Читать книгу One Night with Her Brooding Boss - Кэтти Уильямс, Cathy Williams - Страница 12

WHY did her house seem so quiet and empty, when it never had before?

Because of the biker, Magenta concluded. With his larger than life personality, he didn’t even need to speak to command attention; he just had to be.

Having changed her clothes, and kicked off her shoes with relief, she picked the mail up and headed for the kitchen. The phone stopped her dead. She picked it up.

‘Magenta Steele?’ The voice was crisp, deep and very masculine. ‘Gray Quinn here.’

Magenta’s heart rolled over. ‘Gray…’

‘Most people call me Quinn.’ There was a hint of a smile in the voice, but not enough to reassure. ‘I’m in the office tying up some loose ends. I’d like to see you for a discussion on your position going forward with the company first thing tomorrow morning.’

‘But my father said—’

‘Your father doesn’t head up Steele Design now. I do. Nine o’clock okay with you? ‘

‘Of course…’ A chill ran through her. Quinn might be a sexy charmer, according to office gossip, but she’d just encountered the Genghis Khan side of him.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Magenta—nine o’clock sharp.’

And it wasn’t a suggestion but an order, Magenta gathered as the line cut.

Coffee was needed. The temptation to go straight back to the office to gauge the effect Quinn was having on everyone else was almost impossible to resist. She was worried about her colleagues and felt uncomfortable leaving them.

Plus she had work she could do better at the office, she persuaded herself, and if she got through enough of it her team could have more time off for Christmas shopping. She would get Tess to ring her when the coast was clear.

Now the decision was made, she was all fired up. Forget taking a subtle approach where Quinn was concerned; if she waited until he was bedded in, as her father had suggested, it might be too late to save her friends’ jobs. Abandoning the idea of coffee, she ran upstairs to take a shower and freshen up.

Now new doubts set in. Even if Tess rung her when Quinn left the office, there was still the possibility he might return and find her there. The thought of meeting him filled Magenta with excitement, but it also filled her with the type of self-doubt that had always plagued her where men were concerned. She would need a lot more than a freshen-up before she ran into Quinn—a full-body overhaul was called for.

Guided by the horribly honest mirrors in her bathroom, it soon became apparent that she was up against the clock in more ways than one. She would just have to make whatever repairs she could in the short time available.

Collecting up the sixties products she had been hoarding to fuel her imagination for the campaign, she rested the plastic crate on top of the linen basket and started rummaging inside. A queen-sized razor; not a bad place to start.

And what was this? Myriad sparkles of dewy fragrance will embrace your body in a haze of desire at just the touch of a button…

A love potion? Well, she could certainly do with some of that.

But after her shower, she decided, stepping beneath the steaming spray.

She had a whole range of retro products in the shower too. She had definitely been infected by the sixties bug. Magenta smiled wryly as she soaped down and thought about Quinn. What would he be like?

That was the only excuse her imagination needed to go crazy. There was only one thing that could make this self-indulgent shower any better, and that was sharing it with Quinn—not that she would; not in the real world. She was better off sticking to work and researching the sixties.

‘Soap-on-a-rope, come here to me,’ Magenta crooned, capturing the hippopotamus-shaped soap currently swinging on a cord from her shower head.

She glanced through the open door towards her bed, realising how tired she was. The temptation was to just fall into bed after her shower and dream about Quinn, put a face to that grainy back-view in the magazine… Perhaps she’d wake up to discover she had a really big share-holding in the business—power and some cards to play.

But that wasn’t going to happen…

Turning her face up to the spray, Magenta knew she would have to take a more conventional route by producing some of her best work and by working her thermal socks off.

Turning the shower off, she grabbed a couple of towels and returned to the bedroom, where a spear of inspiration struck. Why not go the whole hog and dress in sixties clothes? Quite a few of her colleagues had already adopted the fashions and the look, so why not join them?

They always banded together at this time of year and had such fun—decorating the office, sneaking out for warm, full-fat mince pies with thick globs of cream on top—and this year the sixties vibe was adding a special frisson to the holiday celebrations.

She was drying her hair absent-mindedly with a towel as she started flicking through her wardrobe. Like everyone else in the creative team, she had been scouring the vintage shops for examples of sixties clothing, and had struck gold with a form-fitting cream wool dress. Sliding it off the hanger, she laid it on the bed.

Suppliers had rushed to offer samples of their retro products when Magenta had let it be known that she would be running a high-profile campaign, so she had plenty of accessories to choose from. Fortunately, it hadn’t been all mini-skirts and hot-pants in the sixties. There had been the hippies in their flowing, get-em-off-quick clothes, the shock-frock dolly-birds in mini-skirts, as well as a more elegant side to the era. This was where Magenta felt comfortable—though it was the underwear she was supposed to wear beneath these stylish clothes that made her laugh. Break out of your little-girl body when you’re feeling in a big-girl mood, ran the legend on one pack of matching bra and girdle.

Well, she wasn’t a little girl, but she was definitely in a biggirl mood, Magenta decided, conjuring up a vision of Quinn as she broke the seal on the packaging.

