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

by Zee Monodee

  Then, with a tap, he cut the call and handed the phone back to her. “Tough cookie, eh.”

  “You got that right.” She mumbled the admission. “What did you just do?”

  “Easy. I made her hear what she wished to hear.”

  And you seem to have charmed her socks off. Truth be told, if Logan had spoken to her on the phone in such a deep, drawling tone, he’d have charmed something else off her along with her socks.

  Realizing what direction her thoughts had taken, she lowered her head and prayed the heat blazing upon her cheeks would fan out as soon as humanly possible.

  “So you’re clear on this side, now,” Logan said, tearing her out of her X-rated fantasies.

  She nodded, afraid her voice would betray her.

  “Come on, pull yourself together.”

  She gazed up into his face. Her legs felt weak under her, and she clutched the desk’s edge. “Blast it, Logan. What have I gotten myself into?”

  He drew closer and placed one hand on her shoulder, the other cradling the side of her face. “You’ll be great. I have full faith in you.”

  He did seem to believe in her. She let the strength of his touch on her cheek diffuse through her, a soft warmth permeating to every cell of her body.

  He smiled, and after setting the sling of her handbag on her shoulder, steered her out of the newsroom, down the corridor, and out into the wide expanse of the building’s lobby. He didn’t pause in his steps, and she went along like meek sheep, closing her hand ever so tightly on the sling of her leather bag, the only remnant of familiarity right then.

  He pushed the heavy glass door of the TV station, and she stepped into another world. She’d always set foot there during the quiet of the day, and the bustle of late-afternoon activity reminded her of a hyperactive beehive. People milled about, most with clipboards in their hands, busy calling out to one another, seeming engrossed in their tasks.

  She stopped for a few seconds to try to absorb it all in. But she couldn’t, and instead felt as if the air was being sucked out of her, leaving her gasping and panting for breath.

  A tall, beautiful young woman careened down on her. She held a few suits swathed in plastic covers across her arm, a bunch of ties in her other hand.

  “Neha, hi. I’m Stacey, from Wardrobe. The frock tart, as Logan calls me.” She laughed and turned to Logan. “I’ll take her over. Set your suit out already.”

  As Logan released her, Neha found herself being led down a very narrow corridor, and they stepped in through an opened doorway.

  One half of the room, to her left, consisted of nothing more than racks and racks of clothes. To her far right sat a comfy couch, and she caught sight of a big, semi-circular table propped against the wall. It lay right under a huge rectangular mirror, which like all show-biz dressing rooms, held a row of light bulbs casting a crude, garish brightness across the reflective expanse. A big metal case lay open on the table, and already, dozens of brushes of all sizes littered the surface.

  She gulped. Madness. This would be sheer madness.

  Before she could think another thought through, two women had closed in on her.

  “Great, a wrap dress. We won’t need to do you up too much,” one of them said as she removed Neha’s bag from her shoulder.

  “You’ll need some colour, though, or you’ll appear like a washed out corpse on the screen,” the other woman said.

  They both pushed her towards the big, lit-up mirror. Neha found herself on her butt in the chair. After her hair got pulled back by a terry-cloth headband, there came a dizzying dance of sponges and brushes upon her face. Within minutes, a heavy layer of makeup plastered her skin, and for someone who rarely used even lip-gloss, the feeling hovered close to suffocating.

  The chair turned, the headband was released, and a flat iron fried her hair. It seemed to her someone rattled on about the logistics of the bulletin in the background. The strong, raspy voice sounded like Debbie, the producer.

  And then, another person grasped her arm to make her stand up. Neha caught her reflection in the mirror, and she gasped. She looked like a painted doll, her face white and pale, her eyes thickly lashed, with garish bright spots of colour on her cheeks and lips. And her hair. If she didn’t know this was her hair, she’d have said the strands looked so stick-straight, it had to be a wig.

  “She ready?”

  “All done, Debbie.”

