Best of Bosses 2008: In Bed With Her Italian BossTaken by Her Greek BossBlind Date With the Boss

by Kate Hardy

  ‘Oh, yes, of course,’ Sally said in mock apology. ‘You’ve already told me you’re very good at mathematics, so this should be a cinch.’

  He couldn’t help admiring her confidence and her easy use of humour to help him to relax. She really was a surprise package—and, right now, very much in control.

  ‘All you have to do is count to three,’ she continued. ‘One is the most important. You need to emphasise the first beat.’

  Holding his left hand in her right, she beat in time to the music. ‘Hear it? One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.’

  ‘Yep. Got that.’

  ‘The other key to the waltz is posture.’

  Automatically, Logan thrust his jaw forward and his shoulders back.

  ‘Not like that. We don’t want you standing like a wooden soldier. You need to be lifted and light on your feet. You mustn’t weigh your partner down.’ Her eyes twinkled at him. ‘On the dance floor, the man becomes his partner’s coat hanger.’

  ‘That’s a role I’ve never aspired to.’

  ‘It’s important to remember,’ she said, suppressing a smile. ‘You need to be strong and supportive, so your arms can provide the frame for Diana Devenish to look fabulous.’

  ‘Right.’ Logan turned his grimace into a smile. ‘An awesome responsibility.’

  ‘You’ll be fine, Logan,’ she said more gently.

  Logan.

  It was the first time Sally had used his first name and it bothered him that he’d noticed. Why? It was of no particular significance, but simply part of her technique to get him to relax.

  And yet, somehow, crazily, it felt like a big deal.

  ‘Now,’ she said, ‘place your right hand just below my scapula.’

  ‘Your what?’

  ‘Sorry. Too many first aid classes. Put your hand just below my shoulder blade.’

  Her shoulder blade…

  Valiantly, Logan attempted to follow her instruction but, as soon as his fingers made contact with her soft, exposed skin, he inhaled sharply and retracted his hand abruptly.

  She had to be joking.

  He shifted his hand lower to the safety of clothing. The further away from her bare skin the better.

  ‘Not my waist, my shoulder blade.’ Reaching behind, Sally slid his hand up her back. ‘Just think bra line.’ Her eyes narrowed shrewdly and she looked at him with a cheeky tilt of her head. ‘I’m quite sure you’ve managed to find that on a woman before.’

  Very true. So why was he breaking out in a cold sweat now?

  ‘Now, let’s count to three and—’ Frowning at him, Sally hesitated. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Never better,’ he lied. With his hand at Sally’s bra line, counting to three was suddenly as easy as climbing Mount Everest with frostbite.

  ‘Fabulous. Now, we’ll step out the beat. Let’s go. One, two, three. One, two, three. Left, right, left. Right, left, right.’

  Somehow, Logan managed to survive this without trampling on Sally’s toes and they actually completed a circuit around the cleared floor.

  ‘You make it easy,’ he told her somewhat triumphantly.

  ‘You’re doing really well, but we’ve a little way to go yet. Now, I want you to make the first beat strong and the second two lighter. Strong, soft, soft. Strong, soft, soft.’

  They whirled together, bumped knees once or twice, but continued on without any major mishap.

  ‘Great!’ Sally cried. ‘Now you’re really getting it!’

  He could have kissed her—might have kissed her—but she was too busy issuing more instructions.

  ‘OK. Now you still need to emphasise the first beat, but I’d like you to make the steps a bit oozy. Kind of like sliding in syrup.’

  ‘In syrup?’ he echoed faintly.

  ‘Mmm. You need to keep in time, but try changing the quality to a smooth, gentle, gliding motion.’

  Sally demonstrated, moving away from him, gliding smoothly, fluid as air.

  ‘I’ll never be able to do that.’

  ‘Don’t be defeatist,’ she scolded.

  ‘I’m a realist.’

  But it seemed that Sally had no plans to give up on him.

  ‘Let’s look at this another way, then.’ Tapping a finger against her lips, she watched him thoughtfully. ‘Let me see. You’re a wine connoisseur. Why don’t you think of the waltz as a fine red?’

