Crazy, Undercover, Love

by Nikki Moore

  I wonder what he’d say about my situation. Will he believe I provoked Tony? Or deserved what happened to me?

  He runs a hand through his hair again, leaving it spiked up and ruffled. I prefer the messy look. He looks younger, sexier. I shake my head and focus on listening. It’s the safest option. ‘And?’ I nudge. He hesitates. ‘It’s fine as long as you don’t talk about particular cases, isn’t it?’ I ask. ‘You won’t be breaching any confidentialities.’

  ‘No. Still, if an employee overheard me talking about it, even in general terms—’

  ‘I’m an employee.’

  ‘Not a direct one. And not after this weekend. Besides—’

  ‘Besides?’

  ‘Nothing.’ His cheekbones darken.

  He’s not– Is he blushing? No. It must be a trick of the light. ‘Maybe your employees would appreciate you not taking this stuff lightly. Maybe they’d be gratified to hear how much care you take, that if they were ever to go through a formal process you’d be serious about the responsibility.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that,’ he concedes, drumming his fingers on the tablecloth.

  ‘It’s part of how we learn, isn’t it? Exchanging views with others, sorting through the different opinions for the ones which make the most sense to us.’

  ‘Not many people share their views with me. They’ll tell me what they think if I ask but don’t offer their thoughts freely. And I’m not sure how honest those opinions are.’

  ‘Ah.’ They probably don’t dare. One wrong opinion might get them fired. Yet from what Alex just said, his fairness, I don’t think it’s likely.

  ‘It’s the bullying allegations I find hardest,’ he circles back. ‘Is it a manager being a bully or them trying to proactively manage someone, bring them to account, and the employee not liking it?’ Blowing out an exasperated breath: ‘In the end it comes to down to someone’s perceptions, and those are coloured by their personal attitudes, experiences and emotions. Unfortunately, by the time those cases get to me, sometimes too much has happened. The working relationship is at breaking point. It’s sad. We’ve lost good people that way.’

  Would he class me as one of them? ‘I can see what you’re saying.’ I stretch across the table, grab a glass and pour some water into it, carefully. Letting delight at his emotional intelligence show would be premature. But it gives me hope.

  Like a cork has popped from a bottle of suppressed feeling, he keeps going. ‘The biggest thing for me is that I’m fair. Disciplinaries and grievances involve real people. You’re making decisions about their employment that can really affect their lives. What if I get it wrong?’

  ‘You have doubts?’ I take a sip of water, the liquid cool on my tongue.

  ‘Of course I do. Even when it’s a robust process. There have been cases where I’ve had to make judgements based on the balance of probabilities.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ I probe. Throwing my head back, I gulp down the rest of my water. When I put the glass down Alex’s eyes flicker back to my face. Where was he looking?

  ‘Taking all the evidence into account and deciding what’s most likely to have happened.’

  ‘Sounds heavy.’ I kick myself. What an insensitive way to describe something which obviously causes him anxiety. Even worse because I know more than anyone the depth of distress caused by those situations.

  He raises both eyebrows. ‘That’s one way of describing it.’ He gives a one-shouldered shrug, his beautifully cut black suit gleaming in the overhead lights. ‘I suppose even the justice system isn’t infallible, they get it wrong sometimes, and innocent people get sent to prison.’

  ‘But you’re not condemning people to be locked away.’ Shaking my head, ‘You’re too hard on yourself, Alex. And anyway, if you get it wrong, there must be someone to scrutinise your decision?’

  ‘No. I deal with cases at appeal stage so the next step is tribunal.’

  I shiver. It’s the perfect in, the perfect moment to move forward with the crucial part of the plan I came here to see through. I should tell him now, whilst he’s in this mindset, never mind where we are. With a deep breath, I go for it. ‘Actually Alex, on that subject there is something I wanted to—’

  ‘I hate going to tribunal,’ he announces, ‘though I guess no employer likes it. But I’ve seen so many vexatious claims made by people to get money, usually through a pre-hearing settlement.’ Temper smoulders in his eyes. ‘They drag everyone through the mud, uncaring of how much stress they cause.’

