In Bed With the Boss

He studied her remorselessly, from head to toe. The amazingly transformed lovely cloud of fair, curly hair, the smart but discreet trouser suit, her shoes in her hand and her expression. That of someone caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, he decided.

Why? A moral sense of disgust? Not so unexpected, perhaps, from a girl with a very religious background. And yet, although he’d mistaken her for eighteen at first sight, she was a very mature twenty-one most of the time. She’d handled herself exceptionally well as an interpreter; he had no doubt there was an excellent intellect there. Matters of the flesh might be—another matter, however, he conceded.

Had she ever responded to a man, given herself in love or lust? Had those lovely eyes ever widened and her lips parted as she’d reached a pinnacle of rapture with a man?

Why was he wondering these things, though? Human nature for a red-blooded male, or a genuine desire to know what made his interpreter tick?

‘All right,’ he said abruptly. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll have the housekeeper show you to your room. I’ve got a couple of free hours to spend with Nicky. I think I’ll take him, and the dog—’ he grimaced ‘—to the beach, so you can relax and put your foot up.’

Not only did the housekeeper show Alex to her room, she brought her tea and an ice pack for her ankle.

It was a delightful guest room. The walls were saffron and the three tall windows had cream wooden frames and calico roman blinds. The floor was wooden and pale smooth beech had been used for the double bed and bedside tables. There were two thick taupe rugs on either side of the bed, and a glass vase crammed with creamy pink-edged tulips on a dresser.

The bedspread was slightly darker than the walls, closer to sandalwood, and the bed was heaped with silk-covered cushions in the pale bluish green of beryl, and lavender.

The en-suite bathroom was a highly polished affair of marble, glass and chrome.

There was an inter-leading door to another bedroom. She looked through it to see Nicky’s things in place.

She took a quick shower. Her clothes were already unpacked for her, and she changed into jeans and a jumper. She took her contact lenses out and breathed a sigh of relief as she slipped on her glasses. Then she sank into a linen-covered wing-backed armchair that looked out to a view of an area of the Broadwater known as the Aldershots.

She could see a curve of green channel markers and a yacht travelling north keeping them to its starboard side, which must mean shallow water and sand banks on the starboard side of the markers. The water was glassy and there was little breeze so the yacht was having to tack. Where were they headed? she wondered.

She stirred and poured her tea. There was a selection of petit fours to go with it.

But it wasn’t the question of which delicious pastry to select that exercised her mind—she ignored them completely—it was the question of how Max Goodwin had read her so accurately.

She was running, in her mind. Running away from a powerful attraction to him that was threatening to overwhelm her, threatening to explode like wild fire through her veins.

She sipped her fragrant tea, then laid her head back. How could it have happened in such a short time, though? She barely knew him—but a part of her mind mocked her as she thought that. Because the fact of the matter was, she apparently absorbed the essence of Max Goodwin through her pores.

And it wasn’t only his physique or those austere good looks either. She enjoyed his company. Sitting beside him at lunch today had seen her, surprisingly, forget all about her feelings of ill-use. Even as she’d had to concentrate, it had been an experience to savour. She’d appreciated his quick wit and she had to acknowledge he had a charismatic side to him that was fascinating and not only to her.

But the physical had touched her too: his hands, the way he put his head on one side and propped his jaw on his fingers when he was in contemplation mode—why should that affect her physically? she wondered. Give her a little frisson down the length of her spine? Yet it had …

Then the curious encounter she’d just left behind her, when the feel of his fingers on her ankle had brought her a bouquet of sensations, a flowering of feelings that gave every intimation of heart-stopping delight.

It had never happened to her before, partly, no doubt, because she’d never let any man get really close to her, but had that lulled her into a false sense of security, so to speak? Had she come to doubt her capacity for these feelings?

She rubbed her forehead and thought suddenly of Paul O’Hara. It was hard not

to feel vaguely complimented by his unspoken admiration, she mused. And he’d been a pleasant lunch companion, well spoken, well read, witty at times, and there was obviously a rapport between him and Max, but it had drawn no similar response from her other than rather liking him. Paul’s almost instantaneous attraction to her had reminded her of her father, though, she realized with her lips curving into a smile. He’d always claimed he’d seen her mother’s profile at a crowded New Year’s Eve party and fallen in love with her before he’d even been able to battle his way to her side.

But there was also the concern she’d seen twice now in Paul O’Hara’s gaze; something seemed to tell her it was concern for her. Yes, possibly over a twisted ankle today, but yesterday there’d been that question mark, the definite question mark, about her relationship with Max Goodwin.

She went still as it occurred to her that, as part of the family, Max’s cousin probably knew better than most that Max and Cathy would never get over each other.

But they’d been apart for six years, hadn’t they? And not that long ago he’d claimed he hadn’t even thought about her for a long time.

She stared out of the window unseeingly. On the other hand, he hadn’t married anyone else in six years and, surely, if there was a significant woman in his life she’d be part of these social functions for the Chinese consortium delegation?

She shook her head and forced herself to concentrate on what was the crux of the matter for her—if Max Goodwin was not for her, she’d learnt one thing in life painfully well and it was that losing people you loved could be agonizing.

Even four years on she remembered all too well the sudden void in her life brought on by the loss of her parents. The disbelief, the certainty that it was a nightmare, and the way she’d expected them to walk through the door for months and months. The loneliness, the panic attacks because you were so alone.

Her Mother Superior’s passing had not been so completely unexpected, but it hadn’t been a long illness, and then that terrible void again that had reminded her so much of the first one.

And surely Max Goodwin had all the hallmarks of not being for her.