  His eyebrows arched with bemusement. ‘How is that supposed to help?’

  ‘Imagine Diana Devenish as some kind of exquisite Cabernet Sauvignon—rich and complex, yet mysterious. You give her a swirl and admire her finer qualities, including her fabulous legs, and all the while you’re careful not to spill a drop. You take the wine slowly, savouring every sip as it glides smoothly down your throat. Except you’re gliding along the dance floor instead!’

  Logan grinned. ‘That kind of works for me. I’ll give it a go.’

  Once again, she stepped towards him, took his hand and assumed the dancing position. Taking a deep breath, he placed his hand at her bra line and tried to ignore her tantalising, silky-soft skin. Sally was amazing. Fancy likening the waltz to wine. But it worked. He could picture it. How many intriguing layers were there to this girl?

  ‘OK, let’s glide, Logan.’

  Drawing Sally in, Logan glided. One, two, three. Strong, soft, soft. She was light and graceful in his arms and, as they whirled, he caught wafts of her enticing, tormenting perfume. And somewhere, in the midst of it all, he gave up worrying and let go, giving in, at last, to the moment, to the flow of the music.

  Sally was probably right. Dancing was like drinking fine wine. He certainly longed to know how she tasted, couldn’t shake the feeling that she would be one of those rare finds, imparting a surprisingly delicious aftertaste that left him wanting more.

  Yes, he definitely wanted more, wanted Sally’s slender curves pressed more closely against him, wanted her soft lips—

  Logan stumbled. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  In the next breath he realised that his stumble hadn’t been caused by his own inadequacies, but by Sally, who had stopped dancing and was now slipping out of his arms.

  Flushed and trembling, she stood with her hands buried in the folds of her skirt, not looking at him.

  ‘That—that was very good,’ she said. ‘You’re really getting the hang of it.’

  ‘You’re a very good teacher,’ he assured her and he might have added more compliments but, watching her intently, he realised that something was wrong. Very wrong.

  How had this sudden change happened? Why? Had he held her too tightly? God forbid she’d sensed the direction of his thoughts.

  She still wouldn’t look at him and she had completely lost her sparkle. Clouds had arrived to cover the stars.

  ‘That’s probably enough for one night,’ she said.

  What could he do but agree?

  ‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. ‘I really appreciate your help.’

  One corner of her mouth lifted into a sadly wry smile, then she turned and crossed the room and switched off the music and the silence seemed to echo in the big empty room.

  ‘And now I must pay you,’ Logan said.

  ‘Oh, no.’ Sally’s hands rose to stop him. ‘There’s no need. I’m happy to do this—but I’m not a professional.’

  He cursed himself for handling this so clumsily. ‘I’m going to need more tuition before the ball.’

  She nodded unhappily.

  ‘Perhaps I could take you to dinner in lieu of payment.’ It was an idea that had just come to him and he couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t thought of it sooner. ‘After all, you’ll be giving up your evenings.’

  Eyes fixed on her clasped hands, Sally continued to look unhappy. ‘I don’t think dinner’s a good idea.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  She looked up then and her blue eyes shone with an unnatural intensity. ‘It would be too much like a date.’

  ‘And that’s a crime?’

 
‘You’re my boss, remember?’

  ‘Well, yes. That’s…true.’ Logan scratched his jaw. Somehow, his original plan to keep business and pleasure apart no longer made any sense. He was quite sure that he and Sally should have dinner together. The sooner the better. ‘Let’s keep Blackcorp out of this. You’ll be sacrificing your evenings to help me. Surely I owe you one dinner.’

  Chin lifted, Sally answered him with a long and challenging stare. ‘Isn’t there someone who might object if we had dinner together?’

  ‘I can’t think of anyone.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘What about the white roses women?’

  ‘The who?’

  She gave an impatient toss of her lively curls and glared at him. ‘Don’t play dumb, Mr Black. You know very well who I’m talking about. You have a standing order for white roses and they come every Friday and they’re always for a woman, aren’t they?’

  ‘Well…yes,’ he admitted, admiring her spirit. ‘You’re absolutely right. The roses are most definitely for a woman.’

