Undressed by the Boss (Mills & Boon By Request)

by Marsh, Susan

  With her history, the solution was obvious. She should never see him again. Except …

  She couldn’t remember ever feeling so alive, as if she were in some zesty contest with him. Couldn’t she allow herself a little bit of fun? If he’d been truly sinister and willing to cause her harm, would he have stood back and waited for her after he’d let her out of the car? She bit her lip, wondering what he’d be thinking about her now, then broke into a smile. With his temper, he was probably fantasising about murdering her.

  One thing was certain, she reflected as she approached her desk, if she blew the gaff on his merger, she could never face him again. She’d feel as if she had a blot on her soul a mile deep. But if she kept her part of the bargain … if she went back … if she actually stayed overnight with him …

  She bumped into her chair and coffee sloshed from her paper cup. Marge was back at her desk, she noticed, watching her with a curious little crease between her brows.

  ‘Oops.’ She flashed Marge a grin.

  Ignoring her friend’s scrutiny, she sat down. What was Marge staring at, anyway? She sipped her coffee, parked her sausage roll, and faced her empty screen.

  Where to begin? What she needed was an angle. Some way to report on the event, while illuminating a measure of the man who was the true story at its centre.

  Her desk phone rang. Absently she picked it up. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Cate.’

  The deep dark voice flooded her being. She froze on the edge of her chair, gripping the phone. Stay calm, she warned her mad pulse. Stay in control.

  ‘What?’ she breathed when her lungs would allow it.

  ‘You panicked.’ The quiet mocking charm of Tom Russell’s tone, as if in acknowledgement of the sexy contest between them, thrilled through her like an ocean wave. He wasn’t furious.

  ‘I did not,’ she retorted, then, realising she was grinning, angled her face away from Marge’s line of vision and said in a low, husky murmur, ‘I most certainly did not panic. I simply took prudent evasive action.’

  ‘From what? What scared you?’ There was genuine enquiry in his voice.

  ‘If you must know, I object to being kidnapped.’

  ‘Kidnapped!’ He sounded astonished, as if kidnapping were a remote, undreamed-of concept. ‘Are you serious? You mean—just now in the Ferrari? But how the hell—? What gave you that idea?’

  She felt a tiny doubt, but it was almost instantly replaced by recognition. Such sincerity. What brilliant liars men could be.

  ‘Let’s just say I sensed it, Tom.’

  ‘Ah. You sensed it.’

  She could hear the smile in his voice, and despite her indignation with him warmth radiated through her and swelled her breasts.

  She pressed her inner thighs together and clung to the phone, drinking in his silence, almost able to hear his brain cells ticking over. Eventually he said very softly in his dark velvet voice, ‘I think we both know that wasn’t what you were scared of, sweetheart. But don’t forget we have a deal. I’ll pick you up at home. Where exactly do you live?’

  ‘God, no.’ She imagined him driving up to the boarding house, witnessing the humble reality of her temporary abode, and her insides shrivelled. He’d probably think he was in some parallel universe. ‘You mustn’t do that. Please,’ she added with heartfelt urgency, then lowered her voice to a whisper, ‘I’ll come to the hotel.’

  The silence crackled with tension. Struggling, she guessed. His need to have control versus his need to keep her sweet.

  ‘If you can’t trust me to come there by myself then you can’t trust me at all and we’d better call everything off,’ she blurted, then waited, trembling, her fingers crossed that she hadn’t pushed his machismo too far.

  ‘Be here by seven or I’ll know you’re breaking your word and I’ll sink the merger.’

  The last uncompromising words were said with finality, as if he were about to hang up, and she cut in swiftly, ‘No, no, I can’t be there by seven. I have to … Make it eight-thirty.’

  ‘Seven-thirty.’ He disconnected before she could argue.

  Seven-thirty. She unglued her sweaty fingers from the phone and slumped back in her chair, aware of a roaring in her ears. But her chaos wasn’t about having the power to change the corporate history of the nation’s newspapers, or even about the things she had to accomplish before seven thirty. It was the effect of that casual observation.