  The heavy-set Debbie walked over to the table, giving Neha the once-over. “Wow, great job, girls. I admit I had my doubts about this, but now, I can rest assured. Logan was right. You do look stunning.”

  Neha had no time to put in a word when Debbie grabbed her arm and all but hauled her out of the room and into the corridor. What had Logan told the producer? Did he really think she’d look good? Could it be he hadn’t simply been buttering her mother up on the phone and had believed everything he’d said?

  All thoughts screeched to a slamming halt the moment she caught sight of him. She had watched the station’s broadcast a few times, and she’d always appreciated the visual of Logan on screen in his suit and tie. But the reality presented an all-together, larger-than-life picture, and her mouth hung open as she drank in the sight of him.

  In a dark, ink-blue suit, with a very pale shirt of the same colour family and a silk tie with tiny slate-grey designs, he presented a startling image, indeed. The seams of the suit accentuated his large and stocky build, and the clothes seemed to contain the inherent ruthlessness and strength brimming from every pore of his tanned skin. Somehow, she couldn’t believe this gorgeous, charismatic man who looked like he belonged at the head of a boardroom table could be the same irate and shouting one she worked with every day.

  His dark gaze met hers then went over the length of her. Her cheeks heated up under his steady observation, and small puffs of air escaped her lips when he crossed the distance to where she stood.

  “You look great,” he said as he stopped in front of her. “I knew you would.”

  She had no doubt this was a compliment, and a sincere one, too. Drat, how did he do this to her?

  “Come on, here’s our cue,” he said as he indicated to the right.

  Someone pushed a sheaf of papers in Logan’s hand, and he scanned the documents while walking away. She followed him with her gaze, until he came to sit behind a large, semi-circular wood desk.

  The news desk. Her heart hammered, growing in mass, until its heaviness weighed her down to where she stood, unable to take a step or emit a sound.

  A steady hand pressed into her back, and she turned to find Debbie behind her. The woman all but propelled her to the desk and into the seat next to Logan. Before she left, she bent by Neha’s ear.

  “Relax. It’ll all go well. Just remember to breathe.”

  The spotlights across from them burst to life, flooding them in a blinding glow.

  “Look down, on the desk,” Logan said as he pushed a sheaf of papers her way. “Don’t focus on the light, let your eyes get used to it. The crew is working the angles and last-minute checks.”

  Only one phrase registered in her mind—last minute. She couldn’t bail out; yet, she yearned for nothing more than to escape. Her trachea closed, and her head went light as the oxygen in her body dwindled down. She needed her inhaler. But then, she remembered how one of the women who had prepped her had dumped her handbag next to the makeup table.

  She would have to fight this attack off.

  If it didn’t kill her first.

  Logan looked up at her at that precise moment. Probably noticing the panic that must glow evident in her eyes, he reached for her hand under the table and squeezed it.

  “You’ll be fine,” he whispered. “You’re already doing great. See, you got here.”

  She nodded, still too terrified to do anything else. She squinted as she tried to make sense of the words on the papers in front of her.

  He placed his hand on her copy, stopping his finger under some items as he explained.
<
br />   “This, as you must know, is the bulletin line-up.” He pointed to the first page, which looked like a long, detailed list. Turning the sheet over, he tapped the second page. “Our line-up, for the anchors.”

  She nodded as she took in the two-column layout. The format started to make sense—she had studied this for her degree.

  “On the left is all the technical data and line-up for the crew. We’re not concerned with it, except for the duration.” He indicated the line in question, then crossed over to the other side of the layout, where lay chunks of text interspersed with names and breaks. “This is where we have the lead-ins and the leads for the reports. Remember, we drafted them together this afternoon. There’s nothing in there you don’t know,” he said in a reassuring tone.

  She mumbled a feeble “yes,” and he turned the sheets back to the first page.

  “First line-up will tell you where you need to speak and where the crew will take over.”

  As she stared at the page, it all became a huge blur, and she clutched his hand, which still held hers, under the table.