  Sally blinked hard and looked away. ‘Does she know you’re having dancing lessons with me?’

  ‘No. She has no idea.’

  ‘Are you planning to inform her that you’ve invited me to dinner?’

  ‘I must admit I haven’t given it any thought, but I don’t see why I couldn’t tell her.’

  In the face of his calm responses, Sally’s self-righteous certainty lost a little of its starch. She cast an anxious glance about the meeting room, then lifted her shoulders in an annoyed shrug. ‘We’d better get this place tidied up.’

  ‘There’s no need. The cleaners will appreciate having a cleared floor to work with and they’ll rearrange the furniture in the morning.’

  ‘Fine.’ Mouth tightly pursed, Sally unplugged Logan’s player and wound the cord rapidly and neatly.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said as she handed it to him. ‘Now, about dinner.’

  To his dismay, Sally closed her eyes as if the very idea of dinner with him was upsetting.

  Unwilling to be put off, he said quickly, ‘You’re right. I should clear this with the white roses woman, as you call her.’

  Her blue eyes flew open.

  ‘Why don’t you come with me to meet her, Sally?’

  Her jaw sagged and Logan watched the play of emotions on her expressive face as her anger morphed into doubt and confusion.

  He pressed his advantage. ‘We can kill two birds with one stone. You can make sure that our dinner is not interpreted as a date. And she’ll enjoy meeting you very much.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘I’m sure of it.’

  Sally let this sink in. After a bit, she said, ‘I would certainly be much happier if everything was out in the open. Where I come from, I’m used to people being up front and honest and I’d hate to go behind another woman’s back.’

  ‘That’s very commendable,’ Logan agreed with necessary gravity. ‘Why don’t you come with me tomorrow when I deliver the roses? We’ll clear the air and then we can have dinner.’

  It seemed an age that she stood there, considering this. He held his breath, bracing himself for her refusal, but then she shrugged. ‘That seems reasonable.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SALLY tried to carry on at work as if nothing in her life had changed, but it was a tall order considering that everything had changed while she’d been dancing with Logan Black.

  To start with she’d discovered she’d fallen helplessly in love with him, which was a whopping big problem on its own. But then he’d made everything worse by moving in close to her. She’d felt his body heat and every inch of her skin had tightened…

  Tingled…

  Yearned…

  It could have been a delicious moment, might have become a delicious moment, if her mind hadn’t flashed to that other time. That other dancing partner.

  Instead of bliss, panic had flared without warning.

  The only good thing was that she hadn’t dissolved into a quivering, gibbering mess. She’d been pleased, actually, that she’d managed to recover fairly quickly. But then Logan had complicated everything again by asking her out to dinner.

  He’d made it sound so simple and straightforward—nothing more than payment for the lessons. But any way Sally looked at dinner with Logan Black it was complex, thorny, problematical…

  To start with, every girl knew that dating the boss was a lightning-rod for trouble. If the rest of the staff found out, they would immediately conclude she was hungry for a fast-tracked promotion. And if office gossip wasn’t something huge to fret about, there was the whole business of the white roses.

  Talk about confusing. Sally suspected that very few women—even women as sophisticated as Chloe had been—had the savoir faire to meet their boss’s current lover and then head off to dinner with him.

  But Logan had assured her there’d be no problem and, in the end, his unruffled certainty had tipped the balance. It was why she’d said yes.

  After all, he stood to lose more than she did if news of their dinner date became water-cooler gossip at Blackcorp. And it was his problem if their dinner upset his lover. If he could be calm about that, why shouldn’t she?

  Nevertheless, whenever Sally thought about that evening, she discovered it was possible to look forward to a date and dread it at the same time.

  Not surprisingly, when Logan arrived at her house at six-thirty her stomach was a mass of nerves. He’d quickly showered and changed, as she had, and now he was wearing casual beige trousers and a dark shirt beneath a rather sporty lightweight jacket.

  His hair was still damp and Sally, in her best little black dress and kitten heels—because there was no point in not looking her best—could smell his aftershave as he opened the car door for her. Once inside the car, she smelled the scent of the white roses, which were glistening on the back seat, and her stomach tightened.

