Hot Boss, Wicked Nights

‘Anyway, there’s no point,’ Kate went on. ‘He’s only here to finalise everything, sort out whatever he wants to do with the business—sell it, presumably—then he’ll be gone. Who knows whether I’ll even have a job next month? Listen, I have to go. Ciao.’

A few seconds later she returned, set her phone on the bench and resumed buttering bread with a vengeance, head bent, eyes on her task.

Damon slid the cutlets into the pan. The sizzle and aroma of frying capsicum and fresh herbs filled the air. While that was cooking he tossed the salad and set it on the table with cutlery and a roll of paper towel. ‘Everything all right?’

‘That was my sister, Rosa. If I’m not there she wants to know why. All the details.’

He nodded at the chopping board heaped with buttered bread. ‘Did you invite them over to share?’

‘Oh, shoot…’ She clapped her hands to her mouth, her eyes crinkling with laughter. ‘I’m used to family get-togethers.’

‘It’s okay, I’ll make sandwiches for breakfast.’

Her phone rang again. ‘Hi, Dad,’ he heard her say. He watched the humour fade, her teeth nibble on her lower lip. ‘Yes, of course. I’ll make sure, Dad. No, I—’

She rubbed the frown between her brows as her father obviously cut her off. Damon could hear the tirade from where he was standing, but couldn’t make out the words. Just the tone. Demanding, bordering on rude.

‘It’s just that I thought…’ She trailed off. ‘Tell Mum I’m sorry. Yes. Bye.’

When she’d disconnected, he slid the fish onto plates. ‘Problem?’

She seemed to be making an effort to force negative thoughts away. ‘No.’ She piled the buttered bread onto a plate and nodded at the meal. ‘It looks good. Let’s eat.’

They ate at one end of a tiny table crammed with papers. Sounds of traffic on the busy suburban road outside and other tenants coming and going filtered through the open window.

‘So you have an extended family,’ Damon said as they tucked into their meal.

‘My mother’s Italian, what do you think?’

‘Your dad?’

‘His mother and his father’s mother were from Italy. He’s a born and bred Aussie with the heart of an Italian.’ She bit off a mouthful of bread and chewed on it, staring into middle space, and he got the feeling she was thinking about her phone call. ‘And somewhat…inflexible. Rosa and I come from a conservative family with a bunch of conservative relatives.’

‘She lives at home with your parents?’

‘Only because she’s getting married in a few weeks’ time. She went on an overseas holiday, met this French guy… That was four months ago. Anyway, Léon’s given up his job to come over here and be with her. It’s all so exciting and romantic.’

He caught a glimpse of that misty gaze women got in their eyes at the mention of romance. ‘You think so? Holiday romance.’ He shook his head. ‘I give it six months.’

Her cutlery stilled. ‘You don’t know either of them, yet you pronounce it dead already. You’re a real cynic, you know that? I pity the woman who marries you.’

‘Don’t. There’s not going to be one. I like my life the way it is. More wine?’ He refilled their glasses of chardonnay without waiting for an answer. Conversations about marriage and commitment always made him jumpy.

‘Which is how?’

‘Uncomplicated. Unencumbered.’

‘Irresponsible.’ She downed half her wine in one hit as if she was angry—or was it envy?—and eyed him over the rim of her glass.

He shrugged. After all, that was what his parents were. But just for a moment he wondered if he’d inherited that same trait. He was a risk-taker to the point of recklessness—was that irresponsible? No. Not when he had no one to answer to.

So it suited him fine to let her think that. She didn’t need to know he’d been involved in businesses in Asia and the US, had apartments in Kuala Lumpur and Phoenix. A dozen or more places where he could drop in at a moment’s notice and still get a room in the best hotels in the world. She didn’t need to know he could turn a profit on anything he put his mind to.

And he couldn’t have done it with a wife and kids hanging off his shirt-tails.

Not that he’d planned it. Wealth per se didn’t interest him. It had started as the challenge of putting what little he’d had into a failing enterprise, cranking it up, then selling at a profit. And all the while he’d been indulging other interests, taking other risks. Living in the Now. Remembering Bonita and how life didn’t offer second chances and that it could all be over tomorrow.