The Little Shop of Afternoon Delights: 6 Book Romance Collection. Zara Stoneley
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ex-employee.
The troublemaker.
‘I said, now!’
The order erupts from the window like something snarling with teeth and my eyes fly open. My stomach clenches in knots as the driver straightens, turning to fight his way back to me. Holding my breath, I wonder if I’m destined to go home with no prospects, no money and only numb toes and damp hair to show for my efforts.
‘Shall we go?’ he asks, stamping his feet for warmth.
My cover isn’t blown. ‘Yes!’ Oops, probably a little too enthusiastic.
He doesn’t seem to notice, opening the boot and gesturing to my case. ‘May I?’
‘No. I mean, I can manage. But thank you.’ I grab it and shove it in before he can. I won’t be waited on. If my independence is one of the few things I have left, I’ll guard it like a precious possession.
‘Fine, Miss Caswell,’ a tiny glint of humour warms his eyes, ‘but are you going to at least let me open the door for you?’
‘It’s Charley,’ I flash him a grateful smile as he swings the door open, ‘and if you’re going to insist… Yes, thanks.’
Mr CEO is on the phone as I get in, so I take a moment to appreciate the cosy, immaculate interior of the car. Heavenly. Smooth, black leather seats, walnut finish on everything, TV screens in the back of the headrests in front of us. Nice. I sink back with a sigh of relief, then ruin it by fumbling around trying to click the metal tongue of the seatbelt into place. My fingers are burning and tingling as they start to thaw, so it makes the job that much harder.
Finally buckling myself in, I glance up. And my mouth drops open. My hands clench and lust strums my knickers.
Oh … wow! I did not count on this.
I had a vague idea Alex Demetrio wasn’t bad looking but I’ve never seen a proper picture. He’s got an aversion to being photographed and any pics successfully snapped would appear in Hello or Tatler – not my type of reading material. The only photo I’ve seen was in a corporate brochure and he was standing scowling in the middle of a crowd. All I could tell was he had the same dark colouring as his father, the previous CEO.
So it’s a complete shock he’s one of the most astoundingly gorgeous men I’ve ever shared oxygen with, Brad Pitt-beautiful. Frozen, I admire his short, ruffled black hair, slightly olive skin and strong, sculpted face with angelically defined cheekbones. I’ve worked with good-looking men before but this guy is magnetic.
Thank God he’s on his mobile speaking in a language I can’t quite place and therefore oblivious to my unprofessional, uncharacteristic gawking. Then his gaze swings to mine and he loses the thread of his conversation, frowning. Bugger. Has he caught me staring? Embarrassing. But he shakes his head, responds to something the caller says and turns to face the window.
I wish ignoring him was so easy, but the deep-blue eyes I caught a flash of were captivating, framed by enviously long, black lashes that might make him pretty if he wasn’t so … manly. Icing on the cake (and I love my cake) are the kissable Tom Hardy pillow lips. And there’s The Body. Wide shoulders, broad chest and long muscular legs sprawled out in front of him. He’s not just hot, he’s mega hot.
This big handsome guy, a man who looks like a film star or a model in an American underwear ad, is the CEO? Unbelievable. Just my luck. My heart clunks to the pit of my stomach, feeling like it catches some vital organs on the way down. After all the gossip Tony circulated about me, and given the reason I’m here, my boss for the weekend is the last man in existence I can be attracted to.
I study him covertly, trying to swallow moisture back into my mouth. Being immune to his appeal fails in spectacular fashion, as an unfamiliar burn of heat sweeps along the back of my neck, spreading down my chest. I just manage not to wipe damp hands along my trouser legs. What’s wrong with me? Although a redhead, I never blush; something I’ve always been thankful for.
Boy, am I in Trouble.
There’s no time to dwell on the thought because he ends his call, throwing his phone onto the seat between us.
‘So. Who the hell are you?’ He demands as the car pulls out into the insane London traffic.
Teeth snapping shut, my shameless appreciation of his outrageous good looks nosedives. Is he for real? Why so rude? But I must keep him on side, can’t lose my cool, so I breathe in slowly, the scent of new leather making me feel slightly sick.
‘Well?’
‘Charley Caswell. Pleased to meet you.’ Forcing a brittle smile, I thrust a hand towards him. ‘The agency sent me to assist you over the next few days?’
His handshake is brisk and he withdraws as though I have a contagious disease. I ignore the tingle in my palm at his touch.
‘I know why you’re here,’ he replies, ‘I instructed the agency to hire someone. It’s just that you’re ah,’ a pause, ‘not what I was expecting.’
His gaze flickers over my chest, which I’ve always hated because my boobs are so big they make me feel like a low-grade porn star. Flushing, I button my suit jacket, trying to put aside the unwelcome excitement choking my oxygen supply.
Stop it. I should be offended by the quick glance, not flattered.
Be professional. I have to convince him I’m a sane human being, earn a little of his trust.
Rerunning his last remark, not what I was expecting I connect it with his downward glance. Is the problem I’m not a man? Not okay. But confrontation isn’t what I came here for. ‘I appreciate my first name may have caused some confusion, but I assure you I’ve lots of experience as a PA.’ It’s not exactly a lie. I was a PA for a year and a half during my climb up the corporate ladder. I’m sure the skills will come back to me.
‘I haven’t got any problem with your experience, after all you’ve been vetted by the agency.’ He jerks open one of his jacket buttons and shifts his long legs restlessly. ‘But I’ve had … issues with female staff in the past. My executive assistant has a burst appendix and is in hospital recovering and apparently no one could step in at such short notice. Or they’re still on leave.’ He looks less than impressed.
‘Well, we’re barely into the New Year, and people do have a right to take holiday don’t they?’ I shouldn’t say it but I feel sorry for the employees he has such high expectations of. ‘And if you’re limiting the number of people who can assist you to men,’ I know by the flickering pulse in his jaw I’m right, ‘you are narrowing your field a bit.’ I won’t argue outright about his blatant sexism, but I can’t let it pass unnoticed.
‘Maybe,’ he agrees stiffly, looking at me with narrowed eyes. ‘I suppose I just expected more. A sense of duty perhaps.’
Sidestepping his remark: ‘So, what issues are you referring to about women anyway?’ Carrying out my plan is going to be a teensy bit problematic if my gender means he won’t even listen to me.
‘Some people can separate work from their personal lives, respect professional boundaries,’ he says coolly, ‘but unfortunately others don’t have that ability.’
‘You’re joking?’ I laugh. Is he suggesting men do and women don’t, or that he’s so attractive every female who works for him will try it on? Okay, he’s hot, but a large proportion of the female population demand equality and respect, and he’s hardly giving off those vibes.
‘No, I’m not.’ He frowns. ‘I was trying to be the opposite of funny.’
‘Okay.’ I bite the inside of