  We both know that wasn’t what you were scared of.

  She rested her elbows on the desk, her fingers over her ears to cool them. Was he toying with her? Using his sexual power to manipulate her? Or could romance be on the agenda again? He wouldn’t have made that cool reference to the attraction if he wasn’t as aware of it as she was. But the risks involved … A man in her life—and such a man …

  She felt another wave of excitement, and, with a reinvigorated sense of his masculine essence, her fingers hovered, tingling with juice, over the keys. What to say about him? He was aggression, he was fury, he was charm, he was humour, he was … she closed her eyes, savouring the memory of his rich, seductive voice. Sweetheart. Had that been an endearment?

  Once she made a start, her copy flowed like honey. Fortunately for her narrow time frame, she’d already composed much of it in her head during the intervals between tumultuous events.

  In the midst of the newsroom’s habitual, last-minute frenzy to pull things together, the news editor found the time to examine it, fire a few searching questions at her, then slash a red pencil through several lines of the second paragraph before passing it on to the world-weary sub-editor for more gratuitous slashing. She hoped he wouldn’t ruin it, but if there was a chance they might find a spot for her lead-in on the front page she’d accept any changes as worth it. That it would be the Saturday edition would be even more gratifying.

  She would have loved to stay and eavesdrop on the conference to finalise the competing stories for page one, but she was running late. It was out of her hands.

  On the train to North Sydney she considered how much it would be safe to tell Gran about the memorial. If Gran had the slightest inkling of her attraction to Marcus Russell’s son … It could kill her, Cate realised with cold certainty. At the very least she’d worry so much there could be a serious downturn in her health.

  It was nearly six-thirty when she hurried into the ward. To her remorse she saw that Gran was having one of her breathless days. No one had helped her to sit up, so, imprisoned by her weakened lungs and labouring heart, she was still prostrate on her mattress. Her meal was on the tray, untouched, the watery scoop of mashed potato hardening around the edges, the sad little chop stony cold.

  But, no matter how weak Gran felt, her spirit was eternally buoyant. Her face lit up. ‘Hello, dear,’ she gasped as Cate bent to kiss her and arrange her pillows to support her. ‘How was today? Did you see anything about the memorial?’

  Cate beamed. ‘You’ll never guess who they sent to cover it, Gran.’

  As a newspaperwoman herself, Gran understood. Her eyes widened in joyous disbelief. ‘No! Not you?’

  Cate nodded, and set about finding a willing staff member to insist the meal be replaced—gently, so they wouldn’t take it out on Gran after she’d gone.

  When her grandmother was settled and comfortable, Cate pushed aside her anxiety about Tom to give her an edited account of her day’s activities. How painful it was, having to strain so carefully any information she gave her now, when Gran had always been the chief confidante of her life.

  Before that night. As always when she thought of the scene and its aftermath she struggled with her guilt. The doctors had assured her Gran might have had the heart seizure anyway, even if she and Steve hadn’t been arguing across her vulnerable body.

  Cate wrung her hands in her lap. She should never have let it happen. She wished she could turn back the clock to the days when Gran had sat over the morning dailies with her specs perched on the end of her nose and a pencil tucked behind her ea
r.

  She sat forward on the steel visitor’s chair, managing to describe the service and answer her questions about Tom without making any dangerous revelations. Even so, illness had done nothing to weaken her grandmother’s sharp, incisive brain.

  Propped up on her pillows, she was studying her, much in the same way Marge had. What was wrong with everyone? Guilt and pity wrung Cate’s heart. She hated deceiving her when she was helpless and at the mercy of other people’s goodwill.

  Though desperately conscious of the clock, Cate couldn’t leave her alone among strangers so abruptly. She fought her pricking urgency to fly, and suggested a quick game of Scrabble.

  Perhaps Gran sensed her edginess, though, or she was tired, because, to Cate’s extreme relief, after ten minutes she lay back on her pillows and shooed her home.

