Give her a chance.”

  Logan stood and went around the large table, facing the man with whom he co-owned the Mauritian branch of Global Village Media Studios. Too much anger inside, beating a dull throb in his veins, for him to remain seated and exchange polite niceties with Griff.

  “Forget about her. She, whoever she is, is not getting an interview. What I really want to know is how, and when, you’ve had the time to do all this behind my back, eh.”

  Griffin shrugged, eyes downcast as he squirmed in his seat. Logan took a step towards him, and the repressed tension inside him must’ve been tangible, for his friend jumped up and backed away.

  With every inch he advanced, he rolled up the cuffs of his long-sleeved shirt. The mere sight of his beefy forearms and clenched fists would be enough to make any man shit in his trousers, and he had the satisfaction of seeing Griffin’s fair face pale further.

  But he was making the threatening gesture more for emphasis than anything else. Griff knew he’d never hurt him, or anyone else, for that matter, but he expected a modicum of respect and consideration in an operation equally half his responsibility. And here, the clown had gone and played him for a mighty fool. Rules and frameworks existed for a purpose, dammit. How would he extricate himself from this tricky situation? What would he do, first of all, with the sad case in his office?

  Something akin to apprehensive doubt glinted in Griffin’s pale gaze. At least, he’d unsettled the little nitwit. For Griff must be the biggest nitwit this side of the equator … and for Logan, the one person he could count on in any circumstance. Griffin was a sensible man. Usually. If one didn’t count the time when he’d gotten tangled with the ex-wife of a gang leader. This stinking peat bog had to do with a woman, too, he’d bet.

  Griffin had backed into the wall, forced to stop in his tracks. Logan came to a stop a few in
ches from him, his fists against the plaster on either side of the lanky man’s neck. Griffin’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed in trepidation.

  Oh, yes, he must appear like a right arse, but Griff knew he never turned the other cheek. Face the consequences of all your actions, and no other way around—he did strive towards this philosophy from his upbringing in one of the most crime-ridden areas of Wellington in New Zealand.

  “Cancel it.”

  Griffin swallowed again.

  He raised his voice, though he kept his tone chillingly cold. “Cancel. It.”

  “I … I … can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Security called before I came to your office. She’s … she’s on her way up.”

  He clenched his fists, the sound of his cracking knuckles echoing in the stillness of the room. Griffin’s deep-set, pale-grey eyes grew as big as saucers, as if they would pop from his skull.

  “Who the hell is she, Griff, that you’d be willing to risk my wrath? We had a deal. You don’t poke your nose in my side of the business, and I don’t poke mine in yours.”

  The other man gulped audibly. “She’s Lara’s sister.”

  Lara. Logan sighed and swore. He should’ve known. The woman—the married woman—Griffin had been hopelessly in love with at university. “She knew she could get you to bend the rules for her, didn’t she?”

  “It’s not like that, Logan, I swear. This girl has all we’re looking for. She’s the perfect fit.”

  Wrong, he yearned to scream. Instead, he stiffened his arms a tad more, making his muscles ripple with the coiled tension in them. Griffin swallowed hard again.

  “Get rid of her.” He dropped his voice lower. “If you don’t do it, I will. Get it?”

  Griffin nodded, and Logan moved away, taking a few steps back to place his hands on the back of the chair his friend had vacated.

  Bloody Griffin. He hoped he wouldn’t have to deal with this problem. In his book, people of privilege who thought they could pull strings for favours were not welcome. Because they’d been born with a silver spoon in their mouths didn’t mean the world owed them everything. Logan owed them nothing, especially not her, this woman coming for the interview.

  How could she expect she’d barge her way in and get away with it? Maybe she pulled this stunt off with Mauritians, but hell, he wasn’t a local. New Zealanders weren’t known for their patience or for hypocrisy, either, so be it. Favours got you nowhere in New Zealand, and he wouldn’t tip the scale, not now, not ever.

  Bloody hell, this woman didn’t come with a letter of recommendation. Worse—from the sound of it, she hadn’t even handled such a job. How could that egg deem her perfect for the job? Griffin’s brain had probably gone up in a scramble as soon as he’d heard from Lara, for whom he still carried a torch, it seemed.

  “Logan?”

  “What?”

  Griffin flinched at the bark, but remained where he stood. “I … I … she …”

  Logan threw him a withering glare. Griffin nodded towards the door.

  His gaze bypassed his friend and settled on the luxurious lobby on the other side of the one-sided mirror making up his office door.

  A tall, beautiful woman stood at the front desk. Chin-length black hair gleamed under the fluorescent lights and danced with every graceful move of her head. Her profile showed alabaster skin and exquisite features, the dark-lashed eyes hinting at a deep gaze. Softness and gentleness seemed to project off her, from the pretty face to the lush body clad in a white, long-sleeved blouse and ankle-length black skirt.

  He forgot to breathe, until Griffin’s dreamy voice brought him back.

  “Blimey, she could pass for Lara’s twin.”

  Logan stared at his best friend, wishing he hadn’t heard what had been implied in Griffin’s words. The woman outside was the one who had come fishing for favours.

  She was also the only woman who’d managed to catch his attention for more than five seconds in the last decade.

  “I guess I better go tell her she came for nothing,” Griffin said.

