At Her Boss's Pleasure

He had been wrong.

God only knew where this sex-fest weekend was going to take place, but he’d intended to find out—and rather than overtake her, force her to pull to the kerb and then demand an answer which she was unlikely to give him, he had decided just to...follow her.

It hadn’t been hard.

She had no idea what car he’d be in. He had several cars, and the black Range Rover was a whole lot less conspicuous than the Ferrari. He had made sure to keep a safe distance behind her, but he probably could have been attached to her bumper and she wouldn’t have noticed. Who really ever paid attention to other cars on the road unless they were misbehaving?

He’d known from the route she was taking that she was heading for the West Country and he hadn’t been able to believe it.

She was going to spend the weekend with a perfect stranger, miles away from her home ground? Who the hell did that?

And now here he was, in a picturesque city square, with quaint Tudor-beamed buildings lining it, standing in front of a coffee shop, for the first time in his life hesitating.