Ruthless Boss, Dream Baby

by Susan Stephens

  So, how about men who wore English Leather or nothing at all?

  Magenta’s appreciative gaze swept down Quinn’s muscular form. She mustn’t even think that way.

  How about something called Inferno? The shout line was enough to put her off: if she doesn’t give it to you, get it for yourself. Cologne seemed a poor substitute for the type of gift that ad was hinting at.

  ‘Well, have you chosen a product range to trial on me yet?’ Quinn demanded impatiently.

  ‘Yes, I have, actually. Something called Forbidden Fruit.’

  ‘Sounds reasonable.’

  ‘“The Lime of Least Resistance”.’

  Quinn’s lips tugged and Magenta could hardly keep her face straight. The sixties ad lines were really corny. If she couldn’t come up with something better, it was time to get out of the business—though, of course, her knowledge of the future should give her team a head start.

  Was that cheating? Not really; it was just good business sense, Magenta reasoned. ‘Ready?’ she asked Quinn.

  ‘As I’ll ever be,’ he told her dryly.

  Soaping Quinn was fun, shaving him less so, but only because he put her on edge and she was genuinely frightened of cutting him. And, far from being softened by the hot towel, his stubble remained just as dense and sharp as it had been when she started the process. Plus, she had to lean in very close, which made her even more aware of him, especially when each time she pulled back it was to find Quinn’s disturbing stare levelled on her face. He had the most beautiful face—strong, clean lines and a healthy complexion. And those lips…

  She had never been so intimate with a man before and felt her whole body respond as her hands adopted a new, caressing touch as she positioned Quinn on the padded head-rest. She couldn’t help her breasts brushing his arm as she worked and the feel of Quinn beneath her hands was intoxicating. She had to concentrate very hard indeed on this trial.

  ‘Not bad,’ he admitted, testing his chin when she’d finished. ‘I might keep you on.’

  ‘You should be so lucky.’ She laughed nervously, only now realising how tense she had become.

  ‘Don’t forget the massage—that’s my favourite part,’ Quinn insisted. ‘And I can hardly be expected to give my verdict on the products until I’ve sampled all of them.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Warm the cream in your hands first.’

  The air stilled between them as she picked up the container and poured a little of the cream onto her hands. She warmed it between her palms as Quinn had suggested, and the sliding sound of cream on skin was yet another reminder that she was batting well out of her league.

  ‘Don’t be shy,’ Quinn advised her dryly.

  ‘I’m not shy.’ She started tentatively at first and then grew bolder. She closed her eyes, allowing her fingers to map the shape of Quinn’s face. She wanted to imprint every detail on her mind so she could remember this moment whatever happened next. Quinn’s brow, his ears, his neck, his lips—nothing was forbidden to her and she indulged herself to the full.

  It was Quinn who brought the session to an end. Operating the lever at the side of his chair, he sat up. ‘I always suspected you were a dark horse.’

  ‘Did I do something wrong?’

  ‘On the contrary, that was the most sensuous massage I have ever experienced.’

  ‘But what about the product?’

  ‘What about the product?’

  ‘You’re supposed to be assessing it.’

  ‘I thought I just had. Write it up,’ he said, removing the protective sheet from his neck and handing it to her. ‘Give yourself full credit. I’ll expect your report on my desk by lunchtime today, Magenta.’

  ‘And you’ll listen to the ideas of my team now?’ She held her breath.

  ‘I gave you my word, didn’t I?’

  She wanted to leap up and kiss him, but of course she had more sense.

  ‘Anyone stand out for you?’ Quinn demanded on his way out of the door.

  So many of the girls had flair she hardly knew where to begin. ‘Nancy, Maria, Josie—’ Oh, to hell with it. ‘If you could just give them all a chance.’

  ‘And?’ Quinn said, suspecting there was something more.

  ‘Equal pay with the men?’

  ‘You don’t want much,’ he said wryly.

  No, but while he was in a good mood she was going to ask for it.

  ‘All of these things have to be earned,’ Quinn observed. ‘Regardless of gender.’

