One Night with a Gorgeous Greek. Sarah Morgan
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the talent to turn the company round, providing he didn’t fire all of them first.
Romeo and Juliet seemed happy enough in their new surroundings and Polly had discovered that there were enough workstations for everyone without having to operate the Doukakis ‘hot desk’ system. She wondered how his employees must feel, coming to work every day and sitting down at an empty, featureless surface, greeted by nothing more than a power point and a phone socket.
Damon Doukakis was focused on the success of his business to the exclusion of everything else.
She paused in the middle of deleting an e-mail.
Well, not quite everything else.
Her cheeks burned and she stared down at her hands, remembering. The attraction had been like a searing blade, driven straight through her. And she was pretty sure he’d felt it too.
He’d looked horrified, she remembered, which should have dented her ego except that she was a realist. There was no way he would sully himself with a mongrel like her. She’d seen enough pictures of him in the gossip columns to know that the women he chose were sleek and groomed. Elegant. Dignified. Controlled. Everything about his life was ruthlessly controlled, from work to women.
Polly looked down at herself. The women he dated would no more dream of sitting shoeless and cross-legged on the floor unpacking a box than they would be seen in public without perfectly blow-dried hair.
Wondering why she was wasting time thinking about what sort of women Damon Doukakis dated, Polly finished emptying the box and put it ready for recycling.
Her desk was covered in pink sticky notes with various phone messages taken by Debbie while she’d been on the phone to other people.
Urgent. Call Vernon White about the Honey Hair campaign.
Ring the media buyer at Cool Campaigns about the media strategy for Fresh Mouth mints.
David Mills from Fox Consumer wants to talk urgently …
Urgent, urgent, urgent. It was all urgent. She felt a rush of panic as she contemplated all the work she still had to do. Everyone had heard the news of the takeover and was wondering whether Prince Advertising was going to exist in a month. And she couldn’t give them an answer. She had no idea what Damon Doukakis intended to do so all she could do was sound positive and up-beat.
Knowing that if all her clients walked in the opposite direction then the staff would definitely lose their jobs, Polly peeled off the notes one by one and added the calls to the list. Then she settled back into her cross-legged position on the floor and worked out a priority for the morning.
She was wondering whether it would be any help to get a second phone, when she heard the swish of a door opening and saw Damon Doukakis striding towards her.
Her confidence melted away like chocolate held in a child’s palm.
When it came to work she was more than ready to fight her corner but she had no idea how to fight these other feelings that squirmed inside her whenever she was in the same room as him.
Once glance at the exquisitely cut black dinner jacket and bowtie told her that his plans for the evening were infinitely more exciting than hers and she held her breath as he approached. His startling good-looks made it impossible to do anything but stare when he was in the room. It didn’t help that he carried himself with that inborn confidence that seemed genetically embedded in people born into wealth. It had been years since she’d felt that awful creeping sense of inferiority but she felt it now as she stood trapped by those glittering dark eyes.
Polly’s head began to spin and suddenly she was glad she was sitting down, because at least sitting down didn’t require strength in one’s legs. It was just the tiredness, she told herself. Nothing more. He wasn’t that gorgeous.
As he stood looking down at her from his formidable height, she was forced to revise that opinion. OK, so maybe he was gorgeous. To look at. But it was all on the surface.
Feeling out of her depth, she made a vague attempt to defuse the crackling tension. ‘Nice outfit. I didn’t know you had a second job as a waiter.’
There was no answering smile and she felt a flash of relief. There was no way she could ever find a man without a sense of humour remotely attractive, even if he did have an incredible body that did miracles for a dinner jacket. She told herself that the flutter of nerves in her stomach was down to the ominous look in his eyes as he scanned her appearance.
‘Theé mou, why are you sitting on the floor? Where are your boots?’
‘Under the desk. I was emptying boxes and my heels kept catching in my hem—’ Realising that his eyes were fixed on her legs, she felt her body heat. ‘Never mind. I promise to wear shoes when I see a client, so save the lecture.’
‘You have absolutely no—’ He broke off in mid-sentence, his attention snagged by the dramatic transformation of his previously ordered office space. ‘What happened here?’
‘You told us we could do what we wanted with the space.’ Knowing that she sounded defensive, Polly scrambled up from the floor, acutely conscious of his height now that she wasn’t wearing her heels. She followed his appalled gaze and saw the calendar of half-naked firemen someone had stuck to one of the steel rods that supported the ceiling. Oops. ‘That was a project we did for one of our clients. It’s a photographic masterpiece, don’t you think? We put it up because it helps us to think creatively.’
A dark brow lifted in mockery. ‘The more I discover about your creative process, the more fascinated I am.’
Polly shrugged awkwardly. ‘I accept we’re a bit more—er—informal than you, but to be honest the whole “hot desk” thing doesn’t really work for us. I think we’re very possibly cold desk people. Or maybe lukewarm desk. We like knowing where we’re going to sit instead of playing musical chairs when we come to work every day. We like having a home. A little space to call our own.’
‘The place looks like a Sunday market.’ He picked up the pink fluffy pen she always kept on her desk, his gaze incredulous. ‘What do you do with this thing?’
‘I write with it. If I’m brainstorming ideas I need to doodle on paper. It helps me think.’ Exhausted, her head throbbing, Polly wished she’d hidden the pen. ‘It’s my happy pen. I like it. It makes me smile and I’m more creative when I’m happy.’
‘Well, that’s good, because obviously your happiness is my first priority.’ His silky-smooth tone held a deadly edge. ‘Talking of happiness, how are the fish settling in? Are they homesick? Enjoying the view? Anything I can get them to make them feel more comfortable?’
She decided to ignore the sarcasm. ‘Just don’t get too close. They’re afraid of sharks.’
‘I am not a shark, Miss Prince.’
‘You just gobbled up my father’s company in one mouthful so forgive me if I disagree with you.’
‘We both know I have no interest in your father’s business.’
‘Which is a shame, because you’re stuck with us now.’ Suddenly she appreciated the irony of it. ‘You’re stuck with our pink, fluffy, fish-loving approach to business and we’re stuck with your empty-desk-eyes-forward-don’t-anybody-laugh ethos. Interesting times ahead.’
Suddenly, Polly was too tired to fight and she surreptitiously slid her pink notebook under a file in the hope that it wouldn’t draw his attention. ‘Can I please have my pen back? It’s a lucky pen. All my best creative ideas have come while I’m holding it.’
The bold curve of his brows came together in a frown and she wondered what she’d said this time. He obviously thought she was a complete numbskull. ‘Could you stop frowning? It’s so unsettling. We’re used to working in a positive atmosphere.’
He studied her for a long moment