Thank God he’s on his mobile speaking in a language I can’t quite place and therefore oblivious to my unprofessional, uncharacteristic gawking. Then his gaze swings to mine and he loses the thread of his conversation, frowning. Bugger. Has he caught me staring? Embarrassing. But he shakes his head, responds to something the caller says and turns to face the window.
I wish ignoring him was so easy, but the deep-blue eyes I caught a flash of were captivating, framed by enviously long, black lashes that might make him pretty if he wasn’t so … manly. Icing on the cake (and I love my cake) are the kissable Tom Hardy pillow lips. And there’s The Body. Wide shoulders, broad chest and long muscular legs sprawled out in front of him. He’s not just hot, he’s mega hot.
This big handsome guy, a man who looks like a film star or a model in an American underwear ad, is the CEO? Unbelievable. Just my luck. My heart clunks to the pit of my stomach, feeling like it catches some vital organs on the way down. After all the gossip Tony circulated about me, and given the reason I’m here, my boss for the weekend is the last man in existence I can be attracted to.
I study him covertly, trying to swallow moisture back into my mouth. Being immune to his appeal fails in spectacular fashion, as an unfamiliar burn of heat sweeps along the back of my neck, spreading down my chest. I just manage not to wipe damp hands along my trouser legs. What’s wrong with me? Although a redhead, I never blush; something I’ve always been thankful for.
Boy, am I in Trouble.
There’s no time to dwell on the thought because he ends his call, throwing his phone onto the seat between us.
‘So. Who the hell are you?’ He demands as the car pulls out into the insane London traffic.
Chapter Two
Teeth snapping shut, my shameless appreciation of his outrageous good looks nosedives. Is he for real? Why so rude? But I must keep him on side, can’t lose my cool, so I breathe in slowly, the scent of new leather making me feel slightly sick.
‘Well?’
‘Charley Caswell. Pleased to meet you.’ Forcing a brittle smile, I thrust a hand towards him. ‘The agency sent me to assist you over the next few days?’
His handshake is brisk and he withdraws as though I have a contagious disease. I ignore the tingle in my palm at his touch.
‘I know why you’re here,’ he replies, ‘I instructed the agency to hire someone. It’s just that you’re ah,’ a pause, ‘not what I was expecting.’
His gaze flickers over my chest, which I’ve always hated because my boobs are so big they make me feel like a low-grade porn star. Flushing, I button my suit jacket, trying to put aside the unwelcome excitement choking my oxygen supply.
Stop it. I should be offended by the quick glance, not flattered.
Be professional. I have to convince him I’m a sane human being, earn a little of his trust.
Rerunning his last remark, not what I was expecting I connect it with his downward glance. Is the problem I’m not a man? Not okay. But confrontation isn’t what I came here for. ‘I appreciate my first name may have caused some confusion, but I assure you I’ve lots of experience as a PA.’ It’s not exactly a lie. I was a PA for a year and a half during my climb up the corporate ladder. I’m sure the skills will come back to me.
‘I haven’t got any problem with your experience, after all you’ve been vetted by the agency.’ He jerks open one of his jacket buttons and shifts his long legs restlessly. ‘But I’ve had … issues with female staff in the past. My executive assistant has a burst appendix and is in hospital recovering and apparently no one could step in at such short notice. Or they’re still on leave.’ He looks less than impressed.
‘Well, we’re barely into the New Year, and people do have a right to take holiday don’t they?’ I shouldn’t say it but I feel sorry for the employees he has such high expectations of. ‘And if you’re limiting the number of people who can assist you to men,’ I know by the flickering pulse in his jaw I’m right, ‘you are narrowing your field a bit.’ I won’t argue outright about his blatant sexism, but I can’t let it pass unnoticed.
‘Maybe,’ he agrees stiffly, looking at me with narrowed eyes. ‘I suppose I just expected more. A sense of duty perhaps.’
Sidestepping his remark: ‘So, what issues are you referring to about women anyway?’ Carrying out my plan is going to be a teensy bit problematic if my gender means he won’t even listen to me.