  ‘So you’d consider making changes?’

  ‘When I do, you’ll be the first to hear.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t thank me—you’ll be typing up the memos. If you can’t take the heat, you’d better get out of the kitchen, Magenta.’

  ‘I can take it.’ Yes. Yes! Oh boy, could she take it. This was an incredible turnaround from the most intransigent of men.

  ‘Good, because you’ll be adding all this new work to your regular duties.’

  Would there come a point where she crumpled beneath the pressure? Well, if there did, Quinn wouldn’t care—so she had better not. Getting that break for the girls was the only thing that mattered.

  Magenta could barely wait for Quinn to leave the room before flinging the protective sheet he’d handed her into the air with a whoop of excitement. The next step would be planning a new ad campaign with her team.

  The girls were giddy with excitement just at the thought of being taken seriously. The sexism and chauvinism in the office knew no bounds and Magenta could hardly believe that such intelligent and vital individuals had been disregarded solely on the basis of gender. How could these women have been kept down for so long, subjugated by the men? How could any manager afford to waste such a valuable resource?

  Having assured her new colleagues that their ideas really were going to be listened to, she got down to writing up her report and delivered it to Quinn before lunchtime as instructed. To her amazement, he handed her a typewritten sheet. ‘My report,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you…’ Perhaps they were getting somewhere after all. Holding the sheet of folded paper close, she left the room feeling warm inside. And, yes, even a little triumphant. If all the battles ahead of her would be so easily won…

  ‘Leave my door open, will you?’ Quinn called after her.

  ‘Of course.’

  Quinn wasn’t so bad, Magenta decided, settling down at her desk. He just needed handling. She was in charge of collating the results for the trials and, now she had Quinn’s report, she could make a start.

  Studying the sheet of paper he’d given her, Magenta’s eyes widened.

  Dinner tonight, Quinn had written. Pick you up at your place at eight—no excuses.

  It was less of an invitation and more of an instruction.

  Magenta tensed. Reports forgotten, she stared into space. Kisses were one thing, but anything more… She had just experienced a prolonged sensory experience with Quinn and now he was calling her bluff. Was she up to a one-on-one meeting after work?

  ‘Did you want to talk business tonight?’ She turned with the note in her hand to speak to him through the open door.

  ‘What else?’ Quinn said impatiently, waving her away.

  A business meeting. Well, that was all right, and would give her a chance to learn more about Quinn. She felt a thrill of anticipation. Of course she could handle it. She was a big girl, wasn’t she? She could always say no. How could she turn Quinn down without offending him? That might put the girls’ future prospects in jeopardy, which she would never do.

  Turning in her chair, she flashed Quinn a faint smile and a nod. It didn’t do to look too eager.

  Hemlines were getting shorter, according to the fashion magazines the girls kept around the office. Venturing into one of the tiny boutiques, that had sprung up down a street Magenta knew would one day be turned into office blocks, was a temptation she couldn’t resist. Armed with cash from her wage packet, she was ready to shop.
The chance to wear one of the daring outfits for Quinn being showcased in the shop windows was slightly less appealing—she’d feel safer in a sack—but she guessed he might baulk at that for their evening out.

  Swinging London was the first headline she noticed on a news stand as she walked along, together with a picture of the Beatles. She definitely had to make some sort of effort to be stylish. Dragging her gaze away, she saw a hairdressing salon and decided to make that her first stop.

  A stylish young man with floppy hair and tight, flared trousers arranged Magenta’s long hair so that it hung loose down her back and was dressed fairly high at the top. Taking it up at the sides, he gave her a fringe so long it caught on her eyelashes.

  Realising she could buy make-up at the salon, she chose some smoky eye-shadow, passing on the pale foundation with the option of white lips. She had to contend with the lady behind the counter giving her some strange looks as she battled with the unfamiliar pre-decimal currency. She finally managed to get it right and handed over what seemed to her like a very small amount of money before leaving the shop.