It was almost impossible not to think about the new owner of the business, Magenta realised, opening the towel she had wrapped around her body to give her twenty-eight-year-old figure a critical review. She was sitting on the bed facing the dressing-table mirror and she sat up straight immediately. Would he like real women with real bellies, or would his tastes run to something younger and slimmer? Not that she could do much about it in the short time at her disposal. And why worry when her naked body was in zero danger of becoming an issue between them?

She picked up another pack and studied it. What do you wear under your action-wear? Action Underwear, of course…

But there wasn’t going to be any action.

She put it down, picking up something called the Concentrate girdle.

Concentrate on what? Holding her stomach in the whole time?

I don’t think so.

And she certainly didn’t need the Little Fibber bra—one of the only benefits of getting a little older and a little rounder, Magenta thought dryly, tossing the formidable-looking steel-girder-style bra to one side. Strange to think the so-called liberated women of the twenty-first century made so little of her breasts. Breasts were never flaunted at the office in case you were thought of as brainless, as if having lactating glands in common with a cow meant you automatically shared the same IQ. Perhaps that was the reason she had never worn form-fitting clothes to the office before, though she doubted a man as focused on business as Quinn appeared to be would even notice.

She hunted for some sheer tights in her drawer, only to discard them in favour of stockings. Underpinnings were everything, an actress friend had told her—those and shoes. If you didn’t get that right, you stood no chance of playing a period piece convincingly.

She picked up another box and quickly disposed of it with an unwelcome shiver of arousal. Damsel in Undress was a definite no-no. The slightest hint to a man like Quinn that she was adopting a compliant ‘men rule’ mindset to go along with her sixties outfit, and she’d be in big trouble. He’d already given her a flavour of his management style. Gray Quinn definitely didn’t need any encouragement. He was shaping up to be the original alpha-male. No, this was one occasion when she would be sixties on the outside and bang up to date in her head. But she would consent to wear a provocative cone-shaped bra to achieve the authentic hourglass shape—not forgetting control pants for the belly problem.

And a suspender-belt and stockings were fun.

Having dressed, she slipped on her stiletto heels and immediately felt different. She walked differently too. She tried a few steps up and down the bedroom and found herself sashaying like a famous actress in a hot sixties television programme. She smiled, thinking her actress friend had been right. The shoes and the clothes were like a costume that put her right back in the era, and that was fun.

It was even more fun when she started on the make-up—pale foundation and big, smoky eyes outlined so that they appeared even larger. And some Un-lipstick, as it was called, in Shiver Shiver pink.

She certainly shivered as she tasted it. What would Quinn make of that?

Not that he would ever get a chance to find out, Magenta told herself firmly. This was all about dressing up and fantasy. Pressing her lips together, she blotted them in the manner prescribed on the pack and then applied a second coat.

Not bad.

She was ready.

Ready for pretty much anything, Magenta decided as she checked her appearance one last time in the mirror.

She waited for Tess’s call and when it came she travelled to the office by taxi to find all the lights were out. Just as Tess had promised, there was no sign of Quinn—exactly what she wanted. Well, it would be, once she had stifled her disappointment. All that effort put into grooming for nothing.

At least she could concentrate on work, Magenta told herself firmly. This was a great opportunity to put the finishing touches to the campaign. Having set out her papers on the large desk in her office, she slipped the lock on the door, feeling safer that way in an empty building. She’d make some coffee later to keep herself awake.

She was halfway through drafting a strap line for a sixties hairpiece when she had to stop. She could hardly keep her eyes open and just couldn’t get it right: the hair fashion that goes on when you go out…

And drops off when you least expect it to?

Magenta…examined the yard-long ponytail made out of synthetic hair and tossed it aside. Some of the products being used to inject fun into the campaign were odd, but this was downright ugly. Surely no self-respecting woman would want to wear a hair-tugger on top of her head that weighed a ton, looked gross and at a guess took a whole card of hair grips to hold in place? If you weren’t bald when you started your evening out, you certainly would be by the end of it.

And yet it was a genuine sixties product, Magenta mused, leaning her cheek against her folded arms as she stared at the unappealing hairpiece and waiting for inspiration to strike. She’d been so enthusiastic up to now, seeing only the good, the fun and the innovation of the sixties. But, realistically, how many other things about that time would have got right up her nose?

‘Magenta…Magenta! Wake up!’

‘What’s wrong? ‘ Magenta started with alarm as someone grabbed hold of her arm and shook her awake. Well dressed in sixties style, the girl looked smart and bright—and totally unfamiliar. Magenta felt like she had the hangover from hell—and, not having had a drop to drink, that was a serious concern. ‘How long have I been asleep?’ Her neck suddenly didn’t seem strong enough to lift her ridiculously heavy head from the desk.

‘Magenta, you have to get out of here now.’

‘Why? Is there a fire?’

‘Worse—Quinn,’ the girl explained with what sounded like panic in her voice. ‘He mustn’t find you here.’

