Hot Boss, Wicked Nights. Anne Oliver
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trickle of heat grew. Tonight she looked different yet again. More accessible than the closed businesswoman he’d seen this morning, and yet, perversely, there’d been something about that buttoned-up image that had turned him on. He couldn’t stop himself imagining her sprawled on that big desk right now. While he slipped off her jacket, popped the buttons on her blouse and pulled down her bra… The trickle turned to a torrent.
Then there was Shakira—masked and mysterious but blatantly sexy with plenty of cleavage and smooth bare skin. That intriguing ruby glittering in her navel. He couldn’t help but wonder if she still wore it, whether it was attached to her somehow, like a body piercing.
And now the informal look. Very informal. But no less tantalising for all that. For a start she’d let her hair down. It cascaded halfway down her back, a waterfall of shiny black silk that begged for his touch. In her nightshirt she was obviously ready for bed.
Don’t go there, he warned himself as an image of Kate and heat and sheets rose before him. The nightshirt proclaimed in glittery letters that diamonds were a girl’s best friend. ‘Is that a personal motto?’ He waved his pizza slice towards her chest.
She stopped mid-bite and as he watched two little buds rose beneath the fabric. ‘What?’
‘You’d go for money over men?’
She frowned, looked down and her expression cleared. ‘It’s just a nightshirt, for heaven’s sake.’ But her eyes met his in a challenge. ‘When—or if—I find a man who’s worth more I’ll let you know. On second thought, I won’t bother, since you probably won’t be here for me to tell you anyway. Where did you say you live again?’
‘Wherever I happen to be working.’ Or pursuing his various recreational activities.
‘And what exactly is your line of work?’
He shrugged, evasive. ‘I take on whatever comes my way.’
Aware of her disapproval, and satisfied with it somehow, he lifted his glass, took a long slow drink. He didn’t stay anywhere long. Nor did he feel inclined to talk about it.
His own motto: Make your success, have your fun, and move on. Don’t make attachments—with people or places. Which made his Internet-based business so attractive. He set his glass down and resumed his demolition of the pizza without speaking.
‘And yet you want to take on a travel agency.’ Her lips pursed, then parted as she picked up another slice of pizza. Damn, he wanted to taste that mouth again. He wanted her again, all of her—even in tracksuit pants and nightshirt. Or without them. And he could tell by the tension crackling between them earlier today and now that the attraction was mutual.
But she didn’t like him, he thought, staring into those hostile eyes as they both continued to eat.
She seemed like the kind of woman who wanted to take on responsibility. Focused, career-oriented, the kind who lived for work. Maybe she was only looking for temporary in a relationship too. After all, how many women carried a condom in their skirts? ‘You like cooking?’ he asked, diverting her thoughts, wanting to thaw the frosty edge to her mood.
‘It depends. If I’m having company over, I like trying out different things. But I hate the boredom of cooking for one day in, day out.’
‘Ever try cooking for Bryce?’ he said wryly. ‘Never knew a less adventurous eater. Same old meat and three veg every day. At least he did last time I saw him.’
‘Yeah, I know.’ A tiny smile curved her lips as she wiped her mouth on a paper napkin and pushed her plate to the side.
Ah, she was warming. He leaned back and smiled too. ‘So, do you do much travelling with your job?’
‘I go overseas once a year and do a few interstate famils—what we in the industry call familiarisation tours. Bryce had promised me I could do something a little more adventurous this year.’
‘Adventurous. Would that be along the lines of trekking Nepal?’ He popped the last piece of pizza into his mouth and reached for a napkin.
‘Heavens, no, nothing like that.’ A half-laugh bubbled out. ‘Roughing it is not my kind of holiday. I’m more of a five-star luxury girl.’
‘An overseas nightclub tour, then? Sampling the hottest spots in town?’
‘Nightclubbing really isn’t my scene.’ She stacked their plates. ‘I’m more of a family person. I usually spend my evenings at home or with my sister. Mostly.’
The last word was spoken in a subtly different tone, as if she was remembering evenings when family was the last thing on her mind.
‘So there are times when you give yourself permission to let your hair down, so to speak.’
Almost panicked eyes darted to his, so wide, so dark her irises seemed to disappear into her pupils. ‘Of course. Doesn’t everyone?’ The frost was back in her voice as she rose abruptly, disposed of the plates in the sink and shoved the pizza box beside a swing-top bin, her movements swift and jerky.
She produced a sponge and wiped it over the table. ‘Okay, meal’s done.’ She flicked her eyes to him. ‘Shall we get started?’
All kinds of scenarios of how they could get started smoked through his mind. Beginning with lifting her nightshirt and finding out about that ruby once and for all. Then he’d slide his hands through her silken hair, bring those bare, kissable lips to his and…
‘Here’s the funeral attendees’book.’ Her brisk voice broke his train of thought as she slapped it on the table. She reached for some handwritten notes stuck to the fridge with a souvenir magnet from San Francisco. She sat down again, spreading the papers in front of her. ‘These are the people you might want to thank. They’re mostly business associates.’
He had to ask. ‘You said you two were friends, Kate. What did that mean?’
She raised her eyes to his. ‘Exactly what it sounds like. We used to have a kind of standing date for Friday nights,’ she continued after a moment. ‘We talked over the week’s business in more pleasant surroundings. Our relationship was only ever purely professional.’
He nodded, somehow relieved. ‘Let me guess—same time, same place?’
She let out a half-laugh. ‘Yes.’
He nodded. That was good old Bryce—predictable.
‘It saved time.’ She shrugged. ‘I knew him a long while.’
By the time they were done more than an hour had passed. Kate had been conscious of Damon’s molten amber gaze on her all evening. It made her wonder if it was because he recognised her from Saturday night. It certainly wasn’t for the wild look she was wearing this evening. But she could hardly ask him about it, could she?
Without looking at him she shuffled her notes into a tidy pile. ‘Here you go.’
‘Thanks.’
He reached across the table and put a hand on hers. A sparkle of heat shot up her arm but before she could pull it away his fingers were stroking her wrist, his thumb rasping over the pulse point that suddenly beat like a drum.
She forced her eyes to his. ‘I hope it helps.’ Her neck prickled with heat. ‘The information, I mean.’
‘I know what you mean.’ He smiled. He still had hold of her hand.
She didn’t move. He hadn’t touched her—deliberately touched her, unless she counted the restraining hand this morning—since Saturday night. His eyes looked right into hers and for a moment she thought he was going to remind her of that, but instead he withdrew his hand.
‘I’d better be off and let you get some sleep,’ he said, and pushed up. ‘Don’t forget to try the oils.’
‘I won’t. Thank you.’
He nodded,