Undressed by the Boss (Mills & Boon By Request)

by Marsh, Susan

  ‘As long as there is a point to prove, you can take as long as you like—within reason.’

  Her next stop was a cashpoint machine. Instinctively, he checked around for paparazzi. Sheikh Rafik al Rafar, billionaire tycoon, waiting patiently beside a cashpoint while his companion du jour extracted a measly two hundred dollars—counting it carefully before stowing it safely in her purse—that would make a great headline.

  ‘That should be enough,’ she said, glancing up at him.

  Wisely, he declined to comment, and merely indicated that Casey should lead the way.

  The moment he saw her destination he understood. There was one store of international renown that had managed to transcend labels and had acquired a cachet of its own. It had done this by being a fast follower of the catwalk fashions at a fraction of the cost. And it was to this store that Casey took him now. She bought a small selection of clothes, with a pretty shawl to wear over them, the cheapest of bags, and a cardigan.

  ‘I expect you’d prefer me to cover my arms in some situations,’ she observed thoughtfully.

  Actually, he’d like her to uncover everything, and he only pulled back from those thoughts because some better part of him conceded she was too pure for him to sully. Such a pity—so much unlit fire going to waste in her veins.

  She had bought a pair of trousers too, and he had to admit that pleased him. If she did survive the interview in the city there were still those traditionalists in the interior who looked down on shows of flesh, and he didn’t want anyone looking down on Casey Michaels. Other than him, of course, and then only from his height advantage, he reflected wryly as she unfurled her tiny hand to show him the coins she had left.

  ‘And I’ve still got change,’ she told him triumphantly.

  ‘You’ve done well,’ he admitted, ‘but you should have let me pay.’

  ‘Why?’ Her blue eyes levelled on his.

  ‘Non-taxable expenses?’ he teased her, deadpan.

  ‘You draw expenses?’ she challenged him. No soon had she spoken than she slapped a hand over her mouth, exclaiming how sorry she was, and that it was no business of hers whether or not he paid tax to himself.

  ‘What am I going to do with you?’ He really meant it. But, concluding tiredness had finally caught up with her, and that she was probably dehydrated too, he decided on a change of plan.

  ‘Juice?’ Her voice was trembling. ‘Oh, yes, please—I’m just dying for a drink.’

  ‘Save that sentiment for the desert.’

  She was instantly alert, clearly not so tired as he had thought her. They both knew the promise of a visit to the desert meant she was still in the game. How could she not be? he thought, when he saw her eyes darken.

  She shouldn’t undercut him when he spoke. She mustn’t walk too close to him, either. Or assume anything, Casey reprimanded herself as Raffa led the way towards a chi-chi café in the basement of the mall. An opportunity to visit the desert and keep in the running for this job hung by a thread, and so it was more important than ever to show the best of her professional self. She must be all about business from this moment on.

  But how easy was that when nothing compared to wanting Raffa in all the wrong ways … ways that had nothing to do with business at all?

  * * *

  The combination of apple, mint and celery in the smoothie was delicious, and so was the sight of Casey’s full red lips pursing around the straw.

  ‘Some time during my stay,’ she said, biting her lip as she thought out loud, ‘I’d like to come back to this mall.’

  ‘To do what?’ he said suspiciously.

  ‘To conduct a proper survey.’

  ‘Go on,’ he pressed.

  ‘Well, it seems to me that some of these stores are hardly welcoming …’

  Understatement, he reflected.

  ‘And if you’re serious about increasing footfall significantly as the tourist industry grows, I think your staff would benefit from more training. It would both incentivise them and increase your profits substantially.’

  He was leaning forward, staring into her eyes, finding it harder and harder to remember why it was so important to keep this on a professional footing. ‘You don’t say?’ he mocked gently.

