Hot Boss, Wicked Nights

Mr and Mrs Gillespie? She rolled onto her back and opened her eyes. It was broad daylight and she was alone. In a big double bed. She stared at the rumpled expanse of sheets. Had he planned these sleeping arrangements? She thought he’d looked confused at the desk—or angry—but she’d been more concerned with maintaining an upright position to pay much attention.

And if not, why hadn’t he then requested the hotel give them separate rooms? He’d obviously been here all night—she could smell his lingering presence. His watch lay on the night stand alongside her mobile phone. She shivered with a heat that all too often consumed her when she thought of Damon and her sleeping together in the true sense of the word. Too close, too intimate.

As she shifted position the sheet slipped and she drew in a short choppy breath. Her skirt was gone, her blouse completely unbuttoned…

Another shiver rippled through her. Damon. Had. Undressed. Her. He’d slid those big hands over her hips and pulled down her skirt. Grazed her breasts while undoing her buttons… The thought of him seeing her—like this—while asleep made her feel far too vulnerable.

And now he was nowhere to be seen.

Just like Nick when he’d betrayed and humiliated her with another woman while she’d slept. The real and very private reason their relationship had ended.

It was the reason she slept alone. The reason she told herself she didn’t want to be that close to anyone ever again. And that vulnerability had kept her lonely and alone on too many nights to count. Not that she was counting. She didn’t want what Rosa was destined to have—a family of her own. She didn’t want a man who loved her unreservedly.

So why the desperate lonely ache in her heart at the thought?

She slipped out of bed. She needed to look presentable in fresh clothes without bed hair and yesterday’s grime on her skin when she saw Damon again. And working.

She took a quick shower, barely noticing the luxurious facilities. She semi-blow-dried her hair, leaving it damp and down, brushed her teeth, applied a light make-up, then redressed in a lime-green sundress with tiny yellow and white daisies. She grabbed her laptop, which she found with the rest of her stuff.

On her way out she noticed Damon’s gear stowed beside a couch where he’d obviously spent at least part of the night. So maybe he hadn’t planned this room arrangement. Or was it because she’d been of no use to anyone last night, herself included? What would have happened if she hadn’t been ill?

You know exactly what.

She passed an aquamarine pool set amongst lush foliage, but didn’t see Damon amongst the swimmers. The tempting aroma of hot food at the open-air restaurant teased her nostrils, but she had to find Damon first.

She saw him through the gym’s floor-to-ceiling windows. He was bare-chested, wearing black and purple Lycra bike shorts and speeding nowhere on an exercise cycle. Sweat dampened his hair and glistened on his face and body. Angled away, he didn’t see her, which gave Kate a rare opportunity to watch him unobserved. The way the muscles in his thighs and arms bunched and flexed, what she could see of his face in profile, a study in intense concentration.

He slowed as she watched, then dismounted and walked to a bench. Wow. Her gaze dropped to the bike shorts—rather, what was hidden in the bike shorts. Not so hidden. Heat coursed through her body, responding to the memory of just how impressive he’d been in the flesh. Inside her. The heat drained to her legs, making her feel weak-kneed, and she leaned against the wall.

Then he swiped a towel over his face and upper arms, picked up a shirt, shrugging it on as he smiled at someone across the room. Kate’s gaze followed his. A woman. Tall, blonde, attractive. They gravitated towards each other and spoke, but Kate couldn’t hear on the other side of the glass. Here less than a day and already he was chatting up the other guests. Just like Nick.

Her heart clenched. Too familiar. Too painful. She forced down the welling anger and humiliation that threatened to engulf her. Told herself she’d put her emotions on hold. What did she care? She should be used to coming second. This was not a holiday. Her fingers tightened on her laptop. This was work.

Damon and Blondie were still talking when she dragged herself away and found a quiet corner table in the open-air all-you-can-eat buffet on the other side of the path, opened her laptop and a new Word document.

So she wasn’t watching twenty-seven minutes later when he stepped out of the sunshine and into the café—alone—with his shirt hanging open and his arms and bare chest gleaming with sweat. Nor when he caught sight of her and made his way towards her table.

‘Kate. How are you feeling?’