In Her Boss's Bed

by Maggie Cox

  ‘Her name’s Neesha. She’s six years old. I didn’t mention it because I didn’t want to give you another excuse to imagine my commitment to work was less than it should be. That first morning, when you found me asleep at my desk? I’d been up the night before, nursing my daughter’s cold; that’s why I was so tired. It’s well known that some bosses don’t like female staff having family commitments. You’d already threatened me with the sack once, and I need this job. Now you know.’

  Conall’s blue eyes sharpened as he absorbed what she’d just told him. ‘Neesha? Presumably she’s the “favourite person” you mentioned the other day?’

  Sighing wearily, Morgen pushed her fingers through her curtain of dark hair, making Conall’s own fingers itch to do the same. But he knew there was a wealth of resentment in that sigh that told him she didn’t exactly enjoy explaining the circumstances of her life to him. And why should she?

  ‘Of course. Who else would I mean?’

  ‘Where’s her father? At work?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. We’re lucky if we see him three or four times a year, if that.’ A mirthless laugh broke free from her lips. ‘Or perhaps I should say unlucky?’

  ‘You’re separated?’ Conall couldn’t deny the swift stab of hope that took a speedboat ride through his bloodstream.

  ‘Divorced…five years ago. I’m a single parent. Now you know everything about me.’ Her green eyes flashed resentment again, but this time Conall felt better equipped to deal with it.

  He smiled. ‘Not everything. Why did you break up?’

  She made a little sound of exasperation, and if she’d been standing Conall guessed she would have shown him the door. Far be it from him to take advantage, but he was glad she was too indisposed to contemplate it. Though if he were truly the gentleman his mother had raised him to be without a doubt he would have chosen a better time to pursue this particular line of questioning.

  ‘That’s private.’

  Hugging her arms around her middle, Morgen wished that he would just get up and go. Why was he hanging around, plaguing her with all these questions, when all she wanted to do was curl up on the couch and go to sleep? Simon had been a first-class bastard, but she wasn’t about to reveal as much to her boss. Besides, knowing how men stuck together about these things, Conall would probably think the fault had been hers, and Morgen had had enough judgements already to make her wary of exposing herself to more.

  ‘Having children is hardly a sacking offence, Morgen. As long as my staff realise they do have a certain level of commitment to work, and don’t take advantage, then as far as I’m concerned taking time off to take care of their kids when they’re ill or be there to see a school play isn’t a problem. I’m not a family man myself, but I know it’s short-sighted not to acknowledge that people have another life outside work. If that’s something I’ve been guilty of in the past, then clearly it’s time for a change. Where is your daughter now, by the way?’

  ‘At my mum’s. She stays over there one night in the week.’

  Despite not wanting to display vulnerability of any kind to this man, Morgen couldn’t help but draw her legs beneath her and let her head slip back down onto the cushions. She was so tired. If falling asleep were an Olympic sport, she’d win it hands down. Conall would just have to see himself out. If he expected to see her at work in the morning she’d need at least twelve hours to try and shake this thing. She was glad, though, she acknowledged sleepily, that he’d said what he had about family. It made him seem much more approachable, somehow—less the high-powered charismatic architect and more like an ordinary human being.

  By the time Conall got back on his feet, dragged his fingers through his hair and loosened his tie-knot, it was evident that Morgen was well and truly asleep. Scanning the room, he pulled a soft plaid wool throw from a padded Victorian armchair and draped it gently across her slumbering figure. He remembered she’d protested vehemently about being called a girl earlier, but right now, looking down into her flushed, almost angelic face, she reminded Conall of a small child that needed taking care of.

  Why the very idea didn’t have his feet burning a hole in the rug to get out of the door, he could only wonder. He’d only really ever dated career women: strong, capable, ambitious individuals who knew what they wanted out of life and stopped at nothing to get it. If a little warmth had been lacking in their make-up sometimes, tearing up the sheets as an extra-curricular activity after work had easily made up for the deficit—if indeed that was what it was.

