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

by Kate Hardy

  ‘You’re going to be fine,’ she told him. ‘I can’t believe how much progress you’ve made. You’re by far my best pupil.’

  ‘How many pupils have you had?’

  ‘In Sydney? One.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘Seriously, Logan, when you take into consideration that you had to force yourself to do something you’ve never liked, you’ve achieved a miracle.’ They stopped at a set of lights. ‘You’re going to pull this off because you have a musical ear and you’re fiercely competitive.’

  She saw the white flash of his grin. ‘And I had a fabulous teacher.’

  ‘You’ve done your share of good turns,’ Sally countered, remembering last night and how completely safe and blissfully happy she’d felt in his arms.

  They continued on through the rain-washed streets, heading for Woolloomooloo, and then they turned a corner and she saw ahead of them a grand building ablaze with lights. Cars and limousines were lined up in the semicircular driveway in front of the entrance and a crowd had gathered to watch.

  Leaning forward, she peered through the windscreen. ‘Is that where we’re going?’

  ‘Yes, that’s the Jameson.’

  ‘Heavens, there are cameramen everywhere. And, oh, my gosh, red carpet!’ She whirled sideways. ‘I can’t believe there’s red carpet. It…it’s like the Oscars.’

  ‘It’s no big deal, Sally. Red carpets are a dime a dozen these days. They use them all the time.’

  Porters rushed forward to open their doors and there was even a valet to park the car for them. As Sally emerged into the cool evening, she could hear the faint strains of a dance band coming from inside the hotel. The lights of cameras flashed in her eyes and strangers on the footpath stared.

  Logan, close behind her, placed a comforting hand at the small of her back. ‘All you have to do is smile and walk.’

  Once they were inside, it was clear that this ball was a truly glittering affair. The Jameson Hotel’s décor was sumptuous. Huge mirrors hung on the walls, reflecting distinguished men in dashing dinner suits and glamorous women in jewel-bright gowns of every conceivable colour and cut. Dazzling chandeliers hung from high ceilings and a wide, circular expanse of polished flooring shone, awaiting hundreds of dancing feet.

  Round tables covered in floor-length white damask had been decorated with arrangements of yellow rosebuds and, above the flowers, white balloons filled with helium were anchored by silver ribbons. The tall fronds of potted palms were glossy and exotic against white marble columns. Rows of wineglasses, soon to be filled, shone like brittle soap bubbles.

  For Sally, it was hard not to stare. There were so many ‘beautiful people’ here, so many famous faces—politicians, TV celebrities and sporting stars and high profile men and women in business. Many of them greeted Logan with back slaps, handshakes, kisses or cries of ‘Darling!’

  They all seemed delighted to meet Sally, although one or two of the women scrutinised her with surreptitious, sharp-eyed glances.

  All around them, the party atmosphere gained momentum. Corks popped and champagne began to flow in frothy gushes. Bottles of red and white wine were opened and glasses filled. Silver trays appeared, laden with canapés so dainty and colourful they were miniature works of art.

  When a strikingly attractive dark-haired woman in a strapless emerald-green gown rushed, arms extended, to greet Logan, Sally wasn’t surprised to learn that she was his sister. Carissa’s husband, Geoff, a tall man with balding ginger hair and a nice smile, was also introduced.

  ‘I’ve been dying to meet you, Sally,’ Carissa said. ‘You’re just what the doctor ordered.’ Before Sally had time to decipher this comment, Carissa went on, ‘And I must congratulate you. Teaching my brother to dance is a magnificent feat. On a par with putting a man on Mars.’

  Logan coughed nervously. ‘It might be wise to hold back on the congratulations until you’re sure I’ve earned them.’

  Watching Logan, Sally caught the quick flash of fear in his eyes. He turned to look out at the huge, shining expanse of the dance floor and she saw the jerky movement of his throat. Reaching for his hand, she gave it a gentle squeeze.

  She was rewarded by his smile, especially for her, and she might have basked in its warmth if everyone around them hadn’t started turning towards the ballroom’s entrance. The babble of voices rose briefly on a wave of excitement and then fell in hushed awe as a tall raven-haired woman with alabaster skin, revealed in vast quantities by a stunning ruby-red gown, entered the room on the arm of a small and balding bespectacled man.

