Читать книгу Outback With The Boss - Barbara Hannay - Страница 8

‘GRACE! What has got into you?’

Grace turned, shaking with terror, her eyes wide and her hand covering her mouth, as she watched Henry stride across his living room towards her. His crimson face was twisted with anger.

‘Do you realise what you’ve just done?’ he shouted. ‘Do you know who—?’ Henry stopped shouting abruptly, as if he realised he was making this fiasco much worse. His voice dropped to a panicky whisper. ‘That’s Mitch Wentworth at the door!’

‘I know, I know,’ Grace moaned. Her eyes hunted around the small room, searching frantically for any item of clothing she could grab. Where was a gaping black hole when she needed to leap into it?

‘How could you do this to me, Grace? What’s he going to think?’

As if the answer to his own question suddenly popped into his head, Henry swore, spun on his heel and darted back to his front door.

Grace made a speedy escape to the bedroom.

‘He’s gone!’ she heard Henry roar. ‘Wentworth’s left already!’

She sank with relief onto the bed. Thank heavens for that. With shaking hands, she pulled a T-shirt over her head.

Henry burst into the room. ‘You’ve ruined me! You do realise that, don’t you? I’ll never get Wentworth to look at my graphics now.’ Flinging his hands into the air, he glared at her. ‘I had Mitch Wentworth here, Grace. Here in my own home. He was going to look at all my designs tonight! Tonight! You stupid woman! You’ve spoilt everything.’

Grace shuddered. ‘I’m sorry, Henry,’ she replied dully. ‘How was I to know you’d bring him home? I didn’t even know the man was in Townsville.’ With nervous, wrenching movements, she pulled on her jeans. All she could think of was how badly she wanted to get away.

And never come back!

Henry was carrying on like a spoilt little boy who’d dropped his ice-cream cone in the dirt.

‘I’m sure you’ll be able to show your ideas to him some other time,’ she muttered. Why had she ever wasted one moment trying to arouse Henry’s interest in her? He couldn’t have been less appreciative of her efforts if she’d trashed his entire flat.

She shoved her feet into trainers. ‘I’m sorry my silly plan was such a flop,’ she told him as he slumped and sulked on the far side of the bed. Her shoulders rose in a dismissive shrug. ‘It—it seemed like a good idea at the time…’

But not any more! A wave of shame drenched her with fresh horror. Never had she been more aware of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Henry shook his head and growled. ‘I thought you were supposed to be smart, but that was about the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen.’

One thing was for sure, Grace promised herself silently: Henry wouldn’t see anything like that ever again. Jumping up, she grabbed her carryall and offered him a mumbled, ‘I won’t hang around,’ before blinking back embarrassed tears, hurrying past him and out of the room.

But as she left his flat Grace winced at the thought of a much more pressing concern than Henry’s fit of the sulks. Her big, bigger, biggest problem was so horrendous she wished she could take off on the next space shuttle! She’d gladly spend six months on a space station in the far reaches of the universe.

There was no way on earth she could face her new boss in the morning.

Please, please, please don’t let him recognise me.

When Mitch Wentworth stepped into her office next morning, Grace huddled over her computer and prayed as she had never prayed before.

She was prepared to repent in sackcloth and ashes. She would make a big donation to charity. She could do both. Anything. Just as long as her boss didn’t connect her with that humiliating moment in Henry’s doorway.

This morning, she’d taken great pains to look as different from the previous night’s pouting sexpot as she possibly could. But was it enough? Suddenly, with Mitch Wentworth’s expensive, hand-stitched shoes firmly planted in the middle of her office, Grace doubted the ability of hair gel and a primly fashioned bun to effectively change her appearance. And how helpful were the heavily framed glasses she’d borrowed from her neighbour? Her only reassurance was that last night Mitch had glimpsed her very briefly. And surely the shapeless, dull brown dress disguised her body?

What had actually been said at Henry’s front door was all an embarrassing blur, but with a hefty dollop of luck Mitch Wentworth would have no idea she was remotely connected to Henry Aspinall—or the trollop who’d greeted him last night.

Nevertheless, as he moved towards her, her shoulders lifted and squared as if she was braced to take a blow.

‘Good morning. I presume I have the pleasure of meeting Ms Robbins?’ His dark eyes assessed her carefully, but they showed no sign of recognition.

Yes! Relief flowed and swirled through Grace, but she still couldn’t dredge up a smile as she replied, ‘Good morning, Mr Wentworth.’ She stood and held out her hand to greet him formally, and the room buzzed with her tension. His handshake was predictably strong and firm.

