Five Exotic Fantasies: Love in Reverse, Book 3

by Serenity Woods

  He got to his feet. “Yes, quite a few, but let’s start with: what shall I call you?”

  She glanced up at him over her the top of her glasses, a look he found so sexy that, if the door hadn’t been open, he might have pushed her up against the desk and kissed her senseless. “Miss Stark will do just fine, thank you.”

  “I can’t call you Veronica?”

  “Nobody calls me Veronica.”

  He frowned at that, watching her tidy her desk and lean forward on it to check her emails. In spite of the fact that her white shirt was buttoned well above her cleavage, from his high vantage point he got a splendid view of her breasts encased in white lacy half-cups. Nice, he thought, before politely averting his gaze.

  The phone on her desk rang, and she said, “Excuse me,” before answering it. She listened for a moment then walked over to a filing cabinet and pulled out a manila file. Her back to him, she balanced it on top of the drawer and started to flip through it as she discussed the contents with the caller.

  Felix took a few steps to the side of her desk and perused the items. At the edge nearest to him, she had a photograph in a frame, and he picked it up and scanned it quickly. It was of her with an older woman in a wheelchair. Her mother? The office manager’s hair hung around her shoulders in golden waves, which made her look younger and softer. And he could just see that around her neck, she was wearing a gold chain with a word hanging from it. It said Coco.

  Hmm.

  He put the photo down and checked the rest of the desk. There were no little knickknacks that would suggest she was in a relationship, no small cuddly toys or love hearts or photos of a guy looking fondly at the camera. He walked back to the centre of the room and waited for her to finish her call. She hung up the phone. “Sorry about that.”

  “No worries.”

  She looked blank briefly. “What were we talking about?”

  “You asked me if I have any questions.”

  “Oh. Yes. Do you?”

  “Yes. Why did I annoy you as soon as I walked in the room?”

  She met his gaze, looking amused. “To be honest, you annoyed me before you got here.”

  “Because of the coffee shop?”

  “Before then, actually.”

  “Wow. It takes some doing to annoy someone before they’ve even met you.”

  Her mouth twitched. “I’m not too fond of JAFAs.”

  “Just Another…Flipping Aucklander?” He smiled. “Actually I was born in the Bay of Islands. But I get your point. I must say, I’m not too fond of Wellington myself. Far too windy.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Well, you know what they say—Wellington blows, but Auckland sucks.”

  He laughed at that. After unbuttoning his jacket, not missing the way her eyes dipped to follow his movement, he slid his hands into the pockets of his pants and said, “Now, why don’t you tell me the real reason I got up your nose before I even arrived here?”

  Her eyes lifted to his and surveyed him coolly. “What makes you think that wasn’t the real reason?”

  “I’m trained to read the truth in people’s eyes, Miss Stark. Quite clearly, you’re withholding evidence.” He leaned against the cabinet and studied her with the patient lawyer’s stare he’d cultivated over the ten years he’d been studying the subject.

  She blinked. “I…” She looked down at her desk and moved a file from one side to the other.

  He frowned as an idea formed in his head. “Is it the case? Something to do with Peter Dell?”

  Chapter Four

  Coco studied him silently. This man had somehow welded the speech centre of her brain into one large lump. She’d nearly passed out when she looked up from her desk and Rob had announced he was the Mr. Hotshot she’d been so dreading meeting. What were the chances? She’d been so certain he’d be slimy and obnoxious. True, he was as flash and confident as she’d expected, but his eyes were kind and gentle, and there was something in the way he looked at her that lit a fuse at the bottom of her spine and sent the flame firing up her central nervous system to explode somewhere behind her eyes, knocking out her ability to converse.

  Was it just the way he looked? Most men looked good in suits, and his was a very good suit. Navy with a faint pinstripe, tailor-made from quality fabric, it was cut perfectly to fit his large frame, snug across his wide shoulders without being tight, the pants the perfect length for his long legs, not quite touching the ground over his stylish loafers. His light blue shirt brought attention to his brown eyes and dark hair, which continued to flop endearingly over his forehead. The subtle, darker blue tie complemented the suit and shirt perfectly. Had a woman dressed him? He wore a single gold signet ring on his right hand, but when she glanced at his left there was no sign of a wedding ring, although that didn’t mean anything nowadays.