  The Air Force concert band trumpeted a fanfare.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ a deep syrupy voice, vaguely familiar to Sally, announced, ‘please welcome the Chairman of the Hospital Board, Mr Rupert Sinclair-Jones, and our special guest of honour, Australia’s favourite star of dancing, Ms Diana Devenish!’

  Applause broke out as Diana Devenish sailed into the ballroom with the haughty dignity of Cleopatra arriving in Rome.

  Logan glanced at Sally, raised his eyebrows and gave her a nervously lopsided grin.

  Leaning close to him, she said, ‘You’ll be fine, Logan. Anyway, tonight’s supposed to be about raising money for very sick children. The dancing’s just a gimmick.’

  He nodded, but he didn’t look entirely convinced. Sally looked again at Diana Devenish and noted her perfect deportment and her dancer’s body—willow-slender, with a swanlike neck and long limbs. A chill skittered down her spine and she felt swamped by an overwhelming sense of responsibility for Logan’s performance. Suddenly, she was the one who was churned up and scared.

  Was I too casual about this? Should I have asked more questions? She hoped—fervently—that she hadn’t let Logan down.

  Until this evening, she hadn’t really appreciated the huge scale of this ball. She wished she’d insisted that Logan had a dozen lessons from a fully qualified professional ballroom teacher.

  But it was too late now. Too late for more lessons and too late for regrets.

  The syrupy-voiced MC—a popular radio announcer, Carissa informed Sally—welcomed everyone and introduced the Lord Mayor, who made a more formal speech of welcome. He reminded everyone about the charity raffle, told them how much money had been raised and read out the names of the highest donors.

  This was greeted by enthusiastic applause and, when the MC repeated the names of the top three benefactors and announced that they would be dancing with Diana Devenish this evening, the applause became thunderous and accompanied by cheers and whistles.

  ‘See,’ Sally whispered, ‘you’re already a star.’

  But Logan looked pale and distinctly ill. He glanced at his wristwatch and sighed and she knew he would rather be anywhere than here.

  The music started up—a contemporary number, but with a waltzing beat—and, almost immediately, couples moved on to the dance floor.

  Sally turned to Logan. ‘Do you recognise the beat?’

  He managed a grin. ‘How could I miss the old one-two-three, one-two-three?’ To her surprise, he reached for her hand. ‘Come for a whirl out there,’ he said. ‘I need a warm-up while there’s a crowd and no one’s watching.’

  ‘Good idea,’ she whispered and, next minute, she was in Logan’s arms again, waltzing.

  It should have been fun. They’d done this so many times together, but everything was different tonight. The glittering lights overhead, the big band sound of the music, the superfine wool of Logan’s dinner jacket beneath Sally’s hand. His aftershave. His tanned throat above his crisp white collar.

  Logan. So gorgeous. And Sally so deeply and hopelessly in love with him.

  Don’t think about that now. Concentrate on the dancing.

  He smiled at her. ‘Am I gliding?’

  ‘Like an ice-skater,’ she said.

  Carissa, twirling past with Geoff, beamed at them over her husband’s shoulder and sent them the thumbs-up sign.

  The dance bracket finished. One hurdle over.
Logan thanked Sally sincerely, escorted her off the floor and found her a drink. She’d taken two sips before one of Logan’s friends asked her to dance.

  And that became the pattern of the next hour. Sally was amazed by the number of men who wanted to dance with her. Most of them were curious, of course. They wanted to know how she and Logan had met, and why they’d never run into her before. But while Sally found their sincere interest and praise flattering, she also found that the time dragged.

  She was super-aware that Logan didn’t dance. He remained among the bystanders, nursing a glass of red wine, chatting and watching from the sidelines. Waiting till his ordeal was over.

  At last the music stopped and Diana Devenish, who must have been sequestered away in a corner, appeared on the edge of the dance floor beneath a spotlight.

  Sally felt that same panicky dread she’d felt during exams when the teacher had said, ‘You may commence reading your test paper…now.’

