So pale she looked as though she might pass out, she walked towards him and put a flash drive on his desk. ‘The file you want is on there. Look at the numbers. Ninety percent of our expenses were attributed to one percent of the staff. You just got rid of that one percent. Those same people were on the highest salaries but made the smallest contribution to the company. You just made a massive saving on our operating costs.’
Damon found himself distracted by the tempting curve of her lower lip. ‘I’m surprised you even know what an operating cost is.’
‘Please open the file.’
Ruthlessly deleting thoughts of sex, Damon slid the flash drive into his computer and opened the document. ‘Do I read from the beginning of this fairy story?’
‘It isn’t a fairy story. You’ll see from this that we’ve pitched for six new pieces of business in the last three months. We
won all six accounts. One of those was against your own advertising team. We beat them. The client said our pitch was the most creative and exciting he’d seen.’ There was an energy and confidence about her that was at odds with his impression of her and Damon was genuinely surprised.
‘Creative and exciting doesn’t send a company bankrupt.’
‘No, but high overheads can. And so can bad management. We suffered from both.’
‘Your father was in charge. Who exactly are you blaming?’
‘Blame is a waste of time. I’m just asking you to look at the facts and help us move forward.’ She hesitated. ‘I know you’re good at what you do, but we’re good too. Together we could be incredible. I’ll be downstairs helping the staff settle in if you want to talk about this. Start by looking at these figures.’ She leaned across his desk and pressed a key on his computer and a strand of that rebellious hair floated against his cheek, soft as down.
Damon lifted a hand to brush it away at the same time she did and her fingers tangled with his. Scarlet-faced, she jumped back, clearly as horrified by the contact as he was.
‘You don’t need my help with this—just—it’s self-explanatory.’ She tucked the offending strand behind her ear and Damon watched, transfixed by those delicate fingers tipped with painted nails.
‘Is that—?’ His attention caught, he narrowed his eyes and squinted at her nails but she quickly whipped her hands behind her back.
‘Just take a look at that presentation.’
‘Show me your hands.’
There was a mutinous flash in her eyes but she stuck out her hands. ‘There.’
‘You have a skull and crossbones painted on your nails.’
‘It’s called nail art. I use different stencils.’
‘And you chose a skull and crossbones for today?’
She gave a tiny shrug. ‘It seemed appropriate. Look, I know you think this is all frivolous but one of our clients owns a major brand in nail colour. We did a fantastic cover mount on one of the big women’s glossies last summer, and—Never mind—it’s all in the figures. What are you doing?’ The stream of nervous chatter died as he took her hands firmly in his.
Making a sound in her throat, she gave a little pull but Damon tightened his grip. Her hands were smooth and delicate and he was blinded by a sudden image of those slim fingers closing around a certain part of him.
Raw sexual awareness burned through his body, brutal in its intensity. He felt her hands tremble in his. The confidence and assurance melted away from her, leaving confusion in its place.
Damon wondered if the air-conditioning in his office had broken. The atmosphere had suddenly become heavy and oppressive.
Even as he was in the process of reminding himself that this girl’s father was the source of his current problems, she snatched her hands away and stepped back. ‘I’ll leave you to read the presentation.’
Damon felt mildly disorientated.
What the hell was he doing?
‘Yes. Go.’ If she hadn’t already been leaving of her own free will he would have ejected her from his office with supersonic speed. Not wanting to examine his own behaviour too closely, he dragged his gaze back to the document on the screen but all he saw was golden hair and long nails.
Forcing himself to focus, he concentrated on the first slide. One glance told him that it had been prepared by someone computer literate and numerate. In fact it was the first sign of professionalism he’d seen since he walked through the doors of Prince Advertising.
He stopped thinking about Analisa and analysed the data in front of him.
‘Wait—’ He stopped her as she reached the door. ‘Who did this?’ His rough demand was met by a long, pulsing silence and then she turned to face him.