  Not that she was interested, of course. Veronica Stark did not have time for this sort of thing. She moved more papers around on her desk, knowing perfectly well he was aware she was shuffling aimlessly. Would he push her, or change the subject? As a top lawyer, he’d be used to pressing the point and wheedling out answers.

  “So, anyway,” he said. His deep, gravelly voice was a big part of the reason why her brain was turning to mush. Talk about give a girl goose bumps.

  His words implied a change of subject. Hoping that was the case, she made her voice crisp. “Yes?”

  “What makes a senior partner say his office manager has ‘top-class secretarial skills’? What does that constitute, exactly, in this day and age?”

  She walked around the desk and studied him, arms folded. He had changed the subject. That won him a few points. “Are you checking my credentials?”

  He smiled. “Just interested. Christopher was quite glowing when he talked about you.”

  “Oh.” She blinked at the unexpected compliment. “Well. I have a typing speed of a hundred-and-twenty words per minute at ninety-eight percent accuracy, shorthand speed of a hundred-and-fifty words per minute at ninety-nine percent accuracy, advanced audio typing, up-to-date training in all Microsoft packages, various advanced secretarial courses, ten years of on-the-job training… anything else you’d like to know?”

  His eyes widened. “That’s pretty impressive.”

  She shrugged. “Actually those speeds were recorded a few years ago—I’ve probably dropped a little as I don’t use it all day every day like I used to.”

  “You undersell yourself,” he said. “There’s more to doing your job than typing speed. I’m sure the key to being a good office manager is organisational skill, which is incredibly rare, as well as the ability to anticipate a man’s needs before he knows what they are himself.”

  She met his gaze, wondering if he’d meant the words to have the double meaning that rang in her brain. Was he coming on to her? She was out of practice with the dating game. It was rare nowadays that men flirted with her—Miss Stark openly discouraged it, and it usually worked.

  He blinked, and for a moment uncertainty flickered in his eyes before he dropped his gaze. She frowned, puzzled. The same look had crossed his face when he’d made the joke about being on top. Almost as if he’d flirted unintentionally and then regretted his words, which wouldn’t be surprising considering his reason for being there.

  She wasn’t as naïve as she had been at seventeen. Over the ten years she’d worked at the office, she’d grown used to the way men and women interacted. In spite of her warning regarding relationships with the young secretaries, it was impossible to eliminate the occasional sexual banter. Light innuendo was a natural reaction when a person found another person attractive.

  She cast her eye over his swept-back dark hair and smart suit as he studied his shoes. She’d called him Hotshot to Amy and had been certain he’d be flash and arrogant, but in actual fact he seemed nice. Young? Yes. Flash? A little, but his eyes were kind and the fact that he was there to investigate a case so close to her heart wasn’t his fault.

  And he found her attractive. She warm
ed from the toes up.

  “Mr. Wilkinson…” she said softly.

  His eyes came back to hers. “Call me Felix.”

  “Whatever you say, Mr. Wilkinson.” She smiled. “Come on, let me show you around the office.”

  Keep professional, she told herself, heading for the door. It was her key phrase, one that had got her through many awkward situations. It was going to be a difficult day for many reasons, and the only way she was going to get through it was to try to keep her cool.

  So she let Miss Stark show him around the workroom, indicating where to place his general work for the typing pool, but also introducing him to Maddy, the quick, efficient and knowledgeable legal secretary who would probably be doing most of his work. Maddy was twenty-three, red-haired and pretty, and Coco watched Felix to see if his comments to Maddy were risqué, or if his eyes followed her as she walked away. He remained pleasant but professional, however, turning his gaze back to Coco to discuss Maddy’s working hours rather than follow her butt in the tight skirt. Okay. Another point in his favour.

  She walked him through the human resources department, trying not to laugh at the way Amy’s eyes nearly fell out of her head as they were introduced.