  Logan, as the most generous donor, was to have the honour of dancing first. Any minute now, his name would be called out. Heart hammering, Sally made her way to his side. ‘Just remember—’ she began, but her throat was strangely parched and the rest of her sentence dried on her lips.

  He smiled into her eyes. ‘I’ll remember. I’m a coat hanger. And I mustn’t look down at my feet.’

  She nodded and her throat was tight and sore. Logan’s name was announced and she felt cold all over, sick with ridiculous nerves. He dipped his head, dropping a swift, warm kiss on her cool cheek.

  ‘Break a leg,’ she whispered.

  ‘There’s every chance,’ came his dry reply and then he squared his shoulders and marched across the ballroom.

  A subdued hush fell over the crowd as he approached Diana Devenish and Sally felt a cool hand clasp hers—Carissa was looking as nervous and sick as Sally felt.

  ‘When he was a boy at school, he hated performing. Always got terrible stage fright,’ Carissa whispered.

  It was rather too late to be remembering that now, Sally wanted to tell her. ‘He’ll be fine,’ she said, but her stomach felt hollow and there was a scratchy soreness in her throat.

  The attention of everyone in the room was focused on Diana Devenish and Logan.

  ‘Mr Logan Black is the Managing Director of Blackcorp Mining Consultancies,’ the MC told them. ‘And he has chosen to dance the waltz with Ms Devenish.’

  The lights in the ballroom dimmed and fine hairs lifted on Sally’s arms as Logan entered the spotlight’s circle with his shoulders back and his head proudly erect, as determined and brave as a gladiator entering the Colosseum.

  Television cameras edged closer, zooming in as Diana Devenish greeted Logan with a kiss. Rising on tiptoe, she whispered something in his ear, smiled coyly and he nodded.

  Then the band began to play a very lush and beautiful theme from a movie—a popular piece that everyone knew and loved. Logan took Diana’s right hand in his and supported her back with his hand beneath her shoulder blade, just as Sally had taught him. Think bra line. Diana placed her left hand on his shoulder and smiled up at him, encouraging him to take the lead.

  Logan didn’t.

  He didn’t move. In fact, he looked as if his knees had locked and his feet were glued to the floor.

  The music played on and Sally’s throat squeezed tight. ‘Just start counting,’ she whispered, willing him to remember.

  She knew that if Logan didn’t move soon, Diana Devenish almost certainly would. Diana would probably drag him around the dance floor if she had to. But he would be mortified, would hate to admit defeat.

  She tried to tell herself it didn’t matter. Her emotional investment in Logan’s success was foolish. This was only a dance, for heaven’s sake. Nothing life-threatening. He would get over this embarrassment.

  Easy to say…

  Scared that she might actually cry, Sally closed her eyes and the lovely music continued, lilting and lush. One, two, three. One, two, three. Can you count to three, Mr Black?

  She touched Chloe’s locket. It seemed so silly now, to think of it as a good luck charm.

  ‘Sally!’ Carissa joggled her elbow. ‘Sally, look!’

  Forcing her eyes open, Sally felt her mouth wobble dangerously out of shape. Logan was dancing. He was leading with his body and gliding, gliding. Diana Devenish looked delighted as she floated in his arms, her high-heeled ruby shoes sparkling and twirling and her skirt trailing like a flame.

  The handsome couple danced on and on, smoothly and elegantly, while the music swelled towards a dramatic conclusion and Logan, sensing that his ordeal was almost over, took Diana out into the centre and waltzed a little faster, showing off now. The crowd burst into applause and Sally, snuffling, clapped loudest of all.

  It was ages before Logan was free. First he had to wait at Diana’s table until the other two men had their turn at dancing. And then there were all kinds of strangers crowding in to offer their congratulations.

  The whole time he was fielding their hugs and back slaps, he kept a weather eye open for Sally on the far side of the room where she was chatting to Carissa’s friends. She looked, with her golden hair and her golden dress, like a slender beacon.

