Читать книгу Hot Boss, Wicked Nights - Anne Oliver, Anne Oliver - Страница 8

CHAPTER THREE

KATE was about to microwave last night’s left-over chicken soup for tea, hoping she could somehow manage to put something in her stomach, when her phone rang.

‘Kate.’

‘Yes…’ She couldn’t say anything more because her heart leapt into her throat at the sound of his already familiar voice. It was as if he were right there, murmuring in her ear. She could almost feel his breath on her skin; the heat seemed to shimmer through the connection. What did he want? she thought distractedly. Ah…he’d said he’d be contacting her about the list of people who’d attended the funeral.

‘How’s the cold?’

‘Improving.’ Actually she felt much better after an extra dose of pills and a couple of hours’ nap. She glanced at the clock and her voice held an accusatory tone as she said, ‘It’s half past eight, Mr Gillespie. Work’s over.’

‘I know, I meant to call earlier. I hope you’re hungry.’

Her stomach churned. Surely he wasn’t inviting her out for dinner? She looked down at her worn black tracksuit pants under the oversize orange nightshirt, the fluffy pink slippers she’d meant to replace last winter. ‘No, I’m not. I take it you’re ringing about the list,’ she hurried on. ‘I’ll bring it tomorr—’

‘You have to eat, Kate. Did you have lunch?’

‘No, I…’ She was interrupted—no, saved—by the sound of knocking at her door and breathed a little sigh of relief at the interruption. ‘I have to go, I have a visitor, I’ll ring you back in a bit.’ When it was late and she could lie and say she’d already eaten. If she rang back at all…

She dropped the phone onto its base, hurried through the living room and dragged open the door. ‘Oh…’

Damon Gillespie. With his mobile still attached to his ear. Wearing khaki cargo pants and a white T-shirt tonight and balancing a pizza box and a small package in his spare hand. He disconnected the phone with his thumb, slipped it into his pocket, all without taking his eyes off hers. ‘Hi.’

His gaze flicked down to the fluffy slippers and her toes curled up in embarrassment. And she’d been too distracted to slip something over her nightshirt; her braless breasts—the breasts he’d handled with such expertise—jutted out at him. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone,’ she muttered.

His eyes flashed with amusement. ‘You were keen enough to answer the door a second or two ago.’

‘No… I thought it was my sister…’ But he saw through her, she just knew it. She didn’t want to share pizza with him, she didn’t want him in her home, checking out her state of dishabille, but what choice did she have? Too late to dive for cover now. She turned away and began heading back to the kitchen. ‘Come in, but I’m telling you now I couldn’t eat pizza if my life depended on it.’

‘Ah, but you haven’t tried Dominic Amigo’s Gourmet Pizza, have you?’

Her brows rose. ‘Have you? I thought you just rolled into town?’

‘Sandy recommended it when I rang this afternoon for your contact details and we got talking about local restaurants. You were with a customer at the time.’

‘Remind me to thank her,’ she murmured as she pulled plates from her cupboard and searched out a spatula. She tried to ignore the pizza’s tempting aroma, but it did smell good and her stomach rumbled in spite of herself. In the silence it sounded more like a blocked drain clearing.

‘Not hungry, huh?’ He set the box down on the tiny glass-topped table, pulled out a chair and grinned.

She hadn’t seen that grin since Saturday night. A bone-meltingly sexy grin that turned her insides to mush and made her do crazy, stupid, reckless things.

Like having sex with a complete stranger.

Forcing her gaze away from him, she looked at the other item he’d brought. ‘What’s in the bag?’

‘Fresh ginger root and a couple of essential oils—peppermint and tea tree. Grandma used to swear by them when Bry and I had colds. I’ve written the instructions out; they’re inside the bag.’

He’d thought enough to bring her a family cold remedy? A warm feeling of…something—like maybe she’d misjudged him?—seeped into her bones, going some way to melting the frost. She didn’t know what to say. ‘That’s very kind. Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome.’

She withdrew the items along with the handwritten note. Firm, bold, decisive writing. It denoted someone who was confident and at ease with himself. ‘You still use it, then?’

‘I never get a cold. In fact I’m disgustingly healthy.’

Yes. She could see that. She turned away from the unsettling sight of his more-than-healthy masculinity and peered in the fridge to cool her rapidly heating face and to search for something to offer to drink.

‘Ah, two plates,’ he said. ‘Does that mean you’ve decided to join me?’

