Undone By Her Ultra-Rich Boss

‘What was the price?’

There was no point in pretending there wasn’t one. Money hadn’t worked. She’d had to get creative. ‘She’s organising a charity ball around Christmas time,’ she said. ‘She’s been looking for a guest of honour to boost ticket sales and encourage auction donations. She now has one.’

The temperature in the room dropped a couple of degrees and Orla shivered at the thunderous expression now adorning Duarte’s perfect features. He sat back and she wanted to lean in to close the distance and capture his scent again, which was completely ridiculous.

‘You pimped me out,’ he said, a tiny muscle hammering in his jaw.

‘I prefer to think of it as a provision of services in exchange for goods.’

‘Of course you do.’

His tone was cold, his words were clipped. He was clearly furious, and her heartstrings twanged because by all accounts he didn’t socialise much these days and the idea of a ball in all its gaiety must be deeply unappealing. But it was only an evening of his time. A fair swap, she’d figured, relieved beyond belief to have secured the bottle with relatively little trouble, even if it had taken a while to find out what it was that an heiress who had everything she needed and an overindulgent father might want.

‘Believe me, you got off lightly.’

His face darkened even further. ‘In what possible way?’

‘She also wanted you to be her date.’

Isabelle had waxed lyrical about Duarte. She’d never met him but she’d read everything there was to read about him and pored over every photo. She was under the impression that she was the one to bring love back into his life, if only they could meet. However, if Isabelle could see Duarte’s expression at this precise moment, she might have thought differently, because he now looked appalled as well as angry.

‘She can’t be much more than a teenager,’ he all but growled.

‘She just turned twenty. And you’re thirty. I pointed that out. She eventually saw the better of it.’

It had taken some persuasion, and she’d had to call on every skill she possessed, but there was no way Orla was going to agree to that. It was one thing offering up his time and his influence, quite another to act the matchmaker. Her company left that up to others, and for some reason the mere idea of the stunning and no doubt perky Isabelle batting her eyelids at the gorgeous Duarte made her feel like throwing up.

‘Am I supposed to be grateful?’

Quite frankly, yes. The infatuated girl had a crush on him the size of Portugal. She’d have clung to him like a limpet and been hard to prise off.

‘I could always give the wine back,’ she said, with a quick pointed glance at the wonky bottle that predated modern glass-making techniques and was standing on the desk in all its dusty, unassuming glory. ‘All you have to do is say the word.’

The scowl on his face deepened. ‘No.’

‘OK, then.’

And that, she thought, as a deluge of relief and triumph washed over her, was how it was done.

Orla thought she’d won. Duarte could tell by the smug satisfaction on her face and the delight dancing in the depths of her eyes, and on a rational level he knew she deserved her moment of victory. She’d defied the odds. She’d achieved something that had always been out of his reach, and he ought to be impressed by what she’d accomplished because, objectively speaking, she was a genius.

On a deeper, more emotional, more turbulent level, however, the deal she’d struck to secure the wine sat like a rock on his chest, crushing his lungs and fogging his head. She’d involved him in her negotiations and allowed him no say in the matter. She’d usedhim to get what she wanted, and the feeling that he’d been manipulated—again—burned through him like acid, spinning him back to a time he’d been taken for a fool, a time he strove to forget.

With the memories of Calysta, her calculations and her volatility descending thick and fast, the fog in his head intensified. Emotion roiled around inside him. Every instinct he possessed was rising up to fight it. The need to regain the upper hand and to shift the balance of power back in his favour hammered through him.

It shouldn’t be hard, he assured himself darkly. He held all the cards. Or at least he ought to. He was Orla’s client. In a way, he was her boss. Yet he got the strange feeling that bending over backwards to please him simply because he paid her to do so was of little importance to her. Intense relief was woven through the triumph in her expression and it struck him now that there’d been a trace of desperation in her voice when she’d been running after him down the corridor yesterday afternoon, begging him to reconsider firing her. Something that hinted there was more at stake for her than the mere loss of a client.

With the arrogance of someone used to calling the shots and having his every order obeyed, he’d assumed uppermost in her mind would be keeping him happy, but what if all she really cared about was rectifying her mistake?

‘Your strategy was a risky one,’ he said, the odd, unexpected hit to his pride adding to the turmoil churning around his system and lending a chill to his tone.

‘In what way?’

‘You’re counting on me to hold up your side of the deal.’

As the implication of his words registered, Orla’s smile vanished. She went very still and wariness and tension gripped her frame. ‘Are you saying you won’t?’

And now he was back in control, he thought with grim satisfaction. ‘I’m simply saying assumptions are unwise.’

Anger sparked in her eyes. ‘If you renege on the terms I agreed my reputation will be destroyed.’

‘You should have thought of that before you decided to use me.’

‘It’s one evening of your time and I did think of that,’ she fired back. ‘I read you had integrity, Duarte. I read you played fair. Is that not true?’

It was true, dammit. Just as he fought for his reputation to protect his business against the naysayers, he worked hard for his success and did things by the book. ‘It’s true.’

‘I thought as much,’ she said with a curt nod. ‘So if I did take a risk it was a calculated one. I considered one evening a small price to pay for something you’ve been after for years. And yes, I suppose you could refuse to support the ball if you wanted to, but there are things at stake for me here that you couldn’t even begin to understand.’

So he’d been right about the story. ‘Like what?’

‘My livelihood for starters.’

Which implied there was more. ‘What else?’

‘Isn’t that enough?’ she said, her chin and her guard back up. ‘I’ve worked insanely hard for what I have. Don’t destroy me simply because you can.’

And now he was even more intrigued. Why was she at risk of destruction, rather than her reputation or her job? What was really behind the offer to complete a challenge she must have known had a stratospheric risk of failure? What made her tick? And, come to think of it, what was she was doing here, seeing to his instructions personally? Who had she been dreaming about while asleep in his bed?

These were questions to which he sorely wanted the answers, he realised with a disconcerting jolt. He had no idea why. But then, nor could he work out why the fact that she’d used him as leverage in her negotiations didn’t seem to matter quite so much now as it had a moment ago.

Perhaps the angry energy crackling around her, which gave her a stunning, dazzling glow, had short-circuited his brain. Or perhaps it was because, on reflection, he could see that what Orla had agreed with Isabelle Baudelaire was hardly outrageous. Once upon a time, before he’d met and married Calysta and duty and responsibility had become of primary importance, he’d frequented many a party. More often than not he’d started the party. And, as Orla had pointed out, it was only one night and it was for charity, so how tough would it be?

Furthermore, his acceptance of her terms would mean that their deal was on and she’d therefore be staying to oversee the preparation of his conference, which would bring benefits beyond mere convenience, because at some point over the last twenty-four hours he’d had to admit to himself that he wanted her. Badly.

What else could account for the change in his behaviour that had occurred the moment she’d mentioned the wine, when these days he always stuck to the plan? Why else would he have crashed out on the sofa in this stifling room last night instead of returning to his airy apartment in Porto that benefited from a sea breeze, as he’d intended?

He’d told himself it was simply a more efficient use of his time and better for the planet if he parked the helicopter instead of toing and froing between here and the city of his birth, a distance of some two hundred and fifty kilometres. But that didn’t explain the heightened awareness he’d felt all day or the anticipation that had been rocketing through his system ever since he’d received Orla’s text asking where they should meet. Or, indeed, the frustration and disappointment that he hadn’t run into her today despite making himself wholly available.