  His condemnation immediately gets my back up. ‘Don't you think that’s a sweeping generalisation? Some of them must be genuine cases. What about their stress? And don’t forget they’ve paid out money to have the case heard and someone has thought it credible enough to make it to tribunal court.’

  He stares at me, blue eyes rapidly cooling and capable of causing the Arctic to chill by a few more degrees. ‘If they’re genuine I can’t understand how it couldn’t have been resolved earlier. It’s the sexual harassment cases that bother me, where it’s so hard to tell whether there’s been any actual harassment or not, and who, if anyone, is responsible. You never know exactly what’s happened between a man and a woman in the workplace, especially without witnesses. That’s why it’s easier to remove any possibility of those kinds of claims.’

  His comments hit the biggest raw nerve possible. ‘Perhaps some aren’t resolved earlier because people feel unable to come forward?’ I retort. ‘They might be embarrassed or ashamed, or think they can handle it alone. Or not see it coming until it’s too late.’

  ‘These are grown adults we’re talking about, not playground schoolchildren.’

  ‘It’s not immature to be scared, or to worry about the ramifications of your actions. And how can you cast judgement if it hasn’t happened to you?’ I stop, take a breath, dizzy with anger. ‘Has it happened to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you don’t know what it feels like, what choice you would make.’ I spring out of my chair, hold myself steady with my hands flat on the table, shaking. ‘And how are you going to remove the possibility of those claims? Unless you’re going to try and segregate men and women, you’ve got a problem. And it’s not necessarily about men and women, is it? There could be a same-sex claim.’

  ‘Segregation?’ He looks shocked, rising from his chair. ‘Don’t be silly. I meant having a no-workplace relationships policy. For everyone, whatever their sexual orientation.’

  Feeling stupid for my hasty remarks, I turn sunset red. ‘You can’t get people to control their emotions like that Alex. They’re not robots. Haven’t you ever heard the heart wants what the heart wants?’

  His face closes down. ‘Sometimes what the heart wants isn’t what the person attached to it needs. And in my experience, a lot of the time it’s hormones doing the wanting, not the heart.’

  Is he saying he sleeps around? ‘Do you think it’s realistic to expect people to adhere to that kind of policy? Plus it wouldn’t necessarily stop sexual harassment claims.’

  ‘It can minimise them, and yes, if the clause is written into the employment contract.’ He rubs his temples. ‘It’s not about feelings, Charley. It’s about trying to keep the organisation alive and productive. It can’t be either of those if it’s imploding because people are falling out when it all goes wrong. Which it inevitably does.’

  ‘Wow. That’s cynical.’

  Tucking his chair under the table, he nods, ‘What can I say? Sometimes, sadly, it’s the safest way to be.’

  I shove my chair under the table, making the glasses rattle. ‘You’re right,’ I state, staring him directly in the eye. ‘That is sad.’ His mouth falls open. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me,’ I seethe, unable to see clearly, think clearly, ‘I’m going to get some fresh air.’

  ‘Take as long as you like,’ he barks.

  Stomping from the room, I wonder if I’ve blown it and if he means I shouldn’t bother coming back at all.

  Cha
pter Twelve

  Luckily for me he doesn’t. When I return from a brisk walk around the block the hotel is situated on, I find him waiting in one of the meeting rooms with a group of managers. Pointing to the laptop he’s set up in my absence – which I must have left in the hall in my haste to escape, oh, pants – he nods, ‘Charley. Are you ready?’

  There’s no chance to tell him I’m sorry. He had a right to express his views, and maybe they didn’t gel with mine, but I made it personal. Out of order. Unprofessional. I was overly sensitive because of my situation. I should have stayed calm and under control. Why can’t I keep my emotions in check around him? I never had these problems at the casino. Is it the pressure of the last few months or is it about Alex himself? No. Focus on work.

  I take notes and after everyone leaves I write up a sales strategy and answer email correspondence while Alex dictates to me. I become absorbed, fingers flying over the keyboard with his rapid-fire thoughts. I’m envious of his energy. How he does it, has presumably held the same pace for the last few years, is incredible. I feel like an amateur in comparison, tired after one day.

