Out of Hours...His Feisty Assistant: The Tycoon's Very Personal Assistant / Caught on Camera with the CEO / Her Not-So-Secret Diary. Heidi Rice
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the coffee-table. The white envelope attached to the front had her name written on it in bold black ink. It had to be his handwriting, she thought. The large looping letters and the thick black line slashed under the words seemed to exude confidence, arrogance even—just as he did. She could imagine him writing it with the fountain pen he’d been tapping on his desk, his long tanned fingers moving quickly and efficiently across the paper.
She sighed and sat down. Oh, stop it, you dope. Just open the stupid thing and get it over with. If he’d asked her to leave, she’d leave. He’d honoured the promise about the clothes, which was the main thing. No reason why she couldn’t find a job in another hotel now, until she paid him back and earned her airfare home. That the thought of leaving the hotel made her feel a little depressed was simply ridiculous. Why on earth should she care? She wasn’t any better off here than she would be anywhere else in Vegas.
She guessed the butterflies jitterbugging in her stomach and the cold fingers of dread flitting up her spine must be the result of exhaustion and her recent emotional trauma, nothing more. She folded her legs and tugged the envelope off the package in one quick, decisive move. Still, as she put her finger into the seam and ripped the envelope open the feeling of dread tightened into an icy fist.
Five crisp new hundred-dollar bills spilled onto her lap. She scooped them up and stared at them. Clutching them in one hand, she unfolded the thick cream paper with the hotel’s green and gold letterhead at the top. It took a moment for her eyes to focus on the brief note, scrawled in that same dominant black ink in the middle of the page.
Kate,
Hope you found something to go with those proper knickers.
Meet me for dinner tonight, 8pm in the Rainbow Room.
Z
The signature Z had been slashed across the bottom like the mark of Zorro.
Kate blinked and read the note three more times, but there was still no mention of the five hundred dollars. The feeling of foreboding had gone, but in its place was something much more disturbing. Heat shot into her cheeks and the butterflies in her belly were all burned to a crisp. What was this fixation he seemed to have with her knickers? Why did she find it arousing instead of insulting? And what exactly was the five hundred dollars for?
She didn’t want to meet him for dinner tonight. She didn’t want to make a fool of herself again, or, worse, come across like someone on the make. But the invitation sounded like an order, and she couldn’t afford to annoy him.
She remembered the small package then. The hotel bag had been taped shut. It didn’t look as if there was much in it. Undoing the tape she upended the bag and a scrap of lacy crimson satin with a Post-it note stuck to it fell out onto the coffee-table. She picked it up, and pulled the satin thing tight between her fingers.
A thong! Her cheeks blazed and her breath got choppy.
She read the Post-it note: ‘These are for you, Kate, in case you want a break from your proper knickers.’
‘Why, you cheeky…’ Kate was outraged.
But a bubble of something worked its way up her torso. The light and airy feeling fanned out across her chest and a smile she couldn’t seem to stop spread across her face.
Then, completely against her will, she began to laugh, for what felt like the first time in a millennium.
KATE WASN’T LAUGHING when she stepped into the elevator that evening. As the empty car whipped soundlessly up to the nineteenth floor she knew the weightlessness in her stomach had more to do with nerves than gravity.
She studied her reflection in the mirror on the elevator’s back wall. At least she didn’t look like a vagabond. After a short but fortifying nap, she’d taken one of the hundred-dollar bills Boudreaux had given her and hit The Strip, aware she could hardly wear her Tom Sawyer outfit to the hotel’s swankiest restaurant.
She absolutely was not dressing up to impress Boudreaux, but she didn’t want to look ridiculous either. Luckily for Kate, she happened to be an expert at styling on a budget. She’d found the vintage blue and gold silk dress in a Salvation Army thrift shop for twenty dollars. It was a little snug around her breasts, showing a bit more cleavage than was probably intended, but otherwise it could have been made for her. The classic hourglass nineteen-fifties styles looked retro, not out of date, she told herself, especially once she added the heeled sandals and clutch purse she’d found on sale at an outlet store on Fremont Street. Kate had never been a shopaholic, she’d never had the finances for it, but she did get a buzz out of coordinating the perfect outfit for peanuts. She’d trolled the cosmetics counters at the nearest mall and picked up a sack full of free samples, so even with the headscarf she’d bought to tie up her hair she’d managed to keep her spending under eighty dollars.
Keeping back twenty dollars for emergencies, Kate stuffed the other four hundred dollars Boudreaux had lent her inside her new purse. She pressed it against her belly and peered over her shoulder to get a view of her bum. The tangle of nerves and anticipation eased a little. She looked great. Maybe a bit unusual, but still great. Unfortunately, she didn’t feel all that great.
Ever since she’d started getting ready an hour ago, a troop of Morris dancers wearing hobnailed boots had been having a hoedown under her breastbone.
Why did Boudreaux want to have dinner with her?
They hadn’t exactly hit it off up to this point. The obvious answer was that he saw in her an opportunity for a quick conquest. While the thong had made her laugh, she knew letting her guard down with Boudreaux could lead to disaster. It wasn’t the quick fling he no doubt had in mind that she objected to per se. She didn’t consider herself a prude. She enjoyed hot, healthy sex as much as the next girl and it was a very long time since she’d had any. Plus, she had a feeling hot, healthy sex would be Boudreaux’s forte. But her confidence had taken a huge hit with Andrew and she didn’t want to end up feeling used again—however mutual it might be.
She’d worked out her strategy. She would be polite and distant. She must not encourage him. He was a dangerous man, both good-looking and magnetic, and he knew it. From the tone of his note, and the teasing sparkle in his eyes earlier, she suspected he would be well practised at the art of seduction. And, if that wasn’t worrying enough, her attraction to him had a heat and intensity she’d never experienced before. She must not rise to the bait, or she could end up getting seriously burned.
The lift doors opened onto a plush lobby area, but Kate barely noticed it, her gaze drawn to the panoramic view of night-time Vegas on the other side of the restaurant. Past the maître d’s lectern and the candlelit tables, a wall of glass showcased The Strip and the darkness of the desert beyond. Boudreaux’s hotel wasn’t the largest of the huge casino hotels, but it certainly had pole position. Nineteen storeys up, the neon plumage of The Bellagio, The Mirage, Caesars Palace and a host of other famous names lit up the night like a flock of narcissistic peacocks. The city, seen from this lofty angle, glowed with expectant glamour.
Kate drew in a careful breath as she approached the maître d’ and gave him her name. She was bang on time, but as the waiter led her to a booth at the back of the restaurant she saw Boudreaux had arrived ahead of her. He stood up as she approached, his tall, imposing physique silhouetted against the flickering neon of the cityscape.
He was wearing a conservative, expertly tailored grey suit, one hand tucked into the pocket of his trousers and his white shirt unbuttoned at the neck revealing a few wisps of chest hair. Kate realised he looked relaxed and completely at home in his surroundings. Tall, dark, handsome and devastatingly sexy. As her pulse buzzed in her ears and the Morris dancers went for broke in her stomach she wondered if she had overestimated her ability to resist the irresistible.
Zack had been sitting at the table for ten minutes, nursing a Scotch and soda and debating whether the thong might have been a tactical error