Out of Hours...Her Ruthless Boss. Кейт Хьюит
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How to manipulate him—just as he was manipulating her.
The thought was unwelcome for it held the bitter gall of truth. Her emotions and senses might be quivering with awakened awareness, but Cormac Douglas felt nothing for her. She was a prop, simply to be used. Only to be used.
And she’d better not forget it.
Jan turned the Jeep into a private drive, large wooden gates open to the road.
Lizzie’s eyes widened at the luxurious surroundings. The road wound through the thick tropical forest before it gave way to landscaped gardens bursting with colour and scent.
Jan drove the Jeep over a little wooden bridge, a still, glassy pond covered in lily pads below.
The road curved close to the sea before revealing a large circular drive and a low rambling villa that seemed to stretch endlessly into the distance, a maze of white stucco and terracotta roof tiles.
‘Onze Parel,’ he said fondly as he stopped the Jeep and gazed fondly at his home. ‘Our Pearl. My great-grandfather named it, and truly it has been a pearl beyond price.’
‘Your family has been on this island for a hundred years?’ Lizzie queried, feeling both curious and a need to say something.
‘Yes. It was sparsely populated before that, mostly with convicts and pirates. Then my great-grandfather received part of the island from Queen Wilhelmina of the Netherlands, as payment for services in the Boer War. He improved the harbour so that ships could land safely—part of the reason Sint Rimbert has been so scarcely populated—and built a plantation.’ He smiled sadly. ‘It was a sugar plantation, built inland, but the house burned down in the nineteen seventies and the plantation dwindled. We built this villa soon after.’
Lizzie nodded. She was fascinated by the history, yet she also wondered if the building of the resort had more financial motivation than Jan Hassell had let on.
‘Come,’ he said, ‘and Hilda will show you to your rooms. You will want to rest before dinner.’
Cormac climbed out of the Jeep, holding his hand out for Lizzie to grasp as she stepped down. She took it as a matter of course and wasn’t prepared for the jolt of sensation that shot up her arm and down to her toes when Cormac’s cool, dry fingers encased her own.
He glanced at her, eyes dark, sardonic. Knowing.
He knew too damn much.
She dropped his hand and strode towards the villa.
Wide wooden doors opened to a tiled foyer and lounge, decorated more for comfort and practicality than to impress. Still, it impressed Lizzie. The windows were open, the wooden shutters thrown wide to an open-air corridor that led to the bedrooms. Only metres away Lizzie could see a strip of white sand and the jewel-toned sea.
‘Welcome, welcome.’ Jan’s wife, Hilda, entered the room. Like Jan, she was short and plump, her white hair elegantly coiffed. She wore loose, flowing trousers and a white silk blouse and she looked cool and comfortable and happy for them to be in her home.
Lizzie’s sense of discomfort and guilt at deceiving these people returned with a sharp pang. As if he knew, Cormac reached out and clasped her hand, twining her fingers with his as she had done earlier. It was an intimate, proprietary gesture and Hilda saw it and smiled.
As Cormac had known she would.
‘You must be tired,’ she said, still smiling. ‘Let me show you your room.’
Room. Not rooms. And no doubt with one bed. Of course they would be sharing a room; they would most likely be sharing a bed. Lizzie had been dimly aware of this earlier, but now it came to her with nauseating force as Hilda led them down the corridor, hibiscus and orchids spilling from pots, their sweet fragrance heavy on the air, making Lizzie’s stomach roil all the more.
Hilda opened a mahogany door and Lizzie took in the room—a wide wooden bed with linen sheets the centrepiece. The tiled floor was scattered with colourful woven rugs and the windows had only shutters, like the rest of the house, now thrown open to the sea.
‘I hope you will be comfortable,’ Hilda murmured. ‘Your bags will be here shortly. Dinner is at eight; we like to gather in the lounge at seven. But please, rest. Enjoy.’ She left them quietly, amidst their murmured thanks, and the door closed with a soft click.
‘Not bad.’ Cormac strode to the window, loosening his tie. Lizzie sank on to the bed. She felt exhausted, strung out. She trembled with tension.
‘I can’t do this.’
‘You just did.’
‘I’ll never be able to keep it up all weekend,’ she protested vainly, for Cormac simply raised his eyebrows.
‘You don’t really have any choice,’ he stated coolly, ‘do you?’
He’d loosened his tie and now he tossed it on to a chair. ‘Just enjoy yourself,’ he continued. ‘I plan to.’ His fingers went to his shirt, but Lizzie’s mind was buzzing too much to notice.
Had he meant that he would enjoy himself or enjoy her? Somehow she had the feeling he wanted her to wonder.
‘There must be a hundred women in Edinburgh who you could have asked to do this,’ she said. ‘They would have been glad to. Why me?’
He paused, eyeing her thoughtfully. ‘I thought it would be simpler.’
‘Simpler!’ Lizzie gave a bark of laughter. Nothing about this weekend felt simple. ‘How?’
‘Because we haven’t slept together,’ Cormac explained with a little smile. ‘Yet.’
Lizzie was left staring, gaping at him, the breath robbed from her lungs, her brain…
‘Close your mouth, Chandler,’ Cormac said, laughter lacing his voice. ‘There are flies in the Caribbean. Big ones.’
‘We’re not…’
‘No,’ he agreed, the laughter replaced with a thoughtful smile, ‘we’re not.’
Yet. Did Cormac actually want to sleep with her? Have an affair…Flirting was one thing, but this…
This was dangerous. This was scary.
Lizzie knew she was innocent—more innocent than Cormac even realised. What she didn’t know was how to handle this situation. How to handle Cormac. She laughed tonelessly. Cormac wasn’t the kind of man to be handled.
If anyone was going to be handled, it was her. She was so out of her depth, she was drowning.
And Cormac was the only one who could save her.
He watched her now, smiling faintly, and Lizzie hated the way he seemed to know what she was thinking, as if her thoughts and fears—not to mention her desires—flashed across her face in neon lights.
Maybe they did.
She rose from the bed, unzipped her suitcase and began to hang up the clothes Cormac had bought her. She needed to be busy. She needed to stop thinking so much. Imagining so much. Cormac. Her and Cormac.
Stop.
‘You can always do that later,’ Cormac said mildly, and Lizzie shook her head.
‘The clothes will get wrinkled.’
‘There are servants here, you know.’ His voice was lazy, low and rumbling. Lizzie shook her head again; she felt like a marionette.
‘I don’t want to make a fuss.’
‘No,’ he murmured, ‘you never do.’
A flash of agonised awareness jolted her, made her realise afresh just how expertly Cormac had judged her. Played her.
‘Do you use everybody?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice conversational. ‘Or just me?’
Cormac