  Rotating my head to ease the kinks from my neck, I feel a crunch, and a tension headache starts. Alex has stopped talking, so I look up. He’s stood at the window, shoulders wide and set, hands deep in his trouser pockets.

  ‘Alex?’ No response. Standing, I step closer. ‘Alex?’ A sharp pain stabs in my forehead, aching discomfort digging in deeper. I need to get to my room and take some painkillers otherwise I’m liable to be laid out with a migraine for the next few hours. Still no response. Muttering in exasperation, I move closer, waving a hand in front of his face. ‘Woo–hoo, Alex?’

  He jerks, grabbing my hand and holding it down between us. ‘Yes?’ he frowns.

  ‘Is there anything else you need me to do?’ I wiggle my fingers, hand tingling against the slide of his skin.

  ‘The last email’s sent?’

  ‘Yes, just now.’ A pulse blooms in my right eye socket.

  Releasing my hand, ‘Sorry.’ Glancing down at his watch. ‘Good. Yes, that’s all for now. I’ll see you in the lobby at seven thirty for drinks.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Drinks,’ he exclaims, ‘the liquid things before dinner?’

  ‘Thanks for the explanation,’ I say dryly. ‘I just thought we were done for the day.’

  ‘No, sorry. You’re expected to come to the party tonight.’

  What? I’m knackered, especially after only a few hours sleep. Plus this headache is expanding to epic proportions. I also need space from the bright exciting tension sitting in my lower belly and coating my nerve endings when I’m near him.

  It’s not good.

  This is not romance.

  This is business.

  ‘Party? No one at the agency said anything. When you mentioned one earlier I figured it was for the AGM attendees.’

  ‘It’s for the employees here and any others who can make it. Stuart usually attends so I’ll expect you to be there. Is there a reason you can’t be?’ He glowers. It’s framed as a question but is an order. But then, he is the boss and I need to be reasonable, especially since I still owe him an apology for earlier.

  ‘No, there isn’t.’ I put my hands on my hips. ‘But would it kill you to say please?’

  ‘What? I—’ For a moment I think he’s about to start shouting, but he throws his hands in the air and starts laughing. ‘Unbelievable,’ he mutters under his breath, stepping closer to me. I back up as a wide chest fills my vision. ‘Please Charley,’ he says theatrically, a mock pleading expression on his face, and fun relaxed Alex is back again. ‘Please, please, please … come to the party.’

  I shake my head and grin, then scowl as the motion pulls sharp claws through my head. ‘All right, all right,’ I say, pretending reluctance. ‘But do I get a break?’

  ‘You’re about to get one, and you proved yourself so efficient at getting ready last night,’ he cocks an eyebrow, ‘that you should have an hour or so to yourself before meeting me.’

  I chew the inside of my mouth but say nothing. He doesn’t know I need extra time to let the migraine tablets take effect. ‘Fine. But before I go, I need to talk to you about something and I owe you—’

  ‘An apology?’ He massages the back of his neck, as if feeling my pain, like conjoined twins. ‘We seem to be having this conversation regularly, don’t we?’

  I flush. ‘I’m not usually so argumentative. I shouldn’t have called you cynical. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Yes, well, I’m sorry if I lost my cool. You’re right. I am cynical – whereas you’re an optimist. We both have strong opinions and we’re not likely to agree on this particular point so I think we should agree to disagree.’ A strange look passes over his face, as if he’s made a decision. ‘Let’s just see the assignment through as quickly as possible.’

  The headache intensifies. ‘Sounds good to me.’ It doesn’t. I should be wishing for the weekend to be over with as much as him but the thought he wants rid of me is appalling. Then I’m appalled that I’m appalled.

  His phone vibrates inside his trouser pocket and he plucks it out, going pasty white at whatever is on screen.

  ‘Alex, are you okay?’

  ‘Pardon?’ He gazes at me blankly, black eyebrows pulling together.

  ‘You look awful. Maybe you should sit down for a minute.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he says swiftly, but sways like a tall tree in a high-force gale. I think of Alex as solid and strong, but right now he's vulnerable.