  ‘We work hard and we play hard,’ a male colleague—proud to be over thirty and still single—had asserted over drinks one night. But even then Conall had experienced surprising discomfort at the generally accepted ethos. Having a reputation as a bit of a playboy wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, he’d found. There was something about being able to have anything you wanted—including beautiful women—that didn’t always sit right. He wasn’t hankering after having a family, or anything ludicrous like that, but maybe it would be kind of nice to have one special woman in his life instead of several? As long as she didn’t cling and expect him to marry her.

  ‘You go through girlfriends as often as you change your shirt,’ his sister Teresa had once scolded him, and he’d asked her why he should have any remorse about the fact when they were all consenting adults who knew what they were getting into from the start. He always made it clear from the outset that it was a short-term thing, with no strings, and the women mostly agreed. One or two had clung a little, he recalled with regret, but in the main everyone was happy. Everyone got what they wanted. Didn’t they?

  His chest felt curiously hollow as he continued to study the sleeping Morgen. Clearly she hadn’t got what she’d wanted, if she was divorced. Once upon a time had she believed in happy ever after? Conall found it disturbed him to think that her girlhood dreams had been crushed by a man. Despite his own aversion to the married state, inexplicably it made him feel as if the whole of his sex had let her down.

  Good grief! Where was this leading? Shaking his head in disbelief, he glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Almost simultaneously his stomach grumbled. He hadn’t eaten anything since this morning—he’d given the sandwiches at the meeting the go-by in order to stay and talk to Morgen. Trouble was, he was loath to leave her and go in search of food when she might need him. The idea that she was unwell and would have to manage on her own in the night seriously bothered him. If only he’d thought to ask her for her mother’s phone number before she’d fallen asleep, instead of wearing her out with his questions. At least he could have rung her and told her that Morgen was ill. Now what was he supposed to do?

  In the end he made his way back into the kitchen, telling himself that surely Morgen wouldn’t mind if he made himself a sandwich. He’d pay her back by taking her out to dinner. Warming to the idea, he spread two slices of wholemeal bread with some low-fat spread he found in the fridge, then added a couple of messily cut slices of cheddar cheese. Okay, so he wasn’t known for his culinary expertise, but he was hungry—what could be better than staples like bread and cheese? Now, if only Morgen had a handy bottle of good red wine, Conall thought wryly, he’d be in seventh heaven…

  Stirring in her sleep, she felt every bone and every muscle she possessed seem to collectively groan in agony. Something woolly was tickling her cheek, and Morgen blinked her eyes open in the semi-dark and pushed it away, panicking suddenly because she didn’t remember covering herself with a throw before she’d fallen asleep. Conall? When had he left? And, more to the point, what had her parting words been? She could only pray she hadn’t said something stupid. Something she might regret.

  Pushing up into a sitting position, she peeled her tongue from the roof of her mouth and grimaced at the taste. Gasping for a drink, she swung her legs to the floor, wishing she didn’t feel so dizzy and hot, trying to remember what she was supposed to be doing, because she couldn’t somehow get to grips with co-ordinating her brain and her limbs at th
e same time.

  ‘Steady. Let me help you.’

  The low rumble of Conall’s voice coming at her out of the darkened room made Morgen almost faint with shock. She stared as his hand came down on her shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. What was he doing here? And what was the time, for goodness’ sake? He’d removed his jacket and tie, she noticed, and a silky lock of his hair flopped across his forehead as he bent down to her.

  ‘Where do you want to go?’ he asked concernedly.

  Morgen licked her dry lips and wished her limbs would stop shaking. ‘To the bathroom. I can—I can manage.’

  ‘You’re burning up.’ Automatically his hand moved to her forehead, swept back her fringe and assessed her temperature. ‘As soon as I get you back from the bathroom, I suggest you get straight into bed. You’ll have to show me where your room is.’

  Struggling to her feet, Morgen felt like a newborn foal, trying to get to grips with the use of its legs. When she stumbled Conall was there to steady her and hold her, and she could have cried because she was feeling so weak and really did seem to need his help.

  ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ she whispered forlornly, sniffing to hold back the tears. ‘Why did you stay?’

  His blue eyes didn’t waver. The look that met her troubled gaze almost made her heart break. ‘Because you needed me.’

  It was as simple as that. No other explanations needed, clearly. Not once in the time she’d lived with Simon had he even stayed awake when she was unwell, never mind nursed her through it because she needed him. And he was a doctor.

  With a sigh, Morgen allowed Conall to help her to the bathroom.

  Insisting she leave the door unlocked, so that she could call for his help if she needed it, he leant against the wall in the corridor, wishing that he’d insisted she’d gone home earlier. The least he could do now was make sure everything else was all right for her. He’d tuck her into bed, make sure she had plenty to drink, and give her a couple more tablets to take her temperature down before she went back to sleep again. Then he’d spend the night on one of her silk-draped couches and see how she was in the morning.

  She wouldn’t like it, but she was in no condition to protest, he thought grimly. Risking Morgen’s temper was a risk he was willing to take if he could see to his satisfaction that she was all right.

  Switching off the light in the bathroom, Morgen told herself she felt marginally better now that she’d brushed her teeth and eliminated that dead budgerigar taste in her mouth. But it still didn’t stop her from swaying slightly as she endeavoured to stay upright and fix Conall’s tall broad-shouldered frame with a wobbly little smile.

  ‘All done.’

  ‘Where’s your bedroom?’

  ‘I bet you say that to all the girls,’ she joked feebly, then wished she hadn’t when Conall’s handsome brows drew together in what appeared to Morgen a highly disapproving little frown.

  ‘I prefer my women to be in full control of all their faculties before things get that specific, sweetheart,’ he drawled, making all the hairs on the back of Morgen’s neck stand to attention. What was the matter with her? she thought miserably. Why did she have to be so ultra-aware of this man? What was it about him that made her yearn for the impossible, even when she was ill?

  ‘I wasn’t trying to make—make a pass at you or anything.’ Turning away, she almost jumped out of her skin when Conall’s hand snapped meaningfully round her wrist. Staring up at him, her skin flushed with fever and her legs quaking, she was totally powerless to tear her gaze away from those intense blue eyes as they bored into hers.

  ‘Do you think I would have turned you down if you had? Even in your present unhappy condition, I want you like I have no right to want you. Now, let’s get away from the subject before I forget I’m the gentleman I like to think I am.’

  In her bedroom, Conall drew the pale lemon voile curtains closed against the night and took a deep steadying breath. He’d left her sitting on the edge of the old-fashioned brass bed, struggling to remove her jacket, while he tried not to stare and imagine her undressing for him.

  Already he was in a fever of his own. Being in her room was unbelievably more erotic than any fantasy he could have conjured up himself, and he could give the average Hollywood director a run for his money in that department. The room was ultra-feminine and made Conall acutely sensitive to his own opposing masculinity. The women he usually dated mostly seemed to prefer a fairly minimalist look in the bedroom, but Morgen’s room was a seductive assault on the senses. As well as being filled with the most erotic scents—sandalwood, and something sweetly exotic he couldn’t identify—everything around him was a feast for the eyes.

  In one corner of the room was a dressing table draped in white muslin, covered with lots of pretty Victorian scent bottles and a silver hairbrush and comb set. The floor was covered in a pale gold-coloured carpet, with an Oriental oval rug by the bed, and in the centre of the ceiling hung an old-fashioned brass chandelier with tear-shaped droplets made of crystal. But it was the bed that drew Conall’s attention, and the thought of her in it would haunt his dreams. Covered in virginal white linen, it was an inviting contrast to the midnight darkness of Morgen’s hair, and he couldn’t help the heat that in-flamed him when he imagined making love to her in that bed, that dark silken mass spread out on the pillow behind her.

  ‘Can I get into bed now?’