  “Logan, I can’t do this,” she said, panic rising in her voice, making her catch on some words.

  His tone strummed calm and steady when he replied. “Neha, most of today’s line-up is in PRE-VT, meaning we have video footage or graphics and the text is voiced-over by the reporter himself. Only a few items are in VT-START, which we’ll have to voice-over as the graphics roll on screen. Nothing complicated there. Simply read your text from the prompter which is right across us, under the camera. Exactly like when we did the mock-ups when you started. Keep your diction normal, breathe slow and deep, so we can remain within the duration time. Remember to check the tech line-up for which kind of voice-over it is, and we’ll be fine. I’ll handle most of the items. You only need to pick the cue and read. Try to be as normal as possible, and as casual as you can be in front of the camera.”

  She met the last comment with a wide stare.

  “Okay, forget what I said. Forget the camera. Think you’re talking to your kids, trying to get something through to them. It’s no different here.”

  “Two minutes, and we’re on air,” clamoured a voice.

  Logan peered into her eyes. “Everything will be fine. Trust me.”

  She shuddered, and right that instant, reckoned she didn’t sit there alone. No, Logan was with her. All the way. Every step of the way.

  Someone approached them and clipped tiny microphones onto the lapel of their clothes. The light dimmed, everything receding into the dark behind the camera. Someone else rolled off numbers in descending order, and they heard the opening music announcing the bulletin.

  Logan rattled the headlines for today’s news. As the music died, he introduced himself, and she found herself giving her name, too, right after him. Exactly like the mock-ups.

  She could do this.

  She would have to read the first lead-in of the bulletin, and when the green light came on, she steeled her back and plunged her gaze into the camera lens as words scrolled across the prompter and she recited them as calmly as she could.

  The first report went through, and then, the green light came back on. This time, Logan read the lead-in, but the lead crossed over to her on this, the second newsreader having to follow on the lead-in.

  Concluding her text, she allowed for a few seconds’ pause as the screen went blank, and then another set of words flowed, indicating the next lead-in she had to introduce.

  It went on like this for a short while. She didn’t allow herself to think, all reality suspended as she lived and breathed only for voicing out her parts. They came to the section where Logan gave the tease soft lead and announced the commercial break, and the makeup woman pounced on them with her powder puff. In a matter of seconds, everything went back to how it had been in the previous half of the broadcast, and the two of them brought the bulletin to a close eighteen minutes later.

  As the credits on the finished broadcast rolled, the two co-hosts kept to their chairs, arranging the sheaf of papers in front of them in a neat pile and putting their signature on the first and last pages.

  When Debbie walked over to their side, she realized it was over.

  Heavy relief crashed on her, pressing her in her seat. But then, the overwhelming emotion choked her throat, and her lungs burnt as if they would burst.

  Neha bolted out of her chair and pushed her way across the crush of people. She had only one thing in mind—survival.

  *

  Logan turned to face Neha, only to find her jumping out of her seat and escaping the room like a mad woman.

  Bugger, has this been so hard on her?

  Weariness crashed over him. He always felt drained after a broadcast, the tension finally leaving his body after an edgy half-hour of worrying and making sure everything went as smooth as possible. Because of this, he viewed the debriefing to be conducted after the bulletin as an absolute chore.

  Both anchors needed to be present for the task, though, and it looked like he’d have to chase after Neha.

  “Bloody hell.”

  The woman had seemed to handle it all with such a great stance. Debbie said her performance had been awesome, the camera instantly falling in love with her. She had no doubt the public would also adore her, and they were eager to see the ratings, which would kick in the next morning.

  He wondered what his superiors would say. And what if they all liked Neha so much that they wanted her as a permanent co-host? He had to admit it had proven a pleasure to work with her. Though not a professional, she’d handled everything with a competence belying her inexperience.

  If only she hadn’t run away, everything would’ve been perfect.