  Now she had to hunt for an outfit to wear that evening. She had fun trying on all the vintage clothes and realising they were new. There was nothing subtle about sexiness in the sixties; she already knew that. Though she didn’t want Quinn to think her a frump, a couple of inches above the knee was as far as she was prepared to go. Rejecting a cobwebby, crotcheted dress, she chose a high-necked, soft turquoise silk with trumpet sleeves that flattered her figure without exposing too much of it.

  ‘You could go bra-less,’ the shop assistant informed her. ‘You’ve got the figure for it.’

  What and show off her nipples? Give Quinn a handy barometer to go by? He hardly needed that sort of encouragement. ‘I’d prefer to wear a bra.’

  ‘What about this no-bra bra?’ the assistant suggested. ‘It’s almost sheer, but it does offer some protection…’ She weighed Magenta up. ‘If that’s what you want.’

  ‘It is pretty,’ Magenta agreed and she definitely wanted all the protection she could get.

  ‘You could try these hip-huggers to go with it. Or some matching bikini-pants in the same flesh-coloured lace?’

  ‘They’re very flimsy.’

  ‘That’s the idea.’

  ‘I’ll take them.’ She just wanted to get out of the shop now. The girl’s close scrutiny was beginning to make her feel uncomfortable.

  ‘Which one?’ The girl was holding up a pair of knickers in each hand.

  ‘Both.’

  ‘You’re sure they’re not too flimsy for you? I do have some heavy-gauge serge in the back.’

  Was it so obvious that Magenta’s twenty-first-century lifestyle meant her choice of underwear depended on what washed well on a short cycle and lasted longest?

  CHAPTER TEN

  MAGENTA braved her freezing bathroom to take a bath and then dressed carefully. When the doorbell rang, her heart went crazy. If this was a dream she was certainly taking her time waking up, she thought as she hurried downstairs.

  And now she didn’t want to wake up. Quinn looked amazing. Standing on her doorstep wearing a heavy overcoat over his suit, and with a long, silk scarf slung casually around his neck, he was unreasonably handsome—like a hero stepping out of a dream. In full sixties hero-about-town rig, he really was something else.

  ‘Ready to go?’

  ‘I am,’ she confirmed, trying not to notice the silver-grey Aston Martin DB5 parked behind Quinn on the road. She’d half expected to see a motorbike parked at the kerb.

  It didn’t do to mix up dreams with reality, Magenta resolved, still gazing at Quinn’s fabulous car. ‘I can’t believe it’s in such immaculate condition,’ she murmured, hardly realising she was speaking out loud.

  Quinn looked at her curiously. ‘Do you mean the car? Why wouldn’t it be?’

  Of course, it must be brand new; she had almost betrayed herself. ‘I love it. You’re a very lucky man.’

  ‘And the harder I work the luckier I get,’ Quinn said dryly. ‘Have you forgotten something, Magenta?’ he added. ‘Your earrings?’

  It wasn’t as if she felt naked without earrings, but as she touched her earlobes Magenta remembered that no self-respecting sixties woman would be seen without them—whether they were colossal hoops or feathers trimmed with bells, not to mention the all-important chandelier for the woman who considered herself a cut above the rest. ‘I’ll be right back,’ she said. ‘Come in out of the cold while you wait. Close the door.’ She flung this over her shoulder as she raced upstairs.

  Neat pearl-drops in place, she returned to the hallway.

  ‘Perfect,’ Quinn approved, looking her up and down.

  His assessment was a bit intrusive for a business meeting, Magenta thought, but she’d let it pass. Quinn escorted her to the car and, opening the door for her, saw her settled inside.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked with interest as he took control of the high-powered machine.

  ‘I haven’t decided yet. What kind of food do you like?’

  ‘Anything, pretty much.’ She was curious to see if Antonio’s was open. The restaurant was situated in this direction and was one she knew. Antonio’s was famous for injecting the serious up-market restaurant quarter in London with Italian sunshine and some much-needed joie de vivre. It had been in the same family since the late fifties, being one of the first to bring spectacular ice cream and the art of curling spaghetti around a fork to London. So it should be a bustling concern in the sixties, Magenta reasoned, peering expectantly out of the window. ‘But this isn’t the way to Antonio’s,’ she said with concern as Quinn took a turning that led to a leafy and exclusive London suburb. ‘Antonio’s?’

