Undone By Her Ultra-Rich Boss

‘My name is Orla Garrett,’ she said, praying that despite his evident anger Duarte was nevertheless reasonable enough to see the amusing side of the situation once she explained. With the exception of this lapse in professionalism, the service her company provided him with was excellent and that had to count for something. ‘I’m co-owner and joint CEO of Hamilton Garrett. We’ve spoken on the phone.’

His brows snapped together and she could practically see his reportedly razor-sharp brain spinning as he raked his gaze over her in a way that made her flood with heat.

Should she hold out her hand for him to shake? she wondered, a bit baffled by the electricity that was suddenly sizzling through her. Somehow, with her still beneath the sheets and him still sitting on top of them not even a foot away, it didn’t seem appropriate.

Far more urgent was the desire to surge forwards and settle herself on his lap. Then she could sift her fingers through his hair and check his head for bumps. She could run her hands over his face and examine first his impressive bone structure and then the faint stubble adorning his jaw. At that point he could wrap his arms round her and flip her over, set his mouth to her neck and—

Agh.

What was happening? What was she thinking? Was she nuts?

Appalled by the wayward direction in which her thoughts were hurtling but deciding to blame it on possible concussion, Orla swallowed hard and pulled herself together. She had to ignore the scorching fire sweeping along her veins and the all too vivid images cascading into her head, the reasons for which she could barely comprehend. There’d be time for analysis later. Right now, she needed to put some space between her and her client, so she scrambled off the bed on the other side and onto her feet.

‘As per your instructions,’ she said, fighting for dignity, for control, and smoothing shorts that suddenly felt far too tight and uncomfortably itchy, ‘I’ve been preparing the guest accommodation for your conference. So far, all the bedrooms are ready except this one.’

Which was the one that looked to require the least work. The other five had been complete tips. Bed and bath linen had been left awry and crusty wine glasses had been abandoned on surfaces thick with dust. Downstairs had fared no better. Coffee cups overspilling with mould had littered the drawing room and empty wine bottles had filled a crate in the kitchen.

Trying not to gag at the smell, Orla had wondered what on earth had been going on here before reminding herself sternly that it was none of her business. Her job was to see that her clients’ wishes were fulfilled and that was it.

‘I’ve agreed the menus for the weekend with Mariana Valdez,’ she said, hauling her thoughts back in line and focusing on the tiny stab of triumph she felt at having acquired the only chef in the world to currently hold ten Michelin stars, who was virtually impossible to hire for a private function, ‘and all dietary requirements will be catered for. I’ve instructed Nuno Esteves,’ the Quinta’s chief vintner, ‘to make available the wines you stipulated for dinner on the Friday and Saturday nights. The river cruise has been scheduled for the Sunday afternoon and the crew is prepping the boat as we speak. Everything is on track.’

Duarte shifted round to glower at her, clearly—and unfairly—unimpressed by what she’d accomplished under very trying circumstances. ‘And all the while you’ve been sleeping in my bed.’

‘No,’ she said with a quick, embarrassed glance at the rumpled sheets, which didn’t help her composure at all. ‘I haven’t. I booked into the hotel in the village, and I’ve been staying there. The nap was a one-off, I swear. Not that that makes it any better. It’s unforgivable, I know.’

Not to mention inexcusable, even though excuses abounded. Duarte wouldn’t be remotely interested in the fact that she’d been let down at the last minute by the team she’d put in place to carry out his requests and had had no option but to see to the situation herself, however inconvenient and however long the hours. It wasn’t his problem that she’d somehow found herself in possession of the wrong set of keys and had had to break a window to get in so she could unlock the back door from the inside and proceed from there. Like all their clients, he paid a six-figure annual fee to have his every instruction carried out, without question, without issue, free from hassle and the tedious minutiae of implementation.

‘I can assure you that it will never happen again,’ she finished, mentally crossing her fingers and willing him to overlook the blip. ‘You have my word.’

He let out a harsh laugh, as if unable to believe her word counted for anything. Then he gave his head a slow shake, at which her pulse thudded and panic swelled, because as the dragging seconds ticked silently by she got the sickening feeling that he wasn’t going to forgive. He wasn’t going to forget. The tension in his jaw wasn’t easing and his mouth wasn’t curving into a smile as she’d hoped. The anger in his dark, magnetic gaze might be fading but the emptiness that remained was possibly even worse. His expression was worryingly unfathomable and his voice, when he spoke, was icy cold.

‘You’re right,’ he said with a steely grimness that made her throat tighten and her heart plunge. ‘It won’t happen again. Because you’re fired.’

Duarte barely registered the soft gasp of the woman standing beside the bed, staring down at him with the mesmerising eyes the colour of fifty-year-old tawny port that had sent a jolt rocketing through him when they’d first made contact with his. He hardly noticed the way she tensed and jerked back, her expression revealing shock and dawning dismay.

He couldn’t think straight. His head throbbed from the earlier collision. His chest was tight and his muscles were tense to the point of snapping. It was taking every drop of his control to repel the harrowing memories that had been triggered by setting foot in this house for the first time in nearly three years. To contain the savage emotions that were battering him on all sides.

Frustration and surprise that his instructions had not been carried out correctly warred with fury that his fiercely protected privacy had been invaded. Shock on finding a beautiful, golden-haired woman fast asleep in his bed clashed with horror at the desire that had slammed into him out of nowhere at the sight of her. The grief and guilt that he’d buried deep had surged up and smashed through his defences and were now blindsiding him with their raw, unleashed intensity.

None of it was welcome. Not the swirling emotions, not the clamouring memories of his difficult, deceitful wife and tiny, innocent son who had never got to draw a breath, and certainly not the unexpectedly gorgeous Orla Garrett here, in hisspace, wrecking the status quo and demolishing the equilibrium he strove so hard to maintain.

‘I’m sorry?’ she said, sounding dazed and breathless in a way that to his frustration made him suddenly acutely aware of the bed, and had him leaping to his feet.

‘You heard,’ he snapped, striding to the window and shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans before whipping round. ‘You’re fired.’

Her astonishing eyes widened. ‘Because I took a nap?’

The reasons were many, complicated and tumultuous, and very much not for sharing. ‘Because you’re clearly incompetent.’

Her chin came up and her jaw tightened. ‘I am many things, I will admit, but incompetent is not one of them.’

‘Then what would you call this?’ he said, yanking a hand out of his pocket and waving it to encompass the bed, the room, the house.

She flushed. ‘A lapse.’

‘It’s more than that.’

‘The circumstances are extenuating.’

‘And irrelevant.’

She stared at him for a moment, frowning, as if debating with herself, then she took a deep breath and gave a brief nod.

‘You’re right,’ she said with enviable self-possession. ‘I can’t apologise enough for all of this. For hitting you in the head and, before that, implying that I was waiting for you. Obviously, I wasn’t. I was asleep. Dreaming. About someone else entirely.’

Who? was the question that instantly flew into his thoughts like the sharpest of arrows. A husband? A lover? And what the hell was that thing suddenly stabbing him in the chest? Surely it couldn’t be disappointment? That would be ridiculous.

Despite having spoken to Orla frequently over the last few years, which had presumably given her an insight into certain aspects of his life, he knew next to nothing about her. But that was fine. He didn’t need to. Their relationship, if one could even call it that, was strictly business.