In Bed With the Boss

That was when, as Alex stared at the other woman incredulously, a very harassed-looking Margaret stepped out of the lift.

‘He’s fine, he’s asleep,’ she said immediately to Max, ‘but I just remembered Miss Hill. She looked so peaceful I let her sleep, but I didn’t get a chance to tell anyone and when you and Ms Spencer—’ she gestured towards Cathy ‘—decided to come upstairs to—well, discuss things, I suddenly thought I should do something …’ She trailed off awkwardly.

At eleven o’clock the next morning, Alex waited nervously in Max Goodwin’s outer office.

It had been Margaret who’d called a taxi for her last night. A perturbed-enough Margaret to lose some of her infinite discretion and even murmur distractedly, ‘How could she just turn up with him? I couldn’t believe it. And he won’t be parted from Nemo.’ Margaret’s expression as she’d said the last bit had been full of a sort of helpless, horrified apprehension.

Alex had not asked for clarification; most of the dramatic events of the evening had become clear to her anyway. She did think that if the boy refused to be parted from his pet fish, that was not so serious, but everything else she’d overheard caused her to share Margaret’s sentiments. How could a mother behave like that?

She had no idea what else had transpired overnight, but she’d half expected a call this morning, terminating her services. Not that she felt she was in any way to blame for overhearing what she had, but it did place her and Max Goodwin in an awkward situation.

Nor was she too sure he didn’t blame her for eavesdropping. He hadn’t said much to her before she’d left, but he’d still looked and sounded murderous.

She looked down at herself. She was wearing a cocoa-brown linen trouser suit over a fawn silk blouse with a Chinese collar, and fawn leather high heels. Her badge was pinned to her suit collar. Her hair was perfect—she’d taken advantage of Mr Roger’s offer to comb it for her and since Mary, the make-up girl, had been free, she’d done her make-up.

It had been rather relaxing, Alex had thought, to be pampered, and she’d realized that she needed relaxing. The events of the night before had left her feeling tense and she’d had trouble sleeping. Cathy Spencer’s lovely face had been hard to get out of her mind.

She would be in her late twenties or early thirties, Alex had decided, with long dark hair and a heart-shaped face with a wide, smooth forehead. She had blue eyes herself, although not as dark as Max Goodwin’s, but with sweeping dark lashes, a full, provocative mouth and a long, slender neck.

You would not have known she was a mother—her waist was narrow, the curves above and below highlighted beneath a fitted oyster satin blouse tucked into a short, straight biscuit linen skirt. A pair of very high heels had emphasized her slender ankles.

But no amount of describing her shape and her colouring could capture the—what was the right word?—passion, the spark, the living, breathing warmth and vitality of Cathy Spencer, Alex had decided during her wakeful night.

The other thing that had kept her awake had been her own confusion. Could one day have produced more issues for her, in fact?

There’d been the physical impact of Max Goodwin, the width of his shoulders, the strength of his tall, elegant body, that difficult-to-read but so interesting face—all of it, together with the rather mind-blowing, sexy force you sensed in him, had slammed into her consciousness during their second encounter in the green room.

And that moment when she’d almost believed he’d been as captivated by her.

How could she believe it now, though? How was it possible for any woman to compete with Cathy Spencer even if theirs was a love-hate relationship? And not only that, she was the mother of his son.

She came back to the present from all these disturbing thoughts as the door to the inner sanctum clicked open and Max Goodwin stood in the doorway with a boy by his side.

Alex’s lips parted. You couldn’t doubt whose son this was, the same dark, dark hair, the same dense blue eyes. He was also quite tall for a six-year-old. He wore corduroy navy trousers, a blue sweater and in one hand he carried a backpack. In his other hand he held a lead that was attached to a bundle of grey with black points—a Blue Heeler puppy, probably three or four months old. It pricked its ears, advanced towards Alex and barked.

‘Nemo,’ the boy said, ‘don’t. It’s not polite.’

So this was Nemo, Alex thought, with an inward gurgle of laughter. A lively bundle of pure mischief, no doubt. No wonder Margaret had looked so apprehensive last night.

She stood up and put her head to one side. ‘How do you do, Nemo?’ she said down to the dog. ‘I must say you don’t look at all like a clown fish to me.’ She bent down to pat the puppy and was rewarded with several enthusiastic licks that made her laugh and tell the boy she thought his dog was lovely.

‘He never did look like a clown fish,’ the boy confided. ‘I just wanted him to have a different kind of name. How do you do?’ he added. ‘I’m Nicholas. Are you my new nanny?’

Alex’s eyes flew to Max Goodwin. He hadn’t said a word, just absorbed the little play of boy, dog and Alex, but now he stirred.

‘No, Nicky,’ he said. ‘This is my interpreter. I told you about the lunch today?’ The boy nodded. ‘Well, she’s driving down with us. This is Alex.’

Margaret came out from behind her desk carrying a padded dog basket. ‘I got this, Mr Goodwin. For Nemo. In the car. It’s also waterproof just in case …’ She stopped and shrugged.

Max Goodwin, who looked, Alex suddenly detected, a bit less vital than usual, shuddered slightly.

‘So where is my new nanny?’ Nicky enquired.

‘Well, for the time being we have a housekeeper down at the house and she’s happy to look after you. Jake will also be there—remember Jake from last night?’

‘Yes,’ Nicky said tonelessly and he blinked several times, then he said in a high, tight little voice. ‘Did my mummy say when she would be coming back?’

‘As soon as possible, Nicky,’ Max said. ‘I—’