  It was close to eight when Cate ran up the stairs to shower and change. The spring evening was warm, far warmer than it should have been for the time of year, so she risked a chiffon evening dress from last summer. It was cut to plunge to her breasts then swirl about her in a bluish-green cloud, with a little triangle of satin and sequins at the cleavage to keep it modest.

  She brushed her hair out and let it hang free, applied some deeper eyeshadow and dark red lipstick, threw some things into a suitcase, and, cursing the loss of her mobile, raced down to the pay-phone in the hall to call for a taxi. Luckily, she didn’t have to queue.

  She was outside on the porch, waiting under the light so the driver could see her, when a car swerved into the driveway and slewed to a halt.

  The driver’s door opened and a man got out. Her heart sank.

  It was Steve.

  She’d have filed hours ago, Tom thought. Five at the latest. So where was she? He prowled restlessly to the window. The dark had deepened and the city was coming alive with neon. Security had told him she lived just across the water, at Kirribilli.

  She might, just might have been delayed.

  The other possibility clawed at his gut. If she’d betrayed him she wouldn’t be back. Even now, news of his merger might be in the process of being posted on the Clarion’s website, although there was no sign yet of the feeding frenzy this would generate.

  He strode into his study and flicked to Clarion.com. Not a hint yet. Just the first celebrity pictures from the memorial on their breaking news. Saturday’s online edition wouldn’t be posted until after midnight.

  So where was she? Still at work, frantically digging for back-up to confirm the bombshell she’d filed for tomorrow’s daily? Was she capable of such deceit?

  How much of a fool had he been to trust that sweet, low voice on the phone? He’d wanted to. God, how he’d wanted to. He felt a momentary regret at having restrained his urge after her flight from the Ferrari to storm into the Clarion’s newsroom and grab her by her glorious hair, drag her to the car, and drive her to some secure location. Once she’d given him the slip, it had savaged him when he’d realised he could do nothing but wait and trust in her integrity. Had the phone call been enough to keep the connection alive?

  It was so easy for a woman to lie on the phone.

  Although, although …

  Was there reason to panic? Hadn’t there been some quality about her? Hadn’t some instinct drawn him to believe in her sincerity?

  The image of her rapt face, her lashes fanned against her soft cheeks, swam stirringly into his mind. He felt certain he knew now how she’d look asleep, her hair tumbled on the pillow. His imagination flitted to her rising from the bubbles in his spa like Aphrodite, her satin skin all golden and glistening. If that blonde hair was natural, he mused, it would be blonde all over.

  He shook the image off. The strain must be getting to him. All through the strategy meetings with his lawyers and stockbrokers, he’d had to struggle to concentrate. Him, Tom Russell!

  He glanced at his watch and saw it was well after eight. Time to cut his losses. The bleak evening stretched before him like a black cavern. With grim resignation he reached for the phone, then paused.

  What if she was on her way to him?

  It suddenly occurred to him she could be having car trouble. What if she were forced to use public transport? He could imagine her taking an appalling risk of that sort, negotiating the ferry and the city streets alone at night. Even now she might be walking down some shadowy street to the ferry port, her pale hair floating behind her, a flaming invitation to every criminal opportunist, every Tom, Dick and …

  He sprang to the hotel phone and ordered Timmins, ‘The Merc. Now.’

  A short time later, conscious of an unusual elevation in his heart-rate, he turned the discreet, dark-tinted sedan into her street. It was one of Kirribilli’s wider, busier streets. Boarding houses and small private hotels rose on either side, remnants of a more gracious era when houses had been rambling and fanciful. Some showed signs of recent renovation, with brave new paintwork and solar lights softly illuminating their old Sydney gardens of rose and hibiscus. Most of them now, though, were the down-at-heel, economical residences shared by students and workers on modest incomes.