  With a sigh, he pushed his chair back and stood. He had to find her. An awkward notion flitted through his mind, and he paused to heed its call. Why had she run? Because of him? Or had she been overwhelmed? Either way, he’d have to find out.

  Walking towards the corridor, he stopped to ask Stacey, the only person who seemed unoccupied, if she’d seen Neha. She replied in the negative. Such was the case with everyone he asked, and he resigned himself to having to search the rooms for her himself.

  He stopped first at the Wardrobe and Makeup room. Logan threw a quick glance across the deserted expanse, on the point of leaving when he heard a strange noise, almost like a hiss.

  Peering further into the darkened room, the lights on the mirror having been turned off and only a dimmed lamp glowing weakly in the far corner, he saw someone sitting on the couch to the far right.

  Neha.

  She sat huddled in a corner, her hands clutching something so hard, her fingers appeared like mere bones and skin.

  When he closed the door behind him, the click of the lock settling into place didn’t seem to register on her.

  As he walked over to her, his step faltered when she lifted her hands to her face, the object she held going into her mouth and making another hissing sound.

  He edged closer. She held an inhaler. He gave an involuntary pause at the paleness of face, which looked washed out and even more ethereal under her heavy makeup. If she hadn’t had any artificial colour on her skin, she would’ve appeared as white as a ghost. Dark circles rimmed her eyes, which seemed to have shrunk into her skull. Her hair hung limp to the sides of her face, and she shivered, despite her long-sleeved dress.

  Going down on his knees in front of her, he peered into her face to note the flicker of surprise and panic pass over her features. She darted a quick peek at the inhaler, which she tried to hide in the folds of her dress.

  He reached out and clasped her hand, stopping her frantic gesture.

  “You’ve got asthma,” he said.

  She bit her lip, not answering him.

  “It’s severe, and an attack could prove fatal without your medication, eh.”

  She still didn’t move, and her panic-frozen stillness attacked his nerves like sharp razors tearing through thin fabric.

  “Why
didn’t you say so?” he shouted when the silence became too much for him to bear.

  She startled, giving him the hint of a reply, but not what he’d expected. He stayed there angry and humbled at the same time by her reluctance to confide of her health problems. Courage on her part made her act as such, but some other part of him knew how dangerous it could be to keep people in the dark when such a serious condition plagued someone.

  “Bloody hell, Neha. How am I supposed to feel now? I all but pushed you into this.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  The words had come out as a croak. Her voice caught in her throat, and she started to cough. As she battled for air, a pale, bluish tinge crept up on her face.

  Panic rose in Logan, too, as he watched her with horror. Her hands seemed to have frozen in her lap, and her body wracked as she coughed and coughed.

  She needed her medicine. He reached out to grab her inhaler and brought it to her mouth. When she closed her lips around it, he pressed his thumb on the glass vial of medication, and she gulped in the puff.

  The shaking stopped after a few seconds, and he removed the tube, placed it back into her lap. Her body swayed to her right.

  Heaven, she was in shock as well as under an asthma attack. Delayed reaction from her panic over the broadcast. Bugger, what had he done?

  In a flash, he sat on the couch and caught her sagging body, her head hitting his chest with a soft thump. Cradling her in his arms, he pushed her hair away from her face in an attempt to help her breathe with more ease.

  Concern and adrenalin burst into him. “You want me to call a doctor?”

  She shook her head then mumbled something. When he drew closer, he heard her asking him to give her some time, and she’d be fine.

  She made no move to disentangle herself from his arms, though, and closed her eyes.

  He sat there for a long time holding her to him. Her soft body grew heavy and limp, but his arms were strong enough to contain her weight. Little by little, a semblance of colour returned to her skin, and her breathing went from laboured to steady.

  Immense relief flooded him as he glanced down at the woman in his arms. He trailed his gaze over her beautiful features and brushed a lock of hair from her cheek to tuck it behind her ear. She didn’t wake up, but a small smile appeared on her lips.