Undone By Her Ultra-Rich Boss

CHAPTER NINE

ORLASATONthe terrace at the Casa, nursing a cup of steaming coffee in the early morning sunshine and contemplating the idea that Duarte was about as ideal a man as it was possible to get. He inspired trust. He could read her body as if he’d studied her for an exam and her mind as if he could see into it. And he was good company.

When she thought about how patient he’d been while she’d freaked out about ornamental cabbages, she melted. He hadn’t scoffed about the triviality of bedding plants. He hadn’t diminished what to her were very real, very significant concerns. He’d handled her with care and perception and talked her off the ledge, and every time the memory of it slid into her head, she found herself grinning like a fool.

And he might have had a point about the whole ‘good enough’ thing, she’d grudgingly come to admit. Her demanding bride-to-be had raved about the cardoons, deeming them infinitely superior to the apparently rather lacklustre ornamental cabbage. A minor problem with the drains here had been swiftly, if imperfectly and only temporarily, resolved—which was...well, not too bad, actually. She’d spent years believing that her sense of self-worth was tied up in excelling at everything, but perhaps it didn’t have to be that way. Perhaps she could find it in something else. Or even, maybe, someone else...

But Duarte was wrong about one thing. The chemistry that sizzled between them was far from fading. It burned like a living flame inside her, growing stronger every day. Colours were brighter. Smells were more intense. She knew when he was around even if she couldn’t see him. Her skin would break out in goosebumps and then, a moment or two later, there he’d be.

In fact, all her senses appeared to be heightened and she felt on top of the world. Her swimming was improving in leaps and bounds. Work was going brilliantly. Progress at the Quinta was steaming ahead and she’d just signed up another ultra-high net worth client, who, happily for her company’s bottom line, showed every indication of being all for opulence and extravagance.

Everything was perfect.

Her skin prickled and she couldn’t help grinning when a moment later she felt Duarte sweep her hair to one side and drop a hot kiss at the base of her neck.

‘I need to go to Porto this evening,’ he murmured against her skin, making her shiver and wonder whether there was time for a quickie. ‘I have a meeting first thing tomorrow.’

Well, maybe not quite that perfect, she amended, her spirits taking a sudden dip as the blood in her veins chilled. He’d been extremely attentive lately, ever since the ornamental cabbage incident, in fact, and she’d got used to having him around. She didn’t like the idea of eating supper on her own. But it would be fine. It wasn’t as if she’d miss him or anything. She’d only known him a couple of weeks, and she was hardly addicted to the sex. Honestly. She’d spent innumerable evenings alone. She’d occupy herself with work, just as she usually did.

‘OK,’ she said, feigning nonchalance with a casual shrug. ‘No problem.’

He moved round her and dropped into the seat opposite. ‘Come with me.’

At that, those spirits of hers bounced right back and her heart gave a little skip.

Well.

She could decline, she told herself, battling the rising urge to grin like an idiot. To prove to herself that she could take or leave him, that she wasn’t addicted, perhaps. But God, she didn’t want to. She wanted to spend the night with him in Porto. She wanted to see where he lived and what he did outside this lovely bubble they currently existed in. The world wouldn’t collapse if a problem arose and she wasn’t there. She had her phone and she’d keep it on.

So the hyper-critical voice in her head warning her she was straying into dangerous territory could pipe down. This wasn’t one of those risks she’d contemplated while paddling at the edge of the river. She was still leaving once the conference was over. She wasn’t going to develop any unwise ideas about what this affair of theirs either was or wasn’t. But nor was she going to waste a single minute of it.

‘I’d love to.’

***

That evening, Duarte flew her to Porto by helicopter, a forty-five-minute journey that was, in equal parts, terrifying and thrilling.

Terrifying because, despite having organised more such trips than she could count, she’d never actually taken one herself and it was alarming to be hurtling through the air in what amounted to little more than a tin can. And thrilling, because she recalled his asking her to research helicopter options and arrange the lease shortly after he’d signed up to her company’s services but never in a million years had she imagined she’d one day occupy the passenger seat.

From the airport they travelled straight to his apartment on the coast, which could not be more different to the properties on the wine estate. It stretched across the entire top floor of a fifteen-storey modern block of what she supposed was cutting-edge design. Light flooded in through acres of glass and bounced off the many reflective surfaces. Rich, gleaming wood and cream marble abounded, and the views of the sea from virtually every angle were stunning. While Orla was a fan of a perfectly positioned cushion or six and the occasional colour-coded bookcase, she could see how this décor would suit Duarte. It was warm, unfussy and unashamedly masculine.

‘Nice place,’ she said as she walked out onto the vast, lushly planted terrace and joined him at the balcony.

‘Thank you.’

He handed her a glass of vinho verde and the brush of his fingers against hers sent shivers scuttling down her spine in a way that really she ought to be used to by now but which still caught her by surprise.

‘Have you lived here long?’

‘Two and a half years.’

He must have moved here soon after his wife had died, she mused, taking a sip and feeling the deliciously cool white wine slip down her throat. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask, because increasingly she found herself wondering about the woman he’d married. What had she been like? The press had painted her as great a party animal as he’d been, but she longed to know more. And what of the overdose? Had that been an accident or deliberate?

However, she couldn’t ask. The subject was still far too personal for a brief affair, however intense. Besides, it would ruin the mood of a beautiful evening, so she crushed the curiosity, turned away from the pink-and-gold-streaked sky, and instead focused on the table that sat beneath the pergola strung with fairy lights.

‘What’s all this?’

‘Dinner.’

Well, yes, she could see that, but as she moved closer to peruse the dishes set out on the table her heart began to thud so hard she could feel it in her ears. It was more than dinner. A couple of days ago she and Duarte had had a conversation about culinary loves and hates. And here she could see a platter of langoustines and a dish of plump black olives. A bowl of vibrant guacamole, a basket of ridge-cut crisps and, on a wooden board, sliced impossibly thinly, medium rare steak. All her favourite things.

Her mouth went dry and her head spun for a second. She could totally see how he’d bedded so many women back in the day when he’d lived fast and played hard. Being the object of his attention was like standing for too long in the midday sun—dazzling and dizzying.

‘God, you’re good at this,’ she said, wondering if it would be rude to delay dinner by dragging him off to one of the three bedrooms so she could show him her appreciation properly.

He glanced up from the candle he was in the process of lighting and shot her a wicked grin. ‘What, specifically, are you referring to?’

‘The whole seduction thing.’

He went still and something flickered in the depths of his eyes, gone before Orla could even begin to work out what it was.

‘Well, as you know, practice makes perfect,’ he drawled with a shrug, but she noticed that his smile had hardened a fraction and suddenly, inexplicably, she felt a bit sick.

Could she have offended him? she wondered, the wine in her stomach turning to vinegar. Impossible. His past was no great secret. For years his exploits had been plastered all over the front covers of the more salacious global press. She was merely stating a fact. There was no need to feel bad.

‘Right,’ she said, her throat nevertheless strangely tight.

‘Take a seat.’

‘Thank you.’

‘What would you like to do tomorrow while I’m in my meeting?’ he asked, his gaze cool, his expression unreadable.

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Have a think and let me know.’

***