  ‘You’re plainly not.’ Ignoring my headache, I grab his elbow and jerk him towards a chair about seven feet away.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ He tries to pull his arm free but I hold tight, hooking my fingers into his silky, expensive shirt.

  ‘Helping. You look like you’re about to fall over.’

  ‘I don’t need anyone’s help.’ But his deep voice is hoarse. ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘Sit down,’ I insist. Spinning round to swap our positions, I shove at his chest lightly, slowly backing him towards the chair. Five feet to go.

  ‘I said I’m fine!’

  ‘Did you get bad news?’ I say softy, pushing his chest again, trying not to accidentally grope what feel like glorious pecs. He steps back. Four feet. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  He looks at me oddly. ‘What would you be able to do?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ But the energy he directs at the question allows me to push him another foot or so backward. Getting there. I shiver. He’s so gorgeous, even more so when he’s off balance. It’s not fair how attractive he is in his formal shirt and tie, his body so close I swear I feel its core temperature. ‘But I’d try,’ I say desperately to distract myself. ‘I’m just offering—’

  He huffs. ‘Well, I don’t need you. Stop offering and go away. Go and get ready or something.’

  ‘No.’ I press my other hand against his chest and press again. Two feet. Nearly there. ‘Look, I’m not trying to be difficult—’

  ‘Seriously?’ He rocks out a laugh that does funny things to my knees. ‘You’ve done nothing but present me with difficulties!’

  ‘Thanks a lot!’ I give him a final shove borne of frustration and, of course, he chooses that minute to cooperate. He lands squarely in the chair and the momentum carries me forward. I stumble and end up sprawled on top of him, bum on his hard lap, hands clinging onto his shoulders for balance.

  ‘Oh,’ I squeak.

  ‘Oh,’ he echoes.

  We lock eyes, his pupils dilating. His gaze drops down to my mouth. ‘You’re really quite beautiful you know,’ he says huskily.

  The rumble of his voice, reverberating through his broad chest and against my breasts, strikes a chord in my misbehaving body. He thinks I’m beautiful?

  It’s a mere sparkle of thought, because I squirm on his thighs and his hands clench on my hips … and he jams his mouth down on mine.

  The kiss is demanding and
rough and he curves an arm round my back to yank me closer. I know he’s taking his frustrations out on me but I’m not scared in the way I would be if it were Tony. The fear goes deeper as warmth spins inside me. It’s not fear about my physical safety; it’s about guarding my heart.

  I pull away but really don’t have anywhere to go, lying across his lap with his arms wrapped round me. ‘What are you doing?’ I choke into his mouth.

  He lifts his head just enough to hear the words and confusion clouds his face. ‘I’m not sure,’ he admits. I expect him to let me go but he kisses me again and it’s not rough any more. It’s how every girl longs to be kissed for the first time; slow and sweet and sexy. It’s much worse than his misplaced anger. More dangerous. I try to fight it but it’s useless. I hold out for all of two seconds then breathe in his fresh scent and become aware of the smooth texture of his shirt where my hands have moved to his taut upper back. I can feel the hot muscles shift under my palms. The heat of his solid body presses into mine, chest to knee, and the sound of our heavy breathing and the way his thumb rubs along my jaw slays me. I give in. I melt. I can’t think, only feel, gripping onto him to stop from slipping off his lap and flowing into a puddle at his feet. Raging warmth spreads through me. Embarrassingly I let out a kind of half moan, half squeak, and the pressure of his mouth increases. He groans in response and the kiss gets slower and steamier.

  Taking out my hair band, he runs gentle fingers through my waves and all traces of a headache fade. Tingles zing along my spine as one of his hands drops to cup my bum. He stands, lifting and putting me on the edge of the meeting table. The glass is cool beneath my thighs through my tights as my skirt hitches up. He crowds closer, flexes his fingers on my bum, prompting an answering tug between my legs. Woah! I gasp and grab fistfuls of his thick dark hair as the kiss goes on and on, gaining energy and spark. His hips press between my thighs and it’s obvious he’s enjoying this as much as I am.

  Take me now, I think foggily as he lifts his head. Maybe I say it out loud, I’m not sure. Either that or he’s a mind reader.