  “Goodness,” Amy said. “What luck!”

  Coco glared at her, but Felix just laughed and said, “Nice to meet you properly,” before they walked on. Amy wasn’t the only one eyeing him up, though, Coco thought as they continued their tour. Everywhere they went, he was met with simpering gazes, fluttering eyelashes and reddening cheeks, and even the older women seemed to giggle girlishly as he walked past.

  She might not have approved of their reaction to his presence, but she could understand it. As she walked beside him, she occasionally caught a whiff of his lovely aftershave, and she admired his crisp, well-ironed shirt and clean-shaven jaw. He smelled and looked expensive. He’d be the type of man who showered regularly, who brushed his teeth twice a day and visited the hygienist, and he’d wear boxers or boxer-briefs, not Y-fronts. A clip in the shape of a pen held his tie flat against his shirt, and oh my God, were there cufflinks in his sleeves?

  He was polite to everyone they met and held the door open for her as they walked back to the main workroom, and although he’d flirted with her, he hadn’t been lecherous or overly intimate. She liked good manners. In fact she liked everything about him. Watch out, her inner voice warned her. Just be careful.

  She noticed that although he didn’t speak much he took in everything as they walked, his eyes scanning the offices and the people in them as if he were some spy recording details in a secret chip he’d had implanted in his retinas.

  “Does it meet with your approval?” she asked eventually, wondering what he was thinking.

  His warm brown gaze came back to rest on her. “Does what meet with my approval?”

  “Whatever you’re looking for.”

  He smiled. “I’m just trying to get a first impression of the branch. To see what the general atmosphere is like. Different workplaces have different sets of rules.”

  “McAllister Dell’s rules and regulations are the same in all our offices,” she pointed out.

  “I don’t mean the official rules. I mean the unofficial ones. It’s about the people. Their age and social standing—their senses of humour. What may pass as acceptable physical contact or verbal banter here, for example, may not in Auckland and vice versa. In a sexual harassment case, it’s imperative to establish what boundaries are usually considered acceptable in the employee’s environment. If risqué banter is considered the norm, for example, it might put what’s been perceived as an offensive comment into perspective as being a joke or a compliment rather than an actual advance.”

  Was he referring to the couple of sexual references he’d made, maybe trying to explain that he hadn’t meant any offence? “I hadn’t thought of that,” she said. “I suppose we all have different acceptable boundaries.”

  “Yes, both personally and on a branch level.”

  “What are the other branches like?”

  He tipped his head thoughtfully. “They’re all quite different. Dunedin has a high proportion of lawyers who also play rugby, so there’s quite a locker room feel to the place. Even with the women, jokes tend to be nearer the knuckle than, for example, in Christchurch. That office changed a lot after the earthquake. Obviously the physical building was damaged and they had to move, but I think the employees grew closer as a result. It has more of a clique-y feel—harder to infiltrate, you know?”

  She nodded and reached for the door handle at the same time that he did, and their hands bumped. He smiled and opened the door for her, and she walked through, trying to ignore the sensations skittering across her skin at the brush of his fingers.

  “What about in Nelson?” she asked.

  “Much more laid back, the same as the Bay of Islands, probably reflecting the warmer weather.”

  “And Auckland?”

  A light came into his eyes. “Auckland’s the best. Open, spacious offices. There are lots of women working there, and maybe because of that the place has a very respectful feel. Very modern and…I don’t know, egalitarian, maybe. It feels as if it doesn’t matter whether you’re a man or a woman, Maori, Indian or white, gay or straight—everyone has an equal opportunity to rise high if they work hard and play fair.” He smiled at her raised eyebrow. “I know I’m probably being idealistic and it’s not like that at all, but that’s how it feels.”

  He was being idealistic, but she liked that. He didn’t sound like the kind of guy who took women for granted and used them before discarding them like some other people. His words made her feel that he’d made his previous flirtatious comments out of a genuine attraction to her.

  “So is there much sexual innuendo in the Auckland office?” she asked, genuinely interested.