  ‘But I do say,’ she assured him, all confidence and reason in her role of marketing executive. ‘Some of us might not be as rich as others, but our money is just as good. And if lots of us little people spend—’

  ‘Little people?’ In spite of his best efforts, his lips curved. Nothing on earth would convince him to think of Casey as little or insignificant in any way—or, indeed, others like her. Since when had wealth become a measure of the man? ‘It has never been my intention to build an exclusive enclave in A’Qaban, solely for the rich to enjoy.’

  ‘Then why don’t you make use of my expertise in not having lots of money while you can?’ she suggested playfully.

  ‘I might just do that.’

  Her eyes flashed, and then she remembered who he was and looked down. He liked the way she grew in confidence whenever business was under discussion, but would she ever achieve that same degree of poise in her personal life? He hoped so—though perhaps not while she was here in A’Qaban. He could do many things, but he hadn’t yet learned how to rein in his libido, and she could feel it however hard he tried to curb his interest.

  She drained her drink and, with all talk of business over between them, she seemed at a loss again. She flicked him a glance and looked away. As one blush started bleeding into another he felt he must reassure her.

  ‘You’re doing okay.’ Reaching out, he briefly covered her hand with his.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she assured him, flinching back. And then, gaining in confidence, she added, ‘I’m not relying on instinct. I have a degree in—’

  ‘Shopping?’ he suggested dryly.

  ‘In retail marketing,’ she corrected him solemnly.

  He liked that. No one pulled him up—ever. He liked it almost more than when she blushed and looked away. He liked it too much, he decided, standing up.

  ‘Shall we go?’ He held her chair for her, discreetly waving away the bodyguards who would have done that for him. ‘And now I’m taking you straight back to the hotel,’ he insisted, his gaze drawn to the dark circles beneath her eyes. ‘You look tired.’

  ‘It’s only temporary. I’ll be up bright and early in the morning,’ she assured him.

  She’d sleep comfortably through to noon, he guessed as their gazes briefly met and held. He wanted to give her the morning off, but how would that be fair to the other candidates? And now, before the image of Casey curled up and warm in bed could take hold of him, he made a move. ‘Come on, let’s go,’ he insisted, eager to break the spell she had woven.

  ‘Thank you for the smoothie,’ she said, shifting awkwardly in front of him. ‘And for …’

  ‘For what?’ he prompted when she hesitated.

  ‘For giving me this chance.’

  ‘You earned this chance,’ he told her steadily.

  ‘I know you have some weeding out to do—’

  ‘Stop fishing,’ he warned. ‘You’ll get my verdict like everyone else—before you leave.’

  Distress flared in her eyes and was just as quickly gone. He’d make no allowances for Casey forming some emotional attachment to A’Qaban. What he’d told her was how it had to be. He wanted the best candidate for the job, and she’d be treated exactly the same as all the other candidates.

  ‘Is a suit all right for tomorrow morning?’ she asked in a much more businesslike fashion when he dropped her at the hotel.

  Nude would have been his choice, if the circumstances had been different. ‘A suit is good,’ he agreed, passing her bags to the doorman. ‘Or smart casual would be fine too.’

  They shook hands formally. He resisted the temptation to convey anything at all in his eyes, but when he stared back at her through the rearview mirror of the Lamborghini his foot stamped down on the throttle as if he could
n’t quite believe the effect she’d had on him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CASEY didn’t go straight to bed, as Raffa had suggested, but stayed up analysing the small amount of data she had managed to collect at the shopping mall. She even went down to the hotel business centre and typed it up. She wanted to impress him. It was important to her. Suddenly this wasn’t about the job any more, but about Raffa seeing her potential as an effective co-worker. She wasn’t the blunderer who had arrived all hot and bothered in A’Qaban, but to prove that to him she had to make sure everything she suggested in the way of change placed A’Qaban above criticism. Integrity was everything if she was going to build a world-class brand.

  And she was going to build a world-class brand.

  She put her computer to bed in the early hours, took a bath to ease feet screaming from pounding acres of marble mall floor, and tried to sleep. She couldn’t. Her brain was racing. Getting out of bed, she slipped on a robe and, picking up the previous day’s newspaper, unfurled the business pages of the A ’Qaban Times.