‘Some people can separate work from their personal lives, respect professional boundaries,’ he says coolly, ‘but unfortunately others don’t have that ability.’
‘You’re joking?’ I laugh. Is he suggesting men do and women don’t, or that he’s so attractive every female who works for him will try it on? Okay, he’s hot, but a large proportion of the female population demand equality and respect, and he’s hardly giving off those vibes.
‘No, I’m not.’ He frowns. ‘I was trying to be the opposite of funny.’
‘Okay.’ I bite the inside of my mouth. Talk about taking yourself too seriously.
‘What are you smiling at?’ he barks.
Blanking my face and voice, ‘Nothing, sir. Absolutely nothing. I apologise, I didn’t realise I was.’
‘Don’t be silly. You don’t have to apologise for smiling.’
I ache to exclaim I don’t, Sah? in a surprised, mock southern drawl, with a splayed hand to my chest whilst fluttering my eyelashes, but hold back.
‘And don’t call me sir. I hate it.’
He should try sounding less stern then. ‘Yes s – I mean, Mr Demetrio.’
‘Alex.’
‘Yes, Alex.’ I want to ask if he’s sure letting me use his first name is appropriate given his need to maintain boundaries, but it’d probably be pushing it.
A horrible thought chokes me. Is the point about boundaries something he tells all female staff or is it just directed at me? Does he know who I am? A trickle of cold sweat runs down my spine, the droplet trickling into the waistband of my trousers.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asks, broad body swaying with the movement of the car. ‘You look like you’ve been told your grandma’s been run over by a bus.’
‘N–nothing.’ I shake my head. Paranoia is setting in. Studying his face for any hint of a hidden agenda, I clock only bewilderment and annoyance shining in his eyes and curling his mouth. ‘But let me assure you I’ve no problem keeping my work and personal lives separate. I’m more than capable of being professional.’
‘Good.’ He runs a tanned hand through his hair, leaving it ruffled in messy spikes that make fireflies circle in my stomach. ‘Keep it that way.’
‘No problem.’ Crossing my arms and legs, I turn to stare out the window, wishing I could leap out of it. Gorgeous or not, the man needs a major attitude adjustment. Plus his behaviour has reinforced why I’m off men; my career and putting my life back together are what matter, not a pretty face and a hard set of muscles.
During the next few minutes of suffocating silence I gaze at passengers in passing cars, smiling slightly as I take in a piece of leftover mistletoe stuck up hopefully in a rear windscreen. Alex alternates between fiddling with his phone and staring out of his window.
‘Miss Caswell, I should apologise,’ he mutters, glancing at me from the corner of his eye.
I look over at him. If he’s trying to say sorry it’s a poor attempt, ‘And are you?’
‘Am I what?’ He looks half confused, half cross.
‘Apologising?’
‘Yes, I am.’ He lets out an exasperated laugh, a shade of tension dropping from his expression. ‘I’m sorry.’
Scrutinising his face to gauge his sincerity turns out to be a dangerous move, because my breath catches in my throat, my heart beating so hard I can detect every pulsing rush of blood.
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.
My brain and body are definitely not on the same page. My head says stay away! in massive, neon, flashing letters whilst a warning klaxon sounds, but my rebellious sex drive is s
uggesting it’s right and natural to slide along the seat towards him and–
Stop! Check yourself Charley. This isn’t like you. Angling myself so the door handle digs into my left kidney, I use the discomfort to refocus, fixing on one of Alex’s defined cheekbones to avoid getting lost in his deep-blue eyes. ‘Apology accepted,’ I reply at last. He seems genuine enough. ‘However, I’d ask you not to judge me by other people’s actions. You don’t know me.’ Do you?
‘You’re right.’ He sits straighter, eyebrows folding together. ‘And I know it must sound like I’m making a generalisation, but I have my reasons—’
‘I’m sure you do, but you don’t have to explain them to me.’ I interrupt. Better to keep my distance.
‘Thank you.’
I nod rather than get caught in further conversation but am aware of him studying me as I turn to the tinted car window. The dual carriageway and metal barriers slide by outside but I don’t see them, too distracted by irritation and confusion. At him. At myself.