‘If it’s got olives I could be tempted.’ And if anyone could tempt her… In any way…

It would not be Damon Gillespie.

‘There’s mozzarella cheese, marinated roasted chicken, capsicum, mushrooms, onion with fresh coriander smothered in satay sauce. No olives.’

‘Satay chicken. I never heard of satay chicken pizza. You sure you didn’t stop in at Nonja’s Rasa Sayang and forget the fried rice on your way out?’

‘You’ll love it.’

She retrieved an unopened bottle and held it up. ‘Is sparkling mineral water okay?’

‘Fine.’

‘Okay. We can talk while we eat.’ That way she could kill two birds with one stone and get him out of her apartment sooner. She set two glasses down, filled them, then sank down on the only other chair.

‘Sure we can, but not about business.’ He lifted the lid and inhaled appreciatively. ‘Not while we’re eating pizza.’ He slid a slice of the delicious-smelling food onto a plate and pushed it towards her. ‘Now, eat.’

She did as he asked and was surprised to find how hungry she was. Having food in her stomach also put her in a slightly better frame of mind. ‘I expect this has all been a bolt out of the blue,’ she said after a few moments. She thought she saw something like grief flicker in his eyes before he deliberately snuffed it out. A thread of surprise wound through her.

‘Who’d expect a forty-three-year-old guy with no history of illness to drop dead with no warning?’ He returned his attention to the pizza, sliding out another piece for himself as he said, ‘It’s a blow losing the only family you have left.’

She couldn’t begin to imagine losing her family. They were the most important thing to her. ‘Your parents…?’

His expression changed, the lines around his mouth deepened, the golden colour of his eyes, moments ago so bright and alive, dulled. ‘I’ve no idea where they are. Haven’t seen or heard from them in years. Gran raised me alongside Bryce. Dad won’t know his only brother’s died because I didn’t know how to contact him. Even if I’d wanted to.’

The bitterness in the rough-throated voice stunned Kate. She realised she’d been so caught up in the injustice of Damon’s apparent takeover at Aussie Essential and his appearance in her kitchen, she hadn’t really given him much of a chance. ‘I’m s—’

‘Don’t.’ Damon held up a hand and mentally shook himself. What the hell was he doing, giving Kate Fielding a glimpse of his vulnerability? The part that he kept private and ruthlessly hidden. He’d rid himself of his anger and self-pity years ago. Buried it under a mountain of hard work and harder play.

He turned his attention to lifting the pizza to his mouth. Its spicy, succulent flavours slid over his tongue, pleasure danced across his taste buds. He hadn’t tasted a pizza like it anywhere in the world. ‘The food’s good, don’t you think?’

A tiny frown still marred her brow, as if she didn’t quite believe he could be so dismissive of his inner pain.

‘Try something for me,’ he said. ‘Bite off a mouthful, chew it slowly and concentrate.’ Anything to distract her from probing into his history.

She hesitated, then raised another slice to her lips. He watched her take a bite and savour it a moment, her eyes half closed. It sent a trickle of heat to his groin. Then she licked her lips, leaving a glossy sheen of oil clinging to them. ‘It’s good,’ she agreed.

The trickle of heat grew. Tonight she looked different yet again. More accessible than the closed businesswoman he’d seen this morning, and yet, perversely, there’d been something about that buttoned-up image that had turned him on. He couldn’t stop himself imagining her sprawled on that big desk right now. While he slipped off her jacket, popped the buttons on her blouse and pulled down her bra… The trickle turned to a torrent.

Then there was Shakira—masked and mysterious but blatantly sexy with plenty of cleavage and smooth bare skin. That intriguing ruby glittering in her navel. He couldn’t help but wonder if she still wore it, whether it was attached to her somehow, like a body piercing.

And now the informal look. Very informal. But no less tantalising for all that. For a start she’d let her hair down. It cascaded halfway down her back, a waterfall of shiny black silk that begged for his touch. In her nightshirt she was obviously ready for bed.

Don’t go there, he warned himself as an image of Kate and heat and sheets rose before him. The nightshirt proclaimed in glittery letters that diamonds were a girl’s best friend. ‘Is that a personal motto?’ He waved his pizza slice towards her chest.

She stopped mid-bite and as he watched two little buds rose beneath the fabric. ‘What?’

‘You’d go for money over men?’

She frowned, looked down and her expression cleared. ‘It’s just a nightshirt, for heaven’s sake.’ But her eyes met his in a challenge. ‘When—or if—I find a man who’s worth more I’ll let you know. On second thought, I won’t bother, since you probably won’t be here for me to tell you anyway. Where did you say you live again?’

