Undone By Her Ultra-Rich Boss

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll help translate.’

‘The team leader speaks excellent English.’ Honestly. Did he really think she wouldn’t have thought of that? ‘You pay a hefty fee not to have to bother with any of this, Duarte,’ she said pointedly while just about managing to retain her smile. ‘You really don’t need to stick around.’

‘I want to.’

But why?

Unless...

Her eyes narrowed as an unwelcome thought occurred to her. ‘Do you think I’m going to screw up again?’

‘Not at all. But you can answer one question for me,’ he said, striding ahead of her into the vast kitchen and taking up a position against an expansive stretch of work surface.

Orla made for the enormous wooden table that stood in the middle of the room and had three centuries of food preparation scored into its surface and sat down. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Why are you here, seeing to things personally?’

Well, at least that was a question she could answer. ‘I was let down at the last minute by the team I’d put in place to carry out your instructions,’ she said with an inward wince as she laid her satchel on the table and opened the flap. ‘They’re the best. I use them all the time. Fly them across continents. But they got struck down by a bug. All of them at the same time. It’s never happened before. I spent two days trying to fix up a replacement but then decided it would be quicker and simpler to do it myself.’

It had been a frantic, stressful time and in hindsight, that was probably why she’d misread his email.

‘But why are you here?’ she asked, wondering if it had really been that simple. ‘You weren’t due back for another three weeks.’

‘I had business in the States. It wrapped up early.’

Which in some ways had been a good thing, she had to admit grudgingly. While his happening upon her taking a nap hadn’t been ideal, imagine if her mistake hadn’t been uncovered until the day of the conference. There wouldn’t have been time to fix things. He’d have been even more furious, and justifiably so. She felt faint at the mere thought of it.

‘So when you think about it,’ he mused with a nonchalance she didn’t trust for a second, ‘neither of us is meant to be here. Fate, wouldn’t you say?’

She would say nothing of the sort. ‘I don’t believe in Fate.’

‘No, I don’t imagine you do,’ he said with a quick, dazzling grin. ‘You’re too practical. But mistakes aside, you’re dedicated.’

‘One mistake,’ she corrected, determinedly blinking away the dazzle and reminding herself that practical wasn’t boring, practical was good. ‘Which is being rectified. And it’s my job.’

‘Which you love.’

‘I do,’ she agreed as she began removing her laptop and notebooks from her bag. ‘Who wouldn’t? It involves opulence. Outlandish, unforgettable, once-in-a-lifetime experiences. VIP events. Unimaginable excess and extravagance.’

It also required stellar organisation, infinite skill when it came to persuasion and negotiating, and the ability to think on her feet. Every single day demanded and expected more from her than the day before, and she was one of the best. Usually.

‘Recently, I arranged an engagement proposal on an iceberg,’ she said, as much to remind herself of her competence as to prove it to him. ‘Once, a client wanted to have a private dinner in front of the Mona Lisa.’

‘I ought to up my game.’

Orla reached for her clipboard and thought that Duarte’s game was quite high enough. They spoke at least twice a month. His requests ranged from arranging private jets to reserving tables at impossible-to-book restaurants and much more besides, and they were frequent. While most of what he wanted hovered at the bottom of the outrageousness scale, last year he’d asked her to recreate a perfume long since out of production for his mother as a birthday present. That had been a challenge. ‘You keep me busy.’

‘I could keep you busier.’

Orla froze in the middle of attaching her lists to the clipboard and shot him a startled glance. What did he mean by that? She couldn’t work it out. His words were innocent enough but the way he was looking at her was anything but. He was sort of smouldering and quite suddenly she was finding it a struggle to breathe. He’d gone very still and his gaze had dropped to her mouth, which went bone-dry, and oh, dear God, was he thinking about last night? Was he planning a repeat?

She was so hopeless at this, she thought desperately, her heart thundering while a wave of heat crashed over her. But this shouldn’t even be happening. She shouldn’t be burning up with the urge to get to her feet, throw herself into his arms and take up where they’d left off. She shouldn’t want him to spread her out over the table and feast on her.

The speed and ease with which he could make her lose control was confusing and terrifying. It was as if there were wicked forces at play, luring her into the unknown, over which she had zero control, and if there was one thing she hated, it was that.

But now cool-headed logic battled against hot, mad desire, and she feared it was losing—

And then, relief.

Blessed, blessed relief.

‘I think I hear a van.’

***

By the end of the day, Orla could stand it no longer. Her nerves were in tatters and her stomach was in knots.

As she’d hoped, the work side of things was going splendidly. The house had buzzed with activity. The housekeeping team she’d organised was as efficient and excellent as she’d been assured. Rooms were in the process of being cleaned and laundry pressed. Anything that could be polished shone, and vacuum cleaners had hummed throughout the building all day. Her mistake was well underway to becoming history and her satisfaction on that front was deep.

But, as she’d feared, Duarte was proving to be a menace. While she’d been handing out instructions and emphasising priorities, he’d donned a tool belt. Subsequently, everywhere she’d turned, up he popped, sometimes with a hammer, other times with a screwdriver, and once, when a basin tap was discovered to be leaking, with a wrench. At one point she hadn’t seen him for an hour and had dared to hope that he’d gone for good, but unfortunately he’d returned with lunch. For everyone.

There seemed to be no end to the man’s talents and it was driving her nuts. She couldn’t stop thinking about the smouldering. The tool belt, combined with olive combat shorts and a white polo shirt that hugged his muscles and highlighted his Portuguese heritage, was such a good look on him, she could hardly tear her eyes away. His smile, which he wielded frequently and lethally, laid waste to her reason every time she caught sight of it. So far today she’d knocked over a vase, temporarily mislaid three of her precious lists and spent a good fifteen minutes she could ill afford to spare gazing out of a top-floor window at where he was methodically clearing leaves from the pool, having waved aside protests from the team of gardeners handling the outdoors.

She didn’t like it. Any of it. Not the loss of focus, not the weakening of her resolve, and she particularly hated the sinking sensation that if things continued in this vein, a serious slip-up was only a matter of time.

She couldn’t allow that to happen, she thought grimly as she stood at the back door and watched the convoy of vans carry off the three dozen housekeeping staff for the night. She was striving for excellence here and for that she needed to stay on the ball. Right now, not only was she not on the ball, she wasn’t even anywhere near it. She felt as if she was walking a tightrope. One wobble and she’d tumble to the ground, where her insecurities lay waiting to pounce.

So enough was enough. Forget the fact that Duarte was a client who ought to be kept happy at all times. Forget that this was his house. She couldn’t carry on like this. She had to find him and get rid of him. Whatever it took.

***