  He shrugged. “Some. It would be indirect, if at all—general jokes or references to things said on TV shows, for example, rather than direct comments about another person’s sexuality.”

  She had to ask. “So do you flirt with all the women you work with? Is that considered acceptable in Auckland?”

  He stopped walking, and she turned to look up at him.

  “Never,” he said.

  She blinked, startled. “You must have had office affairs, though.”

  “Never,” he repeated. “I wouldn’t do that. I couldn’t. It would be so unprofessional.”

  Now she was confused. “You flirted with me, though, and you’ve only known me ten minutes. Is that because you don’t work here—the normal rules don’t apply? You’re only going to be here five minutes so it doesn’t matter what you say?”

  “No.” His lips curved. “But the first time I met you wasn’t in the office. We met and interacted as man and woman, and that changed everything. That meeting was an irreversible chemical reaction, like burning wood to make a fire. We can try to cover it now and put the fire out, but the wood’s already burned, and you can’t undo that.”

  His analogy and the heat in his eyes sent her thermostat rising.

  She remembered the first words he’d heard her say. Sex, and lots of it. Jeez. No wonder the guy was flirting with her.

  Chapter Five

  Felix hoped he’d made himself understood.

  She looked puzzled, though, obviously thinking his words through, and walked across to the muffin cart which was surrounded by half a dozen people, including Rob Drake, choosing their mid-morning snack. Felix followed her across to it, hoping she believed him.

  “Would you like to choose yourself something?” she asked. “The partners have an account that you are welcome to charge yours to, as you are a visitor. You can choose lunch from here too, if you like—they’ll be back around midday.”

  He’d had breakfast some time ago and besides, he was always hungry, so he cast his eye over the assorted muffins. “Okay. I’ll have one with a cup of Rosie later.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “A cup of what?”

 
; “Ah…sorry. It’s Cockney rhyming slang. Rosie Lee—tea. I spent a few years in London and it kind of rubbed off on me. Drives my family mad.” He couldn’t work out if the look she was giving him was admiring or if she thought he was crazy too, so he concentrated on choosing himself a chocolate-chip muffin, although he insisted on paying for it rather than charging it to the partners’ account. No wonder their expenses were so high.

  Next to him, she chewed her red lip before deciding on a bran and banana muffin.

  “Do you buy lunch from here?” he asked.

  She took a cup from the cooler by the cart and poured herself a glass of cold water. “No, I usually grab something in town.”

  He studied her profile, thinking how elegant she was, how beautiful. He loved the fact that everyone in the office thought she was cold and haughty. He felt like a medieval peasant who’d been allowed to see behind the rood screen in church, like Dorothy peering behind the wizard’s curtain. Was he the only one who knew she wasn’t like that inside?

  One day, Felix knew he’d settle down—the memories of Lindsey and those nightmare days in London when he’d first heard of her death would eventually fade and he’d be able to love again. But he wasn’t there yet, and every time he slept with another woman, he was unable to shake off the feeling of guilt, as if he were cheating on her.

  He’d remained single for the first year after she died, moving back to New Zealand under the gentle pressure of his parents, which in the end had been a good move, because he stopped seeing Lindsey around every corner and in every bar and restaurant he visited, and instead she just visited him at night, in his dreams.

  He hadn’t wanted to sleep with another woman, too full of guilt and unhappiness at his loss. But he’d also realised he couldn’t stay single for the rest of his life. He’d only been twenty-two when she died, and she’d have laughed at the thought of him becoming a monk. He loved sex and had a high sex drive, and being celibate was not his natural state.

  So he’d finally let his brother, Toby, arrange a date for him with a girl, and he’d gone out with her a few times and eventually they’d slept together, and after that it had been easier, although he’d still yet to give his heart to anyone. He wouldn’t have called himself a womaniser. A serial monogamist, maybe—working his way through a succession of short-term relationships that usually lasted around four to six months before things grew too serious and he felt the urge to move on. But it had been almost a year since his last girlfriend—he’d been too busy concentrating on his work to worry about playing the dating game—and he felt out of practice.