‘Wherever I happen to be working.’ Or pursuing his various recreational activities.

‘And what exactly is your line of work?’

He shrugged, evasive. ‘I take on whatever comes my way.’

Aware of her disapproval, and satisfied with it somehow, he lifted his glass, took a long slow drink. He didn’t stay anywhere long. Nor did he feel inclined to talk about it.

His own motto: Make your success, have your fun, and move on. Don’t make attachments—with people or places. Which made his Internet-based business so attractive. He set his glass down and resumed his demolition of the pizza without speaking.

‘And yet you want to take on a travel agency.’ Her lips pursed, then parted as she picked up another slice of pizza. Damn, he wanted to taste that mouth again. He wanted her again, all of her—even in tracksuit pants and nightshirt. Or without them. And he could tell by the tension crackling between them earlier today and now that the attraction was mutual.

But she didn’t like him, he thought, staring into those hostile eyes as they both continued to eat.

She seemed like the kind of woman who wanted to take on responsibility. Focused, career-oriented, the kind who lived for work. Maybe she was only looking for temporary in a relationship too. After all, how many women carried a condom in their skirts? ‘You like cooking?’ he asked, diverting her thoughts, wanting to thaw the frosty edge to her mood.

‘It depends. If I’m having company over, I like trying out different things. But I hate the boredom of cooking for one day in, day out.’

‘Ever try cooking for Bryce?’ he said wryly. ‘Never knew a less adventurous eater. Same old meat and three veg every day. At least he did last time I saw him.’

‘Yeah, I know.’ A tiny smile curved her lips as she wiped her mouth on a paper napkin and pushed her plate to the side.

Ah, she was warming. He leaned back and smiled too. ‘So, do you do much travelling with your job?’

‘I go overseas once a year and do a few interstate famils—what we in the industry call familiarisation tours. Bryce had promised me I could do something a little more adventurous this year.’

‘Adventurous. Would that be along the lines of trekking Nepal?’ He popped the last piece of pizza into his mouth and reached for a napkin.

‘Heavens, no, nothing like that.’ A half-laugh bubbled out. ‘Roughing it is not my kind of holiday. I’m more of a five-star luxury girl.’

‘An overseas nightclub tour, then? Sampling the hottest spots in town?’

‘Nightclubbing really isn’t my scene.’ She stacked their plates. ‘I’m more of a family person. I usually spend my evenings at home or with my sister. Mostly.’

The last word was spoken in a subtly different tone, as if she was remembering evenings when family was the last thing on her mind.

‘So there are times when you give yourself permission to let your hair down, so to speak.’

Almost panicked eyes darted to his, so wide, so dark her irises seemed to disappear into her pupils. ‘Of course. Doesn’t everyone?’ The frost was back in her voice as she rose abruptly, disposed of the plates in the sink and shoved the pizza box beside a swing-top bin, her movements swift and jerky.

She produced a sponge and wiped it over the table. ‘Okay, meal’s done.’ She flicked her eyes to him. ‘Shall we get started?’

All kinds of scenarios of how they could get started smoked through his mind. Beginning with lifting her nightshirt and finding out about that ruby once and for all. Then he’d slide his hands through her silken hair, bring those bare, kissable lips to his and…

‘Here’s the funeral attendees’book.’ Her brisk voice broke his train of thought as she slapped it on the table. She reached for some handwritten notes stuck to the fridge with a souvenir magnet from San Francisco. She sat down again, spreading the papers in front of her. ‘These are the people you might want to thank. They’re mostly business associates.’

He had to ask. ‘You said you two were friends, Kate. What did that mean?’

She raised her eyes to his. ‘Exactly what it sounds like. We used to have a kind of standing date for Friday nights,’ she continued after a moment. ‘We talked over the week’s business in more pleasant surroundings. Our relationship was only ever purely professional.’

He nodded, somehow relieved. ‘Let me guess—same time, same place?’

She let out a half-laugh. ‘Yes.’

He nodded. That was good old Bryce—predictable.

‘It saved time.’ She shrugged. ‘I knew him a long while.’

By the time they were done more than an hour had passed. Kate had been conscious of Damon’s molten amber gaze on her all evening. It made her wonder if it was because he recognised her from Saturday night. It certainly wasn’t for the wild look she was wearing this evening. But she could hardly ask him about it, could she?

