One Night with Her Brooding Boss: Ruthless Boss, Dream Baby / Her Impossible Boss / The Secretary’s Bossman Bargain. Susan Stephens
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the curly phone-cord to its limit as she peered through the open bathroom door. ‘Just getting the milk in.’
Quinn hummed. ‘Forget breakfast and get in here, will you? A national newspaper has announced that its first colour supplement will be launched in the New Year, and—’
‘And we’re going to be in it!’ she exclaimed excitedly.
‘That’s the plan.’
‘Fantastic!’ It was fantastic. And would be even more so if Quinn could only bring himself to trust her with the smallest detail, rather than expecting her to type up the minutes of his latest meeting. But first things first; the sooner she got herself back to the office, the sooner she was back in the game. ‘I’m just putting the phone down for a second,’ she said, knowing the phone cord wouldn’t stretch far enough. ‘Hang on.’
Rushing into the bathroom, Magenta looked in vain for the shower. She would have to take a quick bath—a cold bath, as it turned out. Too late now to notice the switch on the wall and realise she’d have had to turn it on some hours earlier if she wanted the luxury of hot water.
‘Fantastic?’ Quinn bellowed as she picked up the phone again. ‘Is that all you have to say about it? I can’t believe you’re awake yet, Magenta. This is a national first and I want a big, visual splash for Style Design in that first supplement—Magenta? Are you still there?’
Barely. She had stepped into the frigid water and made a big splash of her own. Down, up and that would have to do it. Teeth chattering, she reached for a small, scratchy towel.
No fluffy bath-sheet warming gently on a heated towel-rail.
No bath sheet, full-stop.
Lodging the phone between her shoulder and chin, she jumped about to keep warm as she flung open the single wardrobe door. Now here was a thing—a disposable paper dress in a black-and-white op-art pattern. Paper clothes would be put to good use in clinics in the future, though not in this flamboyant design. She smiled wryly. Goodness knew how, but dresses like these were making it to the fashion pages of the sixties, judging by the magazines she’d seen in the office. This particular company’s bold claim was that they were not only at the cutting edge of fashion, but were ready to supply disposable clothes for space flight and settlements on future moon-colonies.
How high would Quinn take her?
Thoughts like that definitely belonged in the realms of fantasy, Magenta decided as Quinn uttered a phrase that was bang up-to-date in whichever era he lived.
She settled for a safe wool dress, deciding to keep the outrageous paper mini-dress for the Christmas party. Why shouldn’t she break out that one time and surprise Quinn? Tradition demanded everyone let rip during the holiday celebrations, and surely that had been no different in the sixties? And wasn’t she incredibly comfortable around paper these days? She would just have to hope Quinn would see the irony in her choice of outfit. But that was for later. The sleek wool dress she chose for now was in an attractive shade of coral and had a wide, form-enhancing belt, which Magenta buckled securely. She looked the part and was determined to work the role fate had given her to the very best of her ability.
What else could she do? she reasoned as she soared upwards in the office lift. At least she’d get to see Quinn again—and, in spite of his manner towards her last night, she felt the customary buzz of anticipation as she walked into the office. She was already looking for him, practically scenting the air like a doe on heat searching for the buck. Yes, Quinn was a bad-boy, but would she seriously want to change her dream lover into a weed?
THIS sixties version of the office where she worked was more like a stark, bare stage than the technology-crammed work setting Magenta was accustomed to, with its anonymous banks of twenty-first century computers and purposefully androgynous personnel. Here in the sixties everyone dressed to impress and showed off their assets to best advantage. Fortunately, she had adapted quickly to her new role as office manager, and found that her natural air of authority even had most of the men begrudgingly following her orders. Not Quinn, of course. The only orders Quinn followed were his own.
‘Always liked a strong woman,’ one of the men who had teased her earlier declared as she took the cigarette from his hand and stubbed it out.
‘No more of that,’ Magenta said firmly, realising that, the firmer she was with these men, the more they seemed to like it.
All except for Quinn, who when she did see him chose to ignore the fact that they had spent a large part of the last evening flirting—or verbal jousting, as Magenta preferred to think of it. He repeated his warning—with his lips very close to her ear—that she would pay the consequence if outside interests detracted from her work for him. Quinn had otherwise left her alone with a pile of work she was sure he had added to in order to punish her for oversleeping that morning. Not that her lips cared about that. They were too busy tingling from the memory of his kisses.
The day passed quickly, the only down side being the lack of Quinn. Magenta let Nancy and the rest of the girls leave early again, feeling they had spent another day under the heel of unreasonable men; she was equally determined that all that would change soon. If there was one thing she was determined to do before she woke up again, it was to make a difference for those girls.
Would she wake up if she fell asleep at the office? Magenta wondered, resting her chin on the heel of her hand. After all, she had woken up here at the office. Who knew what might happen in such an upside-down world? She glanced across at the group of men hanging around in the hope of being able to say goodnight to Quinn—and possibly kiss his backside too, Magenta reflected waspishly. It was nothing short of a miracle that women had found the energy to prove themselves in the sixties, in her opinion. And on top of that they were expected to run a home.
So what had changed? Magenta wondered wryly. Things were pretty much the same in the twenty-first century.
Quinn appeared and everyone straightened up. Even Magenta was guilty of trying to give a good impression. There was no harm in looking; Quinn was one good-looking man.
‘Still working, Magenta?’
She was surprised when he came over to her rather than heading for the men.
‘This is good,’ he said, scanning her latest idea.
‘And when it’s finished you can see it.’ She covered her work protectively.
‘You should share your ideas,’ Quinn told her.
‘And I will,’ she said. Just as soon as she had organised a team. She was determined to recruit from the typing pool and the switchboard. She had to get those girls believing in themselves so they could leave the corral behind for good.
‘When can I see it?’ Quinn’s gaze sharpened.
‘As soon as we’re ready.’
‘We?’ he said suspiciously.
‘This type of work is usually undertaken by a team.’ As his eyes narrowed she could tell she’d gone too far. ‘What I mean to say is, with your approval, I would like to canvas opinion in the typing corral.’
‘The typing corral? ‘
Why was she staring at his lips? ‘I mean the women who type,’ she said carefully. It wouldn’t do to put his back up. Not yet. ‘They’re closed off from the rest of the office as if they’re in a corral.’
‘And? ‘ Quinn queried.
‘We’re losing out on their opinions. I just thought that maybe their thoughts on the various products you’re promoting could be useful to you.’ She spoke mildly but felt like a tigress defending her cubs.
‘Perhaps…’ Quinn thumbed his sharp black stubble.
‘And I have another idea for you.’