Undone By Her Ultra-Rich Boss

Beside the pool, Duarte unbuckled the tool belt and dumped it on a lounger. He emptied his pockets of his keys, wallet and phone, then stripped off his polo shirt. After removing his belt and adding it to the mounting pile of belongings, he dived into the cool, fresh water with relish.

The day had been surprisingly enjoyable and unexpectedly revelatory, he reflected as he began to swim lengths, the heat in his body and the tension in his muscles easing with every powerful stroke. He’d already come to the conclusion that, despite initial impressions, Orla was exceptionally capable. Why else would she be joint CEO of her company and how else could she have acquired the elusive wine? But who’d have thought competence would be such a turn-on? She issued crystal-clear instructions, could mentally turn on a sixpence and solved problems with head-spinning speed. She was like a highly efficient, well-oiled dynamo. She demanded excellence and got it, and the longer he’d watched her in action the more insistent the desire drumming through him became.

Whether or not she still wanted him, however, was as clear as mud. She’d spent most of the day trying to avoid him. He strode into a room and she marched out. He’d brought her lunch—since the oat bars she snacked on were hardly the kind of sustenance needed for a long day’s work—and she’d responded not with appreciation, as one might have expected, but with a huff of barely concealed disappointment. When avoidance had been impossible, she’d opted for ice-cool professionalism, as if she hadn’t melted in his arms and kissed him so passionately last night.

Her frosty attitude towards him didn’t bode all that well for his intention to entice her into his bed, Duarte had to admit as he turned and started a length underwater, but he had no intention of giving up. She wasn’t the only one with goals. Once he set his mind to something, nothing swayed him. So he’d stick to the plan—perhaps even ramping it up—and she’d succumb soon enough. The women he’d wanted in the past generally had and he didn’t see why Orla would be any different.

Coming up for air, he caught sight of her marching across the grass towards him. He swam to the side of the pool, his pulse hammering with an intensity that could have been caused by the exercise but more likely was because of her, and rested his arms on the tiled edge just as she drew to a stop right in front of him.

‘Duarte,’ she said in the clipped tone he’d become used to over the last twelve or so hours and which, perversely, fanned the embers of desire and sent it streaking through his veins like fire.

‘Orla,’ he murmured, letting his eyes drift from her fine ankles, up her shapely legs and over her shorts and T-shirt, which were close-fitting enough to make him want to get his hands on the skin beneath and trace her shape.

‘We need to talk.’

Oh, dear. That sounded serious. He’d never been a fan of ‘talking’. At least, not about anything that mattered, anything that might hurt. Shortly after the deaths of first his son and later his wife, his mother had tentatively suggested therapy. Beleaguered by unimaginable grief and excoriating guilt, he’d instantly shut that conversation down and sensibly she hadn’t revisited it. What had happened was his fault, he knew, and he didn’t deserve to work through it and come out the other side. He deserved to burn in hell.

‘What about?’ he drawled, pushing the unwelcome memories down and burying them deep.

‘You. More specifically, this...’ she waved a hand around ‘...situation.’

Interesting.

What precise situation did she mean?

Assuring himself he could easily deflect the conversation if it headed down a path he’d rather not follow and somewhat relieved that the idea of ‘talking’ had deflated his desire when his shorts now clung to him like a second skin, Duarte heaved himself out of the pool. He gave himself a shake and strode over to the lounger. He reached for his polo shirt and used it first to rub his hair dry and then to blot the water from his chest. When he was done, he stalked over to the table that could seat twelve and draped it over the back of one chair before dropping himself into another.

‘I’m all yours,’ he said, leaning back and stretching out to let the evening sun do its thing.

When Orla didn’t respond he glanced up at her. She looked dazed. Flushed. She swayed for a second and he briefly wondered if she was about to pass out. Today had been scorching and long. It wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility.

‘I’m sorry?’ she stammered.

‘You wanted to talk? About me and a situation.’

She blinked and snapped to. ‘Yes. That’s right. I do.’

‘Fire away.’

‘Okay.’ She cleared her throat and tucked a lock of wavy golden hair that had escaped her ponytail behind her ear. ‘Yes. Good. I just wanted to say thank you for your help today. It was...appreciated.’

She didn’t sound as if it was. The moment’s hesitation suggested his presence here today had been anything but appreciated, which was intriguing. ‘You’re welcome.’

‘However, there’s no need for you to be here tomorrow.’

‘It’s no trouble.’

‘Really. I wouldn’t want to put you out.’

‘You won’t.’

‘I’m sure you must have somewhere better to be.’

She was wrong. For once, he had time on his hands, and while there was always something in the business that required his attention, he could afford a few days off to focus on this latest project. He had the feeling that it would be more than worth it. ‘I don’t.’

Her stunning eyes flashed with annoyance. ‘Well, you can’t stay here.’

‘Why not?’

‘You’re getting in the way and putting me off my stride.’

‘Your stride looks fine to me,’ he said, his gaze dropping to her long legs and lingering.

‘You’re being deliberately obtuse.’

‘Then clarify it for me.’

She let out a sigh of exasperation and threw up her hands in what looked like defeat. ‘I can’t concentrate while you’re around,’ she said hotly. ‘You’re too distracting. I need to be able to do my job to the best of my ability and you’re preventing me from doing that.’

Her admission jolted through him like lightning, electrifying every nerve ending he possessed. So she was affected by him. She was just remarkably adept at hiding how she felt. It was surprisingly satisfying to know. ‘I bother you.’

She gave a nod, her jaw tight, as if she was loath to have to admit it. ‘Yes.’

‘And yet you’re still brilliant.’

‘I am,’ she agreed. ‘And I’ve worked very hard to be. But I won’t be brilliant if I keep dropping things and losing lists. You’re making me do that. You mess with my head. All day I’ve been on tenterhooks waiting for some disaster to happen because I’m not paying enough attention, and I can’t have it.’

‘I think you’re overestimating my powers.’

‘You couldn’t possibly understand.’

‘So explain.’