  There’d been no sign of her at the ferry, or on the footpaths of the narrow undulating streets between her address and the dock. He drove slowly, narrowing his eyes to distinguish the numbers on mail boxes, a buzz in his veins about seeing the place where she lived. He forced himself to take some deep, slow breaths, though it was only natural he should experience a certain interest in seeing her home. He was hardly a stalker, for God’s sake.

  Halfway along he spotted the number, coming up on his right. He slowed to a halt and let the engine idle. The building was a grand old Victorian villa set back from the road, with a long lawn and extensive garden. It was of several storeys, with balconies beneath its narrow windows haphazardly embellished with iron lace. Even now, with its pleasant shrubbery and the flowery creeper trailing over its well-lit portico, it possessed a turn-of-century charm.

  He scanned the lighted windows, his heart quickening. Which of them was hers?

  A couple of girls swung out of the iron gate and walked down the street, laughing and chattering. He imagined what life here must be like for Cate Summerfield. She would always have people to talk to, the sorts of easy friendships and entertainments he had himself enjoyed in his university years.

  She’d never have known what it was like to grow up behind stone walls, protected and isolated from the real world. He felt a pang of envy for the freedoms people with ordinary lives took for granted. Somehow, her free and easy lifestyle added to her glamour.

  Headlights beamed up in his rear vision mirror. When the car had passed by, he drove on until, almost level with the house, he saw a couple standing in the porch.

  With a visceral leap he saw that the woman was Cate, and slammed his foot on the brake. No need to worry she might notice a car stalled across the street. She was too involved in talking to the guy, gazing up at him, listening to him in that heart-stopping way as if she were drinking in his very essence.

  Exactly the way she’d looked at him.

  In the instant he took the scene in, a million thoughts jostled in his brain. It was clear they knew each other well. The guy was inclining his body towards her and gesticulating, while she … Tom recognised that little lift of her chin. It always accompanied some impudent retort. Some sarcastic, clever, maddening, utterly desirable …

  He felt his insides clench. The body language was a dead give-away. The guy was hooked on her. Although, hadn’t he seen him before? At that instant the man moved directly under the light and Tom caught the flash of red hair.

  A savage mix of emotions battled for supremacy in his chest. Anger. A cold, cynical certainty that she was working with the guy, was probably even now spilling everything she’d overheard between himself and Olivia. Fury at his own idiocy in trusting her, and some other darker emotion, to do with smashing the reporter’s teeth down his neck until he choked.

  He knew what would happen next. The lovers’ quarrel would rea
ch a pitch, then explode in passion. The guy would take her in his arms, and in seconds she’d be leading him inside the house … He gripped the wheel. He’d only known her for a day, so why should her betrayal cut so deep? When would he ever learn about women?

  Forced to move on, he drove further along until he reached a roundabout near to a small shopping centre, then made a quick U-turn. He cruised back, took one final look to cement her lying, deceiving image into his memory for all time, and abandoned Cate Summerfield to her treachery.

  With his usual practice he severed all unwonted emotion and preserved his iron self-control until he kicked the door wide and walked back into the suite. Then something like an extreme weariness came over him. He flicked on the television, but for once in his life he didn’t even have the energy to check for the breaking news.

  He moved to the window and stared across the water to where the lights of Kirribilli mocked him. First his wife gone, now his father, the last living soul he could truly call his own. Was it any wonder he’d felt attracted by a woman who seemed to effervesce with joyous, carefree life?

  She was nothing like Sandra. Sandra had been a serious person. They’d joked about it, but there’d been a nobility in her dedication to her work that he’d sincerely admired. Few people could boast of improving the lot of the human race. But for the first time since her death his avoidance of the delights of feminine company seemed a hollow thing. He made the wry acknowledgement that his self-imposed deprivation hadn’t brought her back.

  A treacherous thought crept in—would he have even wanted her back?—but he exiled it immediately. Of course he would—at least, he’d want the Sandra she’d been when he’d first met her. Before she’d become too involved with her project to leave and follow him home to Oz. Too involved to return his calls, answer his emails. And on that last desperate visit—meet his eyes.