One Night with Her Brooding Boss. Cathy Williams
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time. Her hair had been blown to blazes, like the rest of her—and it felt great. She felt great. ‘Thanks.’
‘My pleasure.’ His face creased in the now-familiar grin.
Did she imagine the curtains in nearby houses were twitching? For once she didn’t care what anyone thought. So she had ridden home on the bike of a tough-looking guy, ditching the power suit and the high-heeled shoes along the way. Short of stripping naked and leaping on top of him in the middle of the street, she was committing no crime.
‘Coffee?’ she said, still in the throws of enthusiasm. It seemed only polite. And when would an opportunity like this come round again?
The man’s laser gaze was every bit as astonishing as she remembered; she was sure he was going to say, ‘why not?’ But what he actually said was, ‘I should get back.’
‘Of course…’ What was she thinking?
Where overtures towards good-looking guys were concerned, she was somewhat out of practice, Magenta conceded. But, as this wasn’t an overture—not even close—but merely a polite invitation to enjoy a hot drink before making a return journey in the cold, she had nothing to worry about, did she? ‘Genuine Blue Mountain coffee.’
‘You make it hard to refuse,’ he admitted, slanting a smoky grey-green stare her way.
Impossible, hopefully. Having tasted danger, she wanted more. ‘So?’ she pressed. Pulling out the house keys, she dangled them in front of him.
‘I have to get back.’
Of course he did. ‘Another time,’ she said brightly, swallowing down her disappointment. ‘You’ve done more than enough for me already. Goodness knows how far you’ve come out of your way.’
‘Not far.’
Tess would be furious with her; she didn’t even know his name. But she couldn’t hold him here while she cross-questioned him without inviting further humiliation. ‘It’s been good meeting you.’
‘And you.’ He grinned.
By the time she had lifted her hand to wave him off, he’d gone.
WHY did her house seem so quiet and empty, when it never had before?
Because of the biker, Magenta concluded. With his larger than life personality, he didn’t even need to speak to command attention; he just had to be.
Having changed her clothes, and kicked off her shoes with relief, she picked the mail up and headed for the kitchen. The phone stopped her dead. She picked it up.
‘Magenta Steele?’ The voice was crisp, deep and very masculine. ‘Gray Quinn here.’
Magenta’s heart rolled over. ‘Gray…’
‘Most people call me Quinn.’ There was a hint of a smile in the voice, but not enough to reassure. ‘I’m in the office tying up some loose ends. I’d like to see you for a discussion on your position going forward with the company first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘But my father said—’
‘Your father doesn’t head up Steele Design now. I do. Nine o’clock okay with you? ‘
‘Of course…’ A chill ran through her. Quinn might be a sexy charmer, according to office gossip, but she’d just encountered the Genghis Khan side of him.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Magenta—nine o’clock sharp.’
And it wasn’t a suggestion but an order, Magenta gathered as the line cut.
Coffee was needed. The temptation to go straight back to the office to gauge the effect Quinn was having on everyone else was almost impossible to resist. She was worried about her colleagues and felt uncomfortable leaving them.
Plus she had work she could do better at the office, she persuaded herself, and if she got through enough of it her team could have more time off for Christmas shopping. She would get Tess to ring her when the coast was clear.
Now the decision was made, she was all fired up. Forget taking a subtle approach where Quinn was concerned; if she waited until he was bedded in, as her father had suggested, it might be too late to save her friends’ jobs. Abandoning the idea of coffee, she ran upstairs to take a shower and freshen up.
Now new doubts set in. Even if Tess rung her when Quinn left the office, there was still the possibility he might return and find her there. The thought of meeting him filled Magenta with excitement, but it also filled her with the type of self-doubt that had always plagued her where men were concerned. She would need a lot more than a freshen-up before she ran into Quinn—a full-body overhaul was called for.
Guided by the horribly honest mirrors in her bathroom, it soon became apparent that she was up against the clock in more ways than one. She would just have to make whatever repairs she could in the short time available.
Collecting up the sixties products she had been hoarding to fuel her imagination for the campaign, she rested the plastic crate on top of the linen basket and started rummaging inside. A queen-sized razor; not a bad place to start.
And what was this? Myriad sparkles of dewy fragrance will embrace your body in a haze of desire at just the touch of a button…
A love potion? Well, she could certainly do with some of that.
But after her shower, she decided, stepping beneath the steaming spray.
She had a whole range of retro products in the shower too. She had definitely been infected by the sixties bug. Magenta smiled wryly as she soaped down and thought about Quinn. What would he be like?
That was the only excuse her imagination needed to go crazy. There was only one thing that could make this self-indulgent shower any better, and that was sharing it with Quinn—not that she would; not in the real world. She was better off sticking to work and researching the sixties.
‘Soap-on-a-rope, come here to me,’ Magenta crooned, capturing the hippopotamus-shaped soap currently swinging on a cord from her shower head.
She glanced through the open door towards her bed, realising how tired she was. The temptation was to just fall into bed after her shower and dream about Quinn, put a face to that grainy back-view in the magazine… Perhaps she’d wake up to discover she had a really big share-holding in the business—power and some cards to play.
But that wasn’t going to happen…
Turning her face up to the spray, Magenta knew she would have to take a more conventional route by producing some of her best work and by working her thermal socks off.
Turning the shower off, she grabbed a couple of towels and returned to the bedroom, where a spear of inspiration struck. Why not go the whole hog and dress in sixties clothes? Quite a few of her colleagues had already adopted the fashions and the look, so why not join them?
They always banded together at this time of year and had such fun—decorating the office, sneaking out for warm, full-fat mince pies with thick globs of cream on top—and this year the sixties vibe was adding a special frisson to the holiday celebrations.
She was drying her hair absent-mindedly with a towel as she started flicking through her wardrobe. Like everyone else in the creative team, she had been scouring the vintage shops for examples of sixties clothing, and had struck gold with a form-fitting cream wool dress. Sliding it off the hanger, she laid it on the bed.
Suppliers had rushed to offer samples of their retro products when Magenta had let it be known that she would be running a high-profile campaign, so she had plenty of accessories to choose from. Fortunately, it hadn’t been all mini-skirts and hot-pants in the sixties. There had been the hippies in their flowing, get-em-off-quick clothes, the shock-frock dolly-birds in mini-skirts, as well