Yeah, I’ve got to keep my distance.
However, it doesn’t take much for my attention to boomerang back to Alex. When he pulls out a computer tablet and starts flicking things across the screen with a long-tanned finger, my gaze lands on his muscular thighs, superbly shown off by expensively tailored trousers. The idea of being flung over his shoulder and carried off to his cave and ravished pops into my head. It doesn’t make sense at all; I can’t stand male chauvinists. Which is surely what he is if he thinks no woman can make it in the corporate world without surrendering to romance. I mean, what about men? They’re just as guilty as getting involved in workplace relationships.
Added to which, growing up with three older brothers who delighted in winding me up at every opportunity means I hate chauvinist behaviour. In my teens they always taunted me about kitchen sinks and ironing boards and how real women should have dinner on the table when their husbands got home. I lost count of the number of times they provoked me into losing my temper or embarrassed me in front of my latest crush.
Now we’re all adults I’ve forgiven them their comments. They only made them to get a reaction. Still, I learnt from the older generation in my home village that some men really do view women like that. Outdated attitudes I was keen to escape. So it’s easygoing, supportive guys I date, not alpha males who have liquid testosterone running through their veins. Men like Alex.
No, it can’t be genuine attraction. It’s a hormonal thing, I’ve been sex-starved for too long. Perhaps it’s time to change that. Just not with Mr Standoffish.
Stamping hard on the brakes, the driver gives a muffled curse as the car skids to a stop with a squeal of tyres. I’m wrenched out of my thoughts and, despite my seatbelt, fly sideways with a lurch, ending half-sprawled across Alex’s lap, my boobs against his shoulder and my hand on his upper thigh.
It’s very hard, and very hot.
Chapter Three
‘Oops, sorry.’ Straightening, I gaze into his eyes, cheeks scalding, heart racing again. It takes enormous willpower not to squeeze his thigh to test exactly how firm it is.
‘No problem,’ he replies, ‘it was an accident.’ He lifts my hand off his leg. ‘But if you don’t mind, you can have this back.’
‘Thanks.’ I can’t help noticing how big and warm his hand is, the palm rough against my fingers, which flex automatically, fingertips brushing his wrist. His touch transmits a basic message to my ultra-aware body and my unruly hormones go into party mode again. ‘Mr Demetrio,’ I breathe.
‘Yes?’
‘I … um.’ Hot and extremely bothered, my skin tingles with waves of sexual awareness. My toes are curling, no, practically corkscrewing in my boots. Bet he’s phenomenal in bed. Not that it matters. Snap out of it. Clearing my throat. ‘Nothing.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ the driver calls through. ‘Someone cut across me to get to the exit. I don’t think he saw me.’
‘No problem,’ Alex replies. ‘The main thing is we’re all okay.’ He looks down at our joined hands and frowns.
I snatch mine away, sliding across the back seat as the car starts moving again. With a small shake of his head, Alex retrieves his tablet and resumes work.
Rubbing my shoulder where the belt burnt into it, I cast around for a distraction. ‘How far to the airport?’ Fresh air and a change of scenery may do me good.
He glances at his expensive gold watch. ‘Another twenty minutes or so.’
‘Right, thank you.’
‘Is there a problem?’
Shifting on the leather beneath me, I open my jacket, needing to cool down. ‘No, not at all, I was just wondering.’ The seatbelt tightens across my chest as the car purrs up a slip road and comes to a roundabout. I need to get a grip. Back to the task at hand. What would a new employee with little knowledge of his business ask?
‘Can you brief me on the arrangements for this weekend please? And provide some background information about you and the organisation?’ I know the casino chain inside out and can list the types of companies sitting alongside it under the umbrella organisation, but if I show that knowledge off he might get suspicious.
He turns to face me. ‘Didn’t you do any research? Or ask the agency to brief you?’
I take a deep breath, refusing to react to the implied criticism. ‘There wasn’t enough time. The agency gave me the broad outline, but once I accepted the assignment, it was a rush to pack and get across the city. Plus my phone died, so I couldn’t look it up online.’ Liar. I switched to a pay-as-you-go mobile months ago and only have enough credit to make emergency calls to Jess whilst abroad. Raising my eyebrows, I inject gratitude into my tone. ‘So if you wouldn’t mind?’