  ‘Sorry, I was just thinking about an Italian restaurant I used to go to round here. So…’ She tried for light, and predictably ended up with an anxious wobble in her voice. ‘Have you decided where you’re taking me yet?’

  ‘I thought I’d show you my etchings. Joke,’ Quinn said dryly when he heard Magenta’s sharp intake of breath. ‘I thought we’d go to my house.’

  ‘Your house?’ Her mouth dried. ‘Should I be worried?’

  ‘Do you want to be?’ Quinn threw her a glance.

  ‘Of course not,’ she said, crossing her legs.

  ‘Good—but reserve judgement. Remember, you haven’t tasted my food yet.’

  ‘You’re going to cook for me?’

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘No.’ Just a surprise. Genghis Khan in a pinny was quite a thought.

  What was she getting into? Magenta wondered as Quinn swung into the drive of a grand, porticoed house. Was this where he usually brought his business associates for a chat? She’d had him down as a very private man who would never mix business with his private life.

  She tried not to act like Quinn’s country cousin as he showed her round his house. Magenta’s father lived in some style, but nothing close to this. The music room on the first floor, with its full-sized harp and selection of valuable period instruments, was like something out of a palace. Quinn was a connoisseur as well as a warrior in business. The thought of how that combination might translate in the bedroom made her senses roar. When Quinn slipped her coat from her shoulders and his fingers brushed her neck, she betrayed herself by shivering.

  ‘Are you cold?’

  She stared into Quinn’s amused gaze. They both knew the opposite was the case. Why was she feeling so embarrassed and unsure of herself? Sexual attraction between a man and a woman wasn’t unheard of, was it? Whatever their respective positions in life and whatever the era.

  To the sex-starved it was. She moved a sensible distance away from him.

  Shrugging off his overcoat, Quinn left her for a moment and when he returned it was with two glasses of amber liquid that glowed seductively in the cleverly designed lighting.

  ‘What is it?’ Magenta said as Quinn handed her the glass.

  ‘Single malt.’

 
She laughed and lightened up. ‘You remembered. Do you know many women who drink whisky, Quinn?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Not at all—I just wondered if you liked non-conformists.’

  ‘You’re not a non-conformist, Magenta.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘Because non-conformists all look the same.’

  ‘Like hippies?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Now they were laughing together, and against the odds she was beginning to relax in Quinn’s company. She really liked him—too much. She couldn’t afford to let her guard down and expect to survive the experience unscathed.

  ‘Shall we get down to business?’ she suggested, putting her glass on the table.

  Quinn’s lips pressed down with amusement as he put his glass next to hers. ‘I’m ready if you are.’

  This was business?

  Quinn dragged her into his arms and his kisses were a brushing, teasing, honeyed reminder. ‘I shouldn’t…’

  ‘You should. You must.’

  Quinn’s dark eyes glinted with humour and then he deepened the kiss. The chance to experience everything she had ever dreamed about with Quinn—a man who exuded power, raw and unrepentant—was now a very real possibility. She had always been awkward with men before, concerned she’d get it wrong, but the way Quinn was kissing her, binding every part of her to him, left very little to chance.

  Best of all, Magenta reasoned, nothing could go wrong in a dream—there were no consequences. She was free of inhibition and embarrassment. Her twenty-first-century world of metro-males and smooth-cheeked mummy’s boys had never seemed further away as Quinn persuaded her this was one sixties experience she shouldn’t miss out on.

  Now his tongue was teasing her lips apart, leaving her in no doubt as he plundered her mouth what he would like to do to her and how very good he’d be at doing it…

  She exclaimed with shock when he pulled away.

  ‘Do I frighten you?’

  ‘You frighten me?’ The awkward laugh was back again; she was more frightened of her own feelings than Quinn.