  She’d peeled back the white covers and was starting to crawl beneath them when Conall moved across to stand beside the bed, his casual stance belying the tumult of desire raging inside him.

  ‘You’ve still got your clothes on,’ he reminded her, stern-faced. ‘Where are your night things?’ He stared, half expecting her to produce a long lacy Victorian nightgown from beneath her pillow.

  ‘I feel too ill to get changed,’ she protested. More to the point, she had no intention of putting on her night-clothes with Hunk of the Year standing there watching her.

  ‘You’ll regret it in the morning.’ Now there was a faint suggestion of a smile ghosting his lips, and Morgen felt her insides teeter as if she was riding a unicycle on a high wire.

  ‘Well, then, you’d better leave me to it.’

  As she started to swing her legs onto the floor again, Conall gave her a gentle shove backwards. Ignoring her indignant glare, he let his hands drop to his hips. Morgen’s gaze did too, and she gulped when she realised what she was doing.

  ‘Where are your things? I’ll get them for you.’

  Jerking her head towards the heavy Victorian chest of drawers on the other side of the room, Morgen reluctantly told him, ‘Third drawer down. You can’t miss them.’

  She was right, Conall mused, handling the red silk pyjamas in awe. They were so soft they felt like water trickling through his fingers. Desire slammed hard into his groin, and for a few moments he stood perfectly still to ground himself. She wore red silk pyjamas in bed. What was she trying to do? Torture him?

  ‘Put them on,’ he instructed, throwing them onto her lap, his voice gruff. ‘I’ll wait outside.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  MORGEN was lying in bed staring up at the ceiling when the door swung open and, unannounced, Conall strode in. He was bearing a glass of water on a tray and his hair looked tousled and damp, as if he’d just showered. Around his jaw was the distinct dark shadow of a beard. With his shirt undone to almost the centre of his chest, and minus his tie and jacket, he looked almost too disturbingly attractive for words. Like a living, breathing male calendar cover.

  For a moment Morgen couldn’t speak, she was so tongue-tied, and if it was possible her temperature soared even higher. Apparently he’d stayed the night—just as he told her he would. She still couldn’t quite believe it.

  ‘How are you feeling this morning?’

  She didn’t mince her words. ‘Like death warmed up, if you must know.’

  ‘Here, take two more of these.’ Carefully positioning the tray on the small muslin-covered nightstand beside
the bed, Conall proffered the tablets, then handed her the glass of water to wash them down with. He waited patiently while she took them, then put the glass back down onto the tray.

  ‘You’re still very hot.’ Sliding his hand onto her brow, he frowned at the evidence. ‘There’s no way you can come into work today. Perhaps I should call the doctor out? Have him check you over?’

  Morgen wasn’t used to this much attention when she was ill, and she still couldn’t quite believe that her high-powered boss had stayed the night in her humble little house to watch over her and make sure she didn’t get any worse. Protecting his firm’s investment, maybe? Or were his reasons even more basic than that? His statement that he wanted her more than he had a right to had played over and over in her head during the night, as if she’d left her finger on the ‘rewind’ button of a tape recorder. But he could want all he liked, she thought defiantly. It didn’t mean that he could have. She had her child’s welfare to consider before she went racing down that old road of heartbreak again, and that was where she’d be headed if she became intimately involved with her boss.

  There was also the little matter of her ex-husband’s behaviour in the past—surely that was enough on its own to prevent her from getting any silly ideas about a relationship with Conall? High-powered men were too into their careers to really dedicate themselves to a proper relationship with a woman—let alone a woman with a child. And hadn’t she heard Conall say with her own ears that he would never let a woman get really close? Top of Morgen’s list of priorities was raising her daughter, and she wasn’t about to indulge in some hot little affair, possibly jeopardising her job and her relationship with Neesha. Even if the idea was getting harder and harder to resist.

  ‘I don’t want you to call the doctor. There’s nothing he’ll suggest other than what I’m doing already anyway. I’ll wait until lunchtime and see how I feel, and if I’ve improved, I’ll jump in the car and drive into work.’