  What an eye-opener that was. The first headline to catch her attention read:

  Car numberplate fetches $3 million in charity auction! ‘Father gave me blank cheque to buy new licence plates for my 4-wheel drive,’ reports young socialite.

  Holy moley! Dropping the newspaper on the bed, she paced the room, trying to picture that amount of money piled up in stacks around its perimeter. If it were piled up next to the off-roader it would probably hide it from view. But if the thought of so much excess went against her grain, at least it was a consolation to think a charity would benefit. And she mustn’t lose sight of her primary objective, which was to secure the job of marketing a country. So forget about blank cheques, car numberplates and over-indulged minor celebrities …

  And Raffa.

  Or she’d never get to sleep.

  But as she wearily pulled back the bedcovers she couldn’t forget any of it; especially Raffa …

  She must have drifted off to sleep some time in the early hours, Casey realized, as she woke slowly to find dawn peeping through the shutters. Making happy sounds of contentment, she decided to treat herself to another hour in bed. Firm and big, the bed was dressed with crisp white sheets that carried the faint scent of jasmine, and, like the hotel Raffa had put her up in, it was divine. Thankfully, the butler had remained invisible—ergo, also divine. And sleep was divine, Casey concluded, stretching lazily before turning her face into the soft bank of pillows. There was even a divine telephone within reach of the bed …

  A ringing telephone.

  She groped for it, grimacing at the unwelcome intrusion. ‘ … llo …?’

  ‘Ten minutes. Downstairs in the lobby.’

  Raffa!

  She sat bolt-upright.

  The line was dead before she had chance to reply.

  Rolling out of bed, she landed on the floor. Picking herself up, she staggered, half asleep, in the general direction of the bathroom, blundering into things as she went. She managed to run up a total of stubbed toe, banged head and almost dislocated shoulder. Raffa had made it sound cheerfully like the middle of the day. And why not, when he had probably worked out and swum a thousand metres before showering down and placing his call?

  After which thought, she entered the bathroom and turned the shower to its lowest temperature. Readying herself, she leaped in. And leaped out again, shrieking. There was only so much she could cope with at five o’ clock in the morning.

  Teeth chattering, she set the shower to warm and returned. Washing her hair, she soaped down quickly, rinsed off again, and stepped out.

  Better.

  Much better.

  Wrapping a towel around her head, she cleaned her teeth, sprayed deodorant everywhere—it stung in some places—and gargled with mouthwash.

  Okay, she was most definitely awake now.

  Scampering into the bedroom, she pounced on her knapsack and plucked out her sensible knickers. Teaming those with her sensible bra—the one that didn’t show beneath the shirt she’d bought, she chose dark trousers and a red cardigan rather than a jacket.

  High heels, of course …

  With trousers?

  Discarding the trousers, she tugged on the skirt.

  No good. Pale legs.

  Throwing it off, she grabbed the trousers again.

  Shirt, trousers, high heels …

  Shirt, trousers, desert boots …

  Definitely high heels.

  Spinning in front of the full-length mirror, she viewed herself as critically as a two-and-a-half-second spin would allow.

  Whatever the day ahead held, she was ready for it.

  There was no time for make-up, and her hair was a candyfloss explosion she just bound in a band as she raced to the door. Her hand stalled halfway to the handle. Back up. What about the survey she’d prepared?

  And some of the duty free scent she’d bought on the plane.

  Squirt everywhere; sneeze. Finished.

  Ready.

  Two seconds to tuck the survey under her arm in a professional manner, and tip her chin at a businesslike angle. And still two minutes left on the ten-minute deadline.

  She opened the door. ‘Oh, hell!’

  ‘Hello, yourself …’

  Did Raffa have to turn on the wolfish smile as he leaned one hand against the doorjamb? What toothpaste did he use? He smelled so good he made her hungry, and his teeth were really, really white …

  ‘Did I interrupt something? Only you look …’

  Attractively flushed? Horrendously heated? ‘No … you didn’t interrupt anything.’ She drew a confident laugh from her depleted laugh quiver. ‘Not at all … I was just hurrying to get everything together.’ Fingers crossed behind her back. ‘Because I didn’t want to hold you up.’

  ‘You didn’t … So, did you have time for breakfast?’ He brought his arm down and straightened up, so she had that Lilliputian feeling again, compensated by a thrilling glimpse of tanned, stubble-shaded skin above the crisp white business shirt … and the deep blue silk tie … and the dark, sharply tailored suit that was either Armani or Savile Row.

  Armani, Casey guessed, instinctively smoothing her chain-store trousers. No. She was wrong. It was Ozwald Boateng. The kingfisher silk lining gave it away. God, he was so sexy. And she was so red-faced—and just everything she had vowed not to be.

  ‘What’s that you’ve got under your arm?’ he demanded.

  She grimaced. Hair? Dear God! Damp patch? Almost worse. She had to replay the application of deodorant in her mind before she could relax. ‘Oh, you mean my folder?’

  ‘What else?’ He frowned attractively. ‘May I?’

  She handed it over.

  ‘What is this?’ He turned it in his hands.

  ‘My preliminary survey of my findings at the shopping mall …’

  ‘You typed it up?’ He leafed through the pages.

  ‘I used the business centre at the hotel. My handwriting’s dreadful …’

  Without even sunglasses to hide his extraordinary eyes, Casey felt as if she were under a particularly penetrating microscope, with her deepest, darkest secrets laid out on a slide while Raffa put his eye to the scope. ‘Will I do?’ she said, wishing she could cut the nervous laugh; it was making her nervous. She assumed a look of quiet confidence as Raffa’s gaze ran swiftly over her.

  ‘You look lovely,’ he said.

  She did?

  No one had ever told her she looked lovely before. She was frequently told she was too intense, too career-orientated, too serious, too driven. And in fairness all of the above was true. Lovely, however, was not a word anyone associated with her.

  ‘Shall we?’ he invited, gesturing towards the bank of elevators down the hall.

  She had to rip her stare from his face first, which wasn’t easy.

  So what now? Casey wondered, trying not to make it too obvious that she had to run every now and then to keep up with Raffa. The avenue they were speeding
down, which could never be called a corridor in a million years, had a gilded roof that arced above them, decorated with cherubs and rosettes of flowers, while the marble floor was strewn with priceless rugs and guarded by towering pillars garnished with gold leaf, lapis lazuli, and enough light to illuminate small town. So, if this was merely Raffa’s flagship hotel, what would his palace be like? Not that she ever expected to see it, of course.

  Casey swayed dizzily as they reached the apex of the glass atrium. Was it her fear of heights, her reaction to the sight of Raffa in a business suit looking even sexier than he had in jeans, or the wildest daydream of all—which, if she had been another, bolder person entirely, was to loosen that tie and peel back that jacket?

  In front of his bodyguards?

  Casey shuddered as the black-clad men emerged from the shadows. She viewed them nervously. Should she greet them or not? She decided not when they stared past her.

  ‘You’re a woman, and so invisible,’ Raffa informed her discreetly.

  Oh, good … She had to get used to the idea that Raffa was never alone.

  Was Raffa ever alone?

  She refused to progress that thought. And as she preceded him into the glass elevator and felt him behind her, like a power source that made all the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand to attention, she wondered if he somehow sensed her attraction to him and her total ignorance of such things too.

  ‘How do you like the hotel, Casey?’

  ‘A lot—thank you …’ She stared fixedly ahead. This wasn’t the time to explain that she was terrified of heights, or to acknowledge that they were really high up and travelling down the side of one of the tallest buildings in the city at lightning speed. It was a relief when Raffa moved in front of her, blocking the view—or it might have been if he hadn’t been standing quite so close.

  ‘Are you scared of heights?’ he said, frowning. ‘You should have said. We could have travelled another way.’

  Base-jumping, clinging to his back?

  She’d put nothing past him.