  His little guiding light. If he hadn’t already been in debt to Sally for saving his company, he was now. This evening he’d come within a hair’s breadth of personal fiasco. He might have remained glued to the ballroom floor for ever if he hadn’t heard her voice, whispering cheekily in his ear: Can you count to three, Mr Black?

  After that, Diana Devenish and the crowd had disappeared. One, two-three. Strong, soft-soft. He’d been dancing with Sally in Blackcorp’s boardroom with the tables and chairs shoved up against the walls. The waltz is all about poise, grace and elegance.

  Thank you for everything, Sally Finch.

  At last he reached her. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him and told him that he was fabulous, as so many others had, but, for Logan, this embrace was nothing like the others. When he hugged Sally close, he wanted to pull her even closer and never let her go. She felt so absolutely right in his arms, as if she belonged there, clasped against his heart.

  ‘I’ve been telling Sally she should open a dancing studio,’ Carissa said when he finally, reluctantly, released Sally.

  ‘She mustn’t do that.’ He looked down into Sally’s shining eyes, as blue and bright as her topaz earrings. He touched his knuckles to her flushed cheek. ‘I need her at Blackcorp.’

  The colour mounted in Sally’s cheeks. She gave her trademark warm, dazzling smile and a rocky lump wedged in Logan’s throat. Last night’s lovemaking had been beyond wonderful. Sally’s exquisite tenderness, her emotional honesty and total lack of inhibition had set him craving more.

  He’d never felt desire with this deep intensity and he’d give anything to be able to whisk her away from here. Now. He would take her back to his place. Or hers. Anywhere where they could be together. Alone.

  ‘I think it must be my turn to dance with you, Sally.’ Geoff’s voice broke into Logan’s distracted thoughts.

  Sally turned to Carissa’s husband and beamed at him. ‘I’d love that, Geoff. And hey, it’s a tango! Let’s go!’

  They hurried away like happy children, hand in hand, laughing even before they reached the dance floor. Jealously, Logan watched as they began to dance, grinning madly as they tangoed across the room, arms extended and cheeks touching.

  Sally was so lovely, such fun. Everyone who met her was charmed by her vibrancy and warmth. She was like a tonic enriching his life.

  As if she knew what he was thinking, Sally turned on the dance floor and looked back over her shoulder at him. Her eyes sparkled as their eyes met and she sent him a smile shining with love.

  And then he knew…with unsettling clarity…that Sally had fallen in love with him. If only he was free to love her. If only…

  Hell.

  An ominous, deathlike clamp gripped his heart and he almost cried out in pain. He’d made
a terrible, unforgivable mistake.

  Last night Sally had told him about the rat who’d attacked her and he’d felt so protective. He’d wanted to shield her from the world.

  But how could he? How could he stick to his five-year plan and remain on the pedestal she’d placed him on?

  Last night she’d said: Isn’t honesty the best thing?

  That had been his cue.

  He should have told her then. While we’re being honest, sweetheart, I have this business plan, which doesn’t, unfortunately, allow me the luxury of a romance.

  But if he’d told her that he would have ruined a beautiful, utterly perfect moment.

  Sins of omission can be the most dangerous.

  Hattie had told him that. And the really terrible thing was he’d been so damn eager to have another bout of fabulous sex with Sally that he’d avoided telling her an important detail—that his emotions were on hold for another five years.

  Actually, he should have made sure she understood that before he’d lured her into his bed. He’d totally ignored his vow to keep his distance from Sally Finch. He’d known from the start that she wasn’t a sophisticated city woman, but a sweet country girl who believed in falling in love, in two people becoming soul mates and living happy-ever-after.

  Which made him as bad as that creep who’d attacked her at the dance. And what was his excuse? That he’d been floating high yesterday because Sally had saved his company? Pumped with euphoria, overflowing with gratitude? How honourable was that?

  Last night’s emotions did not excuse him from giving in to forbidden desires. He should have remembered that, no matter how desperately he wanted Sally, he could not give her the emotional commitment she needed and deserved.

  He should have been honest. Sally had told him about that rat because she trusted him. Poor darling. She’d trusted a man who hadn’t the fortitude to tell her there was no space on his agenda for love.

  But how would he find the strength to give her up?