  He cursed and whirled around to hit his clenched fist into the wall. A dull thud resounded, and he grimaced at the pervasive sting of air plunging into a knuckle cut. Blessed relief, but which this time did nothing to lessen his internal turmoil.

  “Damn you, Griff, damn you,” he said in a low growl as he walked past his partner on his way to the lobby.

  *

  Neha stood in front of the curved marble desk in the station’s reception area, allowing her gaze to take in her surroundings. The room was bright, bathed in white artificial lights. Too bright. Almost revealing.

  She reached up to touch her chin-length bob, the gesture as much a nervous tick as it had been when the strands had been three times the length. She couldn’t say she disliked the new cut, but having her hair so short that the wind whispered across the nape of her neck left her feeling exposed and vulnerable.

  The haircut had been the first on her sisters’ and her daughter’s list of priorities on Saturday, and she hadn’t been able to put in a word at the salon. Barely giving her time to realize she’d been shorn of the tresses she’d cared for with tender love since the age of ten, they’d whisked her in front of an image consultant, who’d wanted her to—gasp—wear trousers as they would make her look more willowy.

  At this, she’d put her foot down. She’d never worn trousers in her life, and she wouldn’t start because of them. She’d also always been round and had never had a trim silhouette, so anyone who had an issue with that could take said issues to Hell and back, but she wouldn’t budge. Skirts and dresses suited her fine. In the end, the compromise had been A-line or flared skirts and tailored blouses, as well as maxi-length dresses worn with long blazers.

  The whirlwind had continued afterward, with facial, manicure, pedicure, leg waxing, full body wrap, and other beautifying nonsense the others had dragged her through. Neha had started to complain, but in the end, there’d been no point in talking to a wall, and she had to admit how being pampered had made her feel good.

  A luxury, though, an indulgence. Like the thick, midnight blue carpet drowning her flat-sandal-clad feet into its soft pile.

  While she waited for the receptionist to confirm her appointment, she shifted her weight from one foot to another until the pretty girl who looked no older than Suzanne motioned her towards the comfortable-looking, stuffed sofas at the other end of the lobby.

  As she turned, the mirrored panel to her left swung open, to let out a big hulk of a man.

  A raw, untamed force of nature.

  The thought screeched into her mind as he walked towards her with long, confident steps, almost like a panther. He was big, all right. Not that tall. At first glance, she’d say a little under six feet, shorter than most of the men in her family. But the solid bulk on this man’s frame did more than compensate for the staggering impact a few more inches might have given him. His struck as an imposing stature. Despite the dark colours of his trousers and shirt with their rolled-up cuffs, he didn’t appear any less huge. How had he walked through the door, when he seemed to be of twice its breadth?

  Yet, the most intimidating part of him was his face. He had short, sand-coloured hair, closely cropped. Arresting features, hard and taut. A mouth set in a grim line, as if to say he took no nonsense. A nose that appeared to have been broken a few times. Eyes dark with fire.

  Neha took a step back as he approached. She couldn’t keep herself from trying to put as much distance as possible between herself and this daunting man.

  He stopped in front of the desk, his deep-brown eyes scanning the length of her. Heat crept up her. Somehow, under his steady gaze, she wondered if she had a stitch of clothing on.

  Who is he?

  A lanky, blond man with thinning hair appeared from behind the hulk. His long, thin face looked cheerful, his pale-grey eyes sparkling. “You must be Neha,” he said with a deep Scottish accent.

  She nod
ded. “You must be Griffin.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Neha, but—”

  “Newsroom’s this way,” the hulk said in a growl as he brushed past her, heading right across from the desk into a wide corridor.

  He expected her to follow.

  She glanced at Griffin, who appeared as struck as she, and only stepped towards the big man as his voice floated over to her.

  “Station hasn’t been launched yet, but we have live conditions all the time to get used to the pace. News editor’s job is to prepare all the news bulletins for the radio, the hourly recap, as well as the longer bulletins to be aired three times a day. Station broadcasts twenty-four hours, but news starts at six and ends at eight at night. I head the TV section and work with the newsroom for the TV bulletin at six every evening …”

  He entered a room to his left, and Neha quickened her step to follow him and more importantly, to hear the explanations he spewed forth like a machine gun. Drat, would she remember all the details he was pushing her way?

  She screeched to a halt at the sight of the half dozen people in the newsroom.

  The hulk had stopped by a large, paper-strewn desk. “Here’s your material. Compile a three-minute bulletin for the radio, and then put together a TV news report of the information you deem more newsworthy.”

  He finally peered at her, and she froze under his fiery gaze.

  “You have one hour,” he said, then walked past her out of the room.

  What had that been about? In all this time, she’d hardly understood a word he’d said. He spoke with a strange accent. It sounded British, but wasn’t. Too jumbled. Aussie, maybe? Not drawling enough. Definitely not South African, not thick enough.

  The only words she recalled clearly of his diatribe were “three-minute radio bulletin” and “TV news report of newsworthiness.”

  Neha heaved for breath. Tempted after what she couldn’t even term a conversation with the frightening man to turn tail and leave on the spot, a part of her knew she’d never be able to live with herself if she didn’t see this through to the end. She’d always prided herself on finishing whatever she started. Well, today wasn’t the day she’d prove this wrong. She could, and would, do this. The exercise sounded no harder than a university exam for the media papers. She’d done such exercises over and over for her degree.