‘Why not?’ Magenta stared in bewilderment around her office, which seemed to have been cleared of all her creature comforts while she’d been asleep. But it wasn’t just the flowers, the coffee machine, the bottles of water or the family photographs that were missing. ‘Hey, where’s my laptop?’ she said, shooting up. ‘Has there been a robbery? ‘

‘Magenta, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I do know you have to get out of here now.’

‘All right, all right!’ Magenta exclaimed as the girl took her by the arm and physically dragged her towards the door. ‘I’m sure I locked this door last night.’

‘I used my key.’ The girl shook a spare set in her face.

‘What’s the rush? I’ll need my mobile phone, and where’s my tote, my handbag, my briefcase?’ Magenta demanded, glancing back at the vastly changed room.

‘No more questions,’ her new friend hissed frantically, tugging at Magenta’s arm. ‘We don’t have time. Quinn will be here any minute.’

A multitude of thoughts and impressions were slowly percolating through Magenta’s sluggish brain. This was a new girl, possibly someone Quinn had brought in. She seemed nice, though, confusingly, she seemed to know Magenta when Magenta was certain they had never met before. ‘Did Quinn get my list?’ she said, clinging on to priorities while her brain sorted itself out.

‘What list? You didn’t give me a list.’

‘No, that’s right—I gave it to Tess.’

‘Tess?’

This girl didn’t know Tess? ‘Sorry, uh…’

‘Nancy,’ the girl supplied, looking at her with real concern. ‘Magenta, are you sure you’re okay?’

‘Yes, I’m fine.’ This was growing stranger by the minute; if she hadn’t felt so heavy-headed she would have been faster off the mark. ‘I gave a list of the list of things Quinn should implement immediately to one of the girls in the office.’

Nancy huffed. ‘If you had given me a list like that, I would have seriously lost it on purpose.’

‘Has Quinn been bullying you?’ She forgot her own con- fusion; bullying in the office was one thing she wouldn’t stand, and Magenta’s concerns soared when Nancy refused to answer almost as if she was frightened of being overheard. ‘Well, no one’s going to bully you while I’m around—especially not Quinn.’

Nancy hummed and started tugging on Magenta’s arm again. ‘I’m not joking, Magenta, we have to get out of here.’

‘But where do you want me to go?’ This had been Magenta’s office since—well, she could hardly remember; it had been hers for so long now.

‘You work in the typing pool, remember?’ Nancy told her urgently, poking her head out of the door to check the coast was clear.

‘The typing pool? ‘ Magenta laughed. ‘Is this some joke of Quinn’s to get us all in the right mood for the sixties campaign?’

Nancy gave her a funny look.

‘To be more accurate, you used to work in the typing pool,’ she finally replied, nudging Magenta towards the door. ‘The guy who ran the place before hotshot Quinn arrived from the States took his office manager with him, so Quinn promoted you.’

‘Why didn’t Quinn text me? And what’s this?’ Magenta demanded as Nancy bundled her towards a mean little desk set to one side of her office door—a door she now noticed with outrage that already bore the legend, ‘Gray Quinn’.

‘This is your desk now, Magenta,’ Nancy explained. ‘It’s a great improvement to the typing pool, don’t you think?’

‘Do you want to hear what I think? No. I didn’t think so,’ Magenta agreed as Nancy shook her head. ‘I don’t know what’s happening around here, but this isn’t my desk—and Quinn definitely can’t take over my office.’

‘But, Magenta, you used to work in the typing pool—you’ve never had your own office,’ Nancy insisted, looking increasingly concerned about Magenta’s state of mind. ‘Don’t you remember anything? ‘

Magenta swept a hand across her eyes as if hoping everything would change back again by the time she opened them again. But, to make things worse, people she didn’t even know were staring at her as if she was the one who was mad.

But how could this have happened? She gazed around and felt her anger rising. Quinn had to be some sort of monumental chauvinist; men occupied all the private offices while the women had been relegated to old-fashioned typewriters—either in the typing pool, where they sat in rows behind a partition as if they were at school, or at similar desks to this one outside the office doors. Ready to do their master’s bidding, Magenta presumed angrily. She remembered her father telling her how it used to be for the majority of female office workers in the sixties. ‘Why are all the girls typing?’ she asked Nancy in a heated whisper.

‘It’s their job!’ Nancy said, frowning.

‘But why aren’t they working on the campaign? ‘ Magenta noticed now that many of the women, some of whose faces were adorned with heavy-framed, upswept spectacles, were pretending not to look at her.

‘What campaign?’ Nancy queried, stepping back as a keen teen brushed passed her.

‘Wow, Magenta, you look really choice!’

‘I do? ‘ Magenta spun on her heels as the young man she had never seen before gave her a rather too comprehensive once-over. ‘Why, thank you…?’

‘Jackson,’ Nancy supplied, having cottoned on to the fact that Magenta needed all the help she could get.

‘Jackson.’ Magenta raised a brow. ‘Stop staring at your Auntie Magenta and go find yourself a girlfriend.’

Jackson laughed as if Magenta could always be relied upon to say something funny. ‘You’re a gas, baby.’

Had Quinn changed all the personnel? Of course, he was perfectly entitