by Nikki Moore
‘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 suggesting 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 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 overarching 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 m
uttered 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.
I’m intrigued about the story there but it’s none of my business. ‘It wasn’t a criticism, just an observation.’
‘Yes, well, back to the facts. The business has grown more recently to include chains of hotels, casinos, media companies and a small banking arm. The organisation currently employs over ten thousand people.’
Interesting how he refers to it as the organisation and doesn’t take personal credit for it, like he’s talking about something someone else has done. But he should be proud. He may not have clawed his way to the top through hard grind, but he’s made the business more successful since taking over and he must work punishing hours for such rapid expansion. The spoilt rich playboy I was worried he might be would surely have run a company into the ground over the years, or at best let it stagnate?
‘Thanks for the summary.’ I cross my legs. ‘So what do you need this weekend?’
‘You’re here to support me, set up presentations, attend meetings, take minutes and so on. Any problems with that?’
‘No, none whatsoever.’ I may be rusty but I’ll manage.
‘Great. Do you need to know anything more right now? It’s just that I need to finish off some emails.’ He waves the tablet at me.
‘No, that’s fine. Go ahead.’
‘Thank you.’
As he turns back to his task, I twist my hands together. This plan has to work. If I don’t get a proper job soon, a move back home is in the offing, along with asking Jess to buy me out of my half of the mortgage, which I know she’ll struggle to do. To my shame I’ve not been able to pay my share for the last two months. She can’t afford to keep propping us up, we both know it, we just haven’t had the conversation yet. I guess we keep hoping something will change, that something good will happen. Maybe this assignment is it?
Blowing out a long breath, I chew my bottom lip. Imagine having to move back in with my parents after so many years of independence. They’ll think they were right all along, that I should never have left the village. I can just picture having to face everyone. They’ll be so smug my adventure to the big city didn’t work out because they all love living in a quaint little corner of the world with traditional values. I shudder at the thought of being on the receiving end of all those pitying looks, the object of gossip. And the thought of leaving London makes me breathless. Before Tony arrived I had a job I loved, a nice flat, a fun social life, dates with creative musicians and jobbing actors, a fantastic circle of friends and great colleagues. Most of that’s gone … I can’t handle losing the last of it.
I wonder what my ex-colleagues are up to. Do they still have the same nights out, the after-hours parties? Despite being manager I was still part of the group, and Kitty (best croupier in the casino according to her) and I were friends. I worked really hard, sometimes stupidly long hours, but I played hard too. Kitty and I had lots of adventures together, occasionally joined by Jess, and got ourselves into some pretty memorable situations. Walking through the city barefoot in the rain at three in the morning because our high heels were killing us; wearing giant cardboard boxes painted and taped up to look like Rubik’s cubes for a fancy dress party; playing poker on a random rich guy’s yacht moored up at Canary Wharf. If I have to move back to my parents’, I’ll miss the bright lights of the city, the music and gigs, bustle of people and our laughter, usually fuelled by a mixture of white wine and Cosmos.
There haven’t been any fun nights out in months. I miss them. I glance over at Alex. Fun isn’t a word I’d use to describe him. Okay, so he’s laughed and cracked a couple of smiles and this is a business situation not a social one but still, he’s wound so tight, is so snappy and defensive. Perhaps not surprising given the responsibility he’s had since he was twenty four – only three years younger than I am now. Maybe he doesn't get a lot of down time.
I don’t think I’d be ready to take on a role with such massive accountability. Alex is responsible for keeping thousands of people in jobs, it’s a hell of a pressure for one person. No doubt he’s got a great team, but a
t the end of the day it all comes down to him. Could I do it? Would I want it? Building on a Business Studies NVQ from college, I got a distinction in a distance-learning professional qualification in people management and business administration a few years ago whilst working full-time and it damned near killed me. I loved learning and it helped when applying for the management job, but my social life went into sharp decline as a result. I was constantly turning down dates and cancelling plans in favour of staying in to do research or write assignments.
It made me wonder whether you can hold down a high level job and still have time for other things, like love and family. None of the guys I dated during that time understood what I was trying to achieve. One of them labelled me a geek, nose stuck in a book when I could be out enjoying myself. He was right, I am a geek, and proud of it, so the stereotype didn’t bother me. The issue was that he didn’t respect my ambition and desire to better myself. Which makes my current situation even more agonising. I loved working hard and contributing to the bottom line of a company, leading and being part of a team. I have to get that back if I can.
Sitting up, I anchor myself in the now. Even if I wouldn’t want to be CEO, there’s clearly an upside – the job must really pay – because our car's stopping on the edge of a private airstrip. The smooth concrete runaway is frosted with ice and surrounded by snow-covered shrubs, grass and miles of empty space. The mega-wealthy really do live in a different world. I expected a charter flight from a regional airport, not a private jet like on Criminal Minds. This is well out of my league, but oh, what a lovely league. Undoing my seatbelt as the car stops, I try to hide my eagerness to get on the plane and look around. There’s still an excited little girl inside the corporate woman.
‘Ready?’ Alex asks, unbuckling his belt.
‘Definitely.’
He smiles and it ignites a tripwire straight to my knickers. Thankfully the driver opens the door so I scramble out the car, handbag clutched to my side.