‘Fair enough.’ He stretches his arms out then drops them, the movement making me aware of how big and broad he is. ‘This weekend is for the AGM,’ annual general meeting I translate silently, ‘of Demetrio International. The organisation has Greek roots but we trade worldwide.’ The car rocks slightly as an articulated lorry roars past.
‘You don’t sound very Greek.’ It pops out.
‘What do you want? Dios and agape mou in darkly accented muttered tones?’
My stomach squelches. That actually sounds quite nice. But it appears to be a sore point. ‘No, of course not. Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it.’
‘No,’ he sighs, ‘I’m sorry for snapping. Anyway, I came to the UK as a child from Corfu, went to boarding school and then on to study at Oxford.’ Which explains his unaccented English. ‘I can speak some Greek. German and French too.’
‘Right.’
‘My grandfather built the original companies, primarily based on shipping, oil and transport.’ As he speaks a crooked smile curves his mouth, making my knickers twang. ‘When he met my grandmother, who’s British, she was a high-ranking army officer. After they married she left the army and had my father and younger sister within a few years but wanted to do something as well as raise children. Together they set up and managed a number of vineyards across Europe, olive farms and some restaurants and bars throughout the Greek islands. That was the start of it.’
‘She was an officer,’ I echo, impressed. The corporate induction information mentions the organisation’s humble beginnings, but I didn’t know his grandmother was in the army. She must have been a tough lady.
‘Yes, but it’s not well known. Pretend you didn’t hear that.’
‘No problem.’ I mime zipping my lips. So he likes his privacy. It must be pretty difficult to achieve. After all, he’s a wealthy, young and dynamic CEO and therefore someone naturally of interest to the press. The David Beckham of the business world. I could be intimidated, but he’s still a person who eats, sleeps and breathes, even if it’s hard to ignore the cut of the sharply tailored suit, hand-crafted leather shoes and healthy sheen of his skin. And that he could probably buy the flat I’m mortgaged to the hilt on a hundred times over.
‘Thank you. So, my father came into the business in his twenties and ran the
company alongside my grandfather for over thirty years, expanding the enterprise, until seven years ago when I became CEO. My grandfather retired very late, my father earlier than planned, and they convinced the Board someone in the family should run the company.’ His expression turns grim.
Shifting in my seat to look at him better. ‘Can I ask a question?’
His shoulders tense. ‘It depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On what the question is.’
Wow. Talk about uptight. ‘I wanted to ask how old you are,’ I say easily, ‘but if it’s a national secret, one of those if I tell you I’ll have to kill you pieces of information, please feel free not to answer.’
Opening his mouth, he pauses, then shocks me by throwing his head back and laughing. It’s a low, rumbling sound and does funny things to my insides. As he chuckles, the tension seems to leak from him.
‘No, it’s not a national secret,’ he murmurs, giving me a wide, genuine, ridiculously sexy smile, ‘and I can tell you, but I won’t have to kill you. So if you’re looking for a merciful death to escape this assignment I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.’
‘What a shame,’ I drawl, playing along. Then freeze. God, are we flirting? I mustn’t, I can’t, even if it’s accidental. I’ve been here before and look how it turned out.
Disaster.
Major bloody disaster.
No, it’s fine. I shake my head internally. He’s just being nice and I’m doing the same. ‘So, how old are you?’ I’d put him at thirty-five when he’s scowling and twenty-seven when he’s smiling. Funny how a change of emotion can make such a difference to someone’s face.
‘Thirty-one. Why?’
‘You said you’d been in charge for seven years, I wondered how old you were when you took over, given the level of responsibility. Twenty-four. Pretty young.’ Ouch. Most people that age are still finding themselves, dabbling around the edges of life, and there he was, running a massive organisation.
Lips compressing, any humour flees. ‘I’m the oldest son and they trusted me,’ he states, face going curiously blank.
The Little Shop of Afternoon Delights Page 25