My, he was tall! And broad-shouldered. She’d been prepared for the well-defined bone structure, the thick dark hair and the eyes designed purely for seduction, and last night she’d realised he was a big man. But now, in her small office, he took up far too much space. There was no escaping his spectacular style of masculinity: the kind of looks she’d learned to mistrust instinctively.

‘You come highly recommended. George Hervey gave a glowing report.’

She smiled faintly.

Mitch did not smile back. ‘But, of course, that’s all over now. With me, you will have to prove yourself.’

Prove myself?

Despite her nervousness, a surge of defiance heated Grace’s cheeks. Here we go! The bloodthirsty pirate takes the helm! Her chin lifted automatically, but, just in time, she remembered to mask her stormy reaction by lowering her gaze. Her green eyes had a bad habit of attracting unwanted attention when her dander was up. And already she could feel her hackles rising.

Mitch spoke again, his deep Australian drawl blending with the American twang he’d acquired after many years in the United States. ‘I expect one hundred per cent commitment and loyalty.’

‘Of course, Mr Wentworth.’

He drew in a sharp breath and Grace suspected that her softly spoken subservience irked him. Nevertheless, he continued without missing another beat. ‘You’re a vital key to the success of this New Tomorrow project. But…’ his voice dropped and he paused for dramatic effect ‘…I am that project. You’re working for me now, Grace Robbins. When you think of New Tomorrow, you think of me.’

He was as full of himself as she’d expected! However, she couldn’t ignore the fact that his brainchild was very exciting—a project she itched to become more involved with.

‘Your film has a brilliant premise,’ she replied, and would have continued, but, with an ominous flourish, Mitch reached into his pocket and withdrew something that looked like a magazine.

He threw it onto the table.

Her boss grinned up at her, his face disguised by a bristly moustache.

Rimless spectacles.

And blackened teeth!

Grace’s stomach felt as if it had been pumped full of concrete. Slashed onto the page with thick, black, angry strokes, her graffiti was clear evidence of the tantrum she’d thrown in this very office after her lunchtime discussion with Maria.

How on earth had he found it?

She flinched.

And suppressed a whimper.

Gulped down the urge to scream. Why couldn’t real life be like making a movie? If only a director could jump into her office and yell, ‘Cut! I don’t like the way this scene’s falling. Let’s start again and this time we’ll leave out the magazine…’

But no.

No one was going to rescue her from her own reckless actions. For several seconds Grace hoped she might faint.

No such luck.

Her legs trembled, but didn’t give way. No comforting blackness descended. And Mitch Wentworth remained standing squarely in front of her, pinning her to the spot with his cold, unflinching stare.

‘It seems you have a problem,’ he challenged.

She swayed slightly and grasped the back of her chair.

‘Obviously, you’ve got a problem with me,’ Mitch repeated in a cold, flat voice.

Where had she heard that the best defence was to attack? With a shaking, accusing finger, she pointed at him. ‘You—you’ve been spying on me!’

He stared at her in simmering silence. Then, to her surprise, he shook his head and walked away. For several seconds, Mitch stood with his back to her, but Grace could sense his anger in the rise and fall of his shoulders. He turned swiftly to face her again. ‘I don’t spy, Ms Robbins! I called here yesterday evening to check out the office. My office. And it didn’t take the help of a special service investigator to uncover what you left lying so blatantly on your desk. Right here!’

Grace looked away. He was about to sack her. She knew it. And if she stretched her imagination to take in his point of view she probably couldn’t blame him.

But she loved this job. Over the past four years, it had become the single most important thing in her life! Somehow, she dragged her eyes upwards again to find Mitch studying her. His hands were now shoved deep into his trouser pockets. If he was going to fire her, she wished he would get it over quickly.

‘Do you want to see this project through?’

‘Huh? I—I mean I beg your pardon?’

‘New Tomorrow. You want to stay on the team?’

‘Yes, I do. Very much. I’m actually very committed to New Tomorrow. I—’

‘You want to work with me?’

For a fraction of a second she hesitated, but it was long enough to elicit another of his quick frowns.

‘Yes. Yes, I do.’

Mitch picked up the offending magazine and tossed it into her waste-paper basket. Then he began to pace the small square of carpet in the middle of her office. ‘Okay. We’ll forget about this, Grace.’

Grace? He’d dropped the Ms Robbins?

‘I don’t have any problems at this stage,’ he continued. ‘If you have problems you should get them off your chest.’ He shot a questioning glance her way.

She shook her head.

‘You’re quite sure?’ he persisted.