  Logan tried to make conversation as he drove to Clifton House, but for once Sally was too tense to respond with anything more than monosyllables. Eventually he gave up and the journey was completed in uncomfortable silence.

  They arrived at very large iron gates, which were opened by a man in a little sentry box. The man greeted Logan and actually dipped his cap as the black car purred through the gateway and up a long gravelled drive that wound its way through green parkland.

  Sally gasped. ‘Where is this? It looks like the grounds of a mansion.’

  ‘Clifton House,’ was Logan’s brief and unsatisfactory reply.

  They emerged from a grove of trees into a wide courtyard complete with a beautiful fountain. In the rays of the setting sun, two storeys of windows glinted gold. This was a mansion. And Sally was way, way out of her comfort zone.

  The name—Clifton House—had been embellished in gold on a black sign. And then, beneath it in smaller print, were the words Nursing Home.

  Sally rounded on Logan. ‘I don’t understand.’

  As he steered his car into a parking space between graceful sandstone columns, he shot her a sheepish smile. ‘This is where I bring the white roses.’

  ‘Is—is the woman you love sick? Or does she run this place?’

  ‘Her health is quite delicate.’

  ‘What does that mean? Has she been seriously ill? Or through some kind of detox programme?’

  ‘God forbid.’

  Slipping out of his seat, he opened the rear door and retrieved the roses and then he came around to open Sally’s door, but she beat him to it. ‘What’s going on, Logan? This isn’t making sense.’

  He grinned. ‘Just be patient and all will be revealed.’

  Stamping her foot angrily, Sally fumed. ‘I’m not setting foot inside this place until I know who I’m supposed to be meeting.’ She stamped her foot again. ‘And why she’s in a nursing home. And why you’ve got such a silly grin on your face.’

  ‘Bravo!’ cried a voice from behind her.

  Spinning round, Sally discovered a dimi
nutive old lady in a motorised wheelchair. The woman’s face was a picture of delighted surprise and her lively brown eyes twinkled from beneath a tidy cap of snowy curls.

  ‘I like to see a young woman with fire,’ she said.

  ‘Darling,’ Logan intervened, stooping quickly to kiss the old lady’s papery cheek and settling the bouquet of roses gently in her lap, ‘what are you doing outside at this hour?’

  ‘It’s such a lovely evening, I thought I’d come out to meet you. And I’m very glad I did. Now, introduce me to this interesting young woman.’

  There was a flash of emotion in Logan’s eyes that Sally couldn’t quite identify. It was followed by a charming smile of apology. ‘Grandmother, this is Sally Finch.’

  Why hadn’t she guessed that the white roses were for someone like a grandmother? Why hadn’t Maeve or Kim guessed? The nerve of Logan to let his staff think they were for his lover!

  ‘Sally,’ Logan continued, ‘I’d like you to meet my wonderful and formidable grandmother, Hattie Lane.’

  Swallowing her outrage, Sally dredged up a smile as she offered her hand to be clasped by thin and wrinkled fingers. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Lane.’

  ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Sally, and please call me Hattie.’

  ‘Now,’ Logan said quickly, ignoring his grandmother’s sharp, birdlike glances of bristling curiosity, ‘let’s get you inside, out of this night air.’

  Taking hold of her wheelchair, he propelled it towards the front doorway.

  Clifton House was certainly fancier than any nursing home Sally had visited, more like a grand hotel. Logan’s grandmother’s room was on the ground floor. Spacious and airy, it housed a large bed with a beautiful quilted cream bedspread, built-in bookshelves and an en suite bathroom. There was also a small sitting area with armchairs and a coffee table beside tall French windows that opened out to the garden.

  ‘Take a seat, Sally.’ Hattie Lane, as regal in her wheelchair as on a throne, pointed to an armchair deeply upholstered in pale green velvet. ‘That chair next to the window is very comfortable.’

  Sally sat where she was told and watched with mild surprise as Logan arranged the bouquet of white roses in a beautiful pink crystal vase. His long fingers worked deftly and the results were surprisingly pleasing to the eye.