Without looking at him she shuffled her notes into a tidy pile. ‘Here you go.’

‘Thanks.’

He reached across the table and put a hand on hers. A sparkle of heat shot up her arm but before she could pull it away his fingers were stroking her wrist, his thumb rasping over the pulse point that suddenly beat like a drum.

She forced her eyes to his. ‘I hope it helps.’ Her neck prickled with heat. ‘The information, I mean.’

‘I know what you mean.’ He smiled. He still had hold of her hand.

She didn’t move. He hadn’t touched her—deliberately touched her, unless she counted the restraining hand this morning—since Saturday night. His eyes looked right into hers and for a moment she thought he was going to remind her of that, but instead he withdrew his hand.

‘I’d better be off and let you get some sleep,’ he said, and pushed up. ‘Don’t forget to try the oils.’

‘I won’t. Thank you.’

He nodded, then turned and walked to her door. ‘I won’t be in tomorrow morning. I’ve got to see the solicitor and sort through Bryce’s stuff.’

She couldn’t resist a terse, ‘I’m sure we’ll manage without you.’

He grinned. ‘I’m sure you will. Kate…’ his grin sobered ‘…you’ve been doing a great job there. Thank you.’

She needed to say, had to say, ‘Bryce intended making me manager. Next month.’

‘He was leaving?’

‘I don’t know what he intended. He hadn’t told me anything more than he was taking some time off.’

Damon’s brows drew together. ‘We’ve got some decisions to make. I’ll need your staffing knowledge and expertise.’

What the heck did that mean? At this point all she could do was nod a reluctant acceptance.

‘Good night, Kate.’ He hesitated on the step.

His cologne teased her nostrils. Oh, my God, was he going to kiss her? She didn’t realise she’d stepped back until his bronze eyes flashed in the reflected light from the hall. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

His eyes narrowed, as if he was trying to figure her out. He was being a gentleman, unlike the bad boy she’d experienced Saturday night, making it hard for her to reconcile the two. Or more like he was just being the businessman and she was the only one with sex on her mind.

A flush rose to her cheeks and she tucked her hands beneath her armpits. ‘Goodnight.’

She closed the door the moment he left and leaned back against it. She heard a car door shut, the smooth purr of a well-tuned engine, then listened as the sound faded.

Only then did she breathe the sigh she’d held inside for the past few moments. He’d been nice this evening, not the take-charge guy in the office this morning. He’d brought her pizza and his grandma’s recipe. What kind of man thought to bring a girl he barely knew something like that? Something of himself. The same kind who’d have sex with a girl he didn’t know?

But men could compartmentalise their lives. Especially where sex was concerned. She only had to think of her ex-fiancé. She’d never trust a man again. Nor did she think she could trust her own judgement again. One mistake was enough.

But it was kind of sad to think that Damon would be on his own tonight. She couldn’t imagine having no family, no support through the tough times. Even if her dad was overbearing and treated her as if she were sixteen rather than thirty, she could forgive him because she knew he’d do anything for her. Damon had none of that.

But she needed to remember—he was the boss she’d had a one-night stand with—which left her in a precarious position.

She was sure he hadn’t recognised her. Thank goodness for that; she was safe for now. And yet, instead of being relieved, perversely, the knowledge somehow disappointed her.

Bryce’s apartment was on the outskirts of the city’s business district. Damon spent the following morning cleaning up. He did a quick inventory, then went grocery shopping for a few essentials.

By midday he sat at the cramped, overloaded desk in Bry’s home office. He’d been at it for more than an hour, trying—and failing—to find some logical order to the shoeboxes brimming with papers. He pulled out an overdue electricity account from the top of one, let it fall back on the desk. He had no doubt Bry ran his business the same way.

Hell.

He massaged the stiffness at the back of his neck, then scrubbed a hand over his face. His eyes felt sandy. His jaw ached from clenching his teeth. It was interrupted sleep, that was what it was. Caused by the woman who’d taken up residence inside his head. It had taken all his will power last night not to kiss Kate.

He’d made love to her. The most beguiling woman he’d ever seen. The most responsive woman he’d ever had. She’d fulfilled his every fantasy with her sultry mystery, and that erotic ruby glitter in her belly button. The way she’d come undone at his touch, her unrestrained abandon.

It had been a charade; Sha-ki-ra really was a fantasy. Kate Fielding’s alter ego. Fascinating. Who’d have thought straight-down-the-line Kate from the agency’s office liked to play?

The question that interested him was did she play by the same rules he did?