Of course she had objections about Mitch Wentworth. She had a list as long as both his arms. But what could she do with them?

Especially now, when he’d skilfully backed her into a corner?

How could an employee criticise her boss for the way he’d bulldozed his way into taking over George Hervey’s little film company? As for her other problems—there was no way she could lambaste a man for his killer good looks.

She really had no choice but to offer an olive branch. ‘I have no complaints,’ she told him. ‘And—and I apologise. You were never meant to see the silly doodling on that magazine. I admit…I’ve been…rather thoughtless.’

He half turned and eyed her speculatively, his hands resting on his hips, pushing his suit coat aside. He was still too damned good-looking to be let loose in small spaces.

‘But,’ she finished defiantly, ‘can you spare me another speech?’

He chuckled and, for the briefest of moments, his eyes danced before his frown slid quickly back into place. ‘No, Grace, I’m afraid you’ll have to bear with me for a little longer. You see, from now on, people will have to get used to following my orders. And the New Tomorrow project must dominate everybody’s thinking. It’s my single focus and it’s got to be the focus for everyone else on the team. For anyone who’s not on that wavelength, there’s going to be a lot of pain and suffering. And if heads have to roll…’ his own head cocked to one side and he glared at her ‘…then so be it.’

‘I understand,’ Grace responded, a little flush mounting on her cheeks. How dared he suggest she wasn’t focused? She’d always taken great pride in her professional commitment. ‘I’m quite well aware that I’m playing with the big boys now.’

Perhaps she had gone too far. Grace squirmed uneasily as Mitch’s jaw clenched and his frown lingered while he studied her face. ‘The big boys…’ he repeated softly. His dark eyes linked for an uncomfortably long moment with hers. They moved to her mouth.

And Grace felt as if she’d stepped into quicksand.

How did he do it?

His hands were now lodged firmly in both trouser pockets and he was standing a good metre and a half away and yet, the way his eyes touched her—she felt as if his mouth was caressing hers—intimately.

This was ridiculous!

She tightened the lips he seemed to be studying so intently. And, her mind racing, she began to talk—anything to cover her turmoil. ‘I—I think you’ll find that I’ve been networking successfully on the location options, Mr Wentworth. I’ve already contacted the property owners in the Tablelands and Gulf regions. I’ve been inundated with offers of accommodation from tourist operators in the north. I have contour maps from the army, information on the roads…The internet is invaluable…’

Mitch held up his hand. ‘Hold it. Okay, I’m impressed, but I don’t need an itemised account just yet. I’m sure it’s all in your report.’

Her eyes blazed. ‘How can I help babbling? You make me nervous when you…when you keep staring at me…like that.’ A swift flood of heat rushed into her cheeks.

Mitch took a step closer and, for a breath-robbing moment, Grace thought he was going to touch her. ‘You don’t like men looking at you?’ he asked lazily.

‘Of course I don’t,’ she snapped while her heart thundered.

His eyes left her then, and he turned to the opposite wall, but an annoying little smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

‘No woman does!’ she said indignantly. What was so darned amusing?

‘Ogling women is certainly inappropriate in the work-place,’ Mitch agreed, while he appeared to examine with fascination a ‘Save the Rainforest’ poster on her wall. ‘I apologise if I seemed to be staring. You have an intriguing…face.’

Grace gulped, uncertain how to react.

He moved to the door then stopped. With his thumb, Mitch traced the straight timber edge of the door frame.

Grace’s heartbeats continued to trouble her. He hesitated as if he still wanted to tick her off about something and she wished he’d get it over and done with.

A dreadful thought struck and her hands clenched so tightly her fingernails dug into her palms. Surely he wasn’t about to announce that he’d recognised her after all? He knew she was the hussy in the wispy triangles of black lace?

Not now?

But when his eyes swung back to hers, although they glinted with secret amusement, he merely nodded his head and said with studied politeness, ‘Nice to meet you, Grace. I’ll look forward to reading your report.’

He turned and left and Grace’s knees buckled. She sank onto a chair.

Groaning, she tried to reassure herself that Mitch couldn’t have known about last night in Henry’s flat. She was panicking about nothing. If he’d recognised her, he would have brought it out in the open—the way he had with the magazine.

Yikes! The magazine! With a moan of despair, she buried her face in her hands. The magazine! The underwear! How could she cope?

Staring through her fingers at her keyboard, Grace knew the full meaning of regret. But, she decided after a few minutes of blistering remorse, what she regretted most was that the human brain wasn’t more like a computer. If only there was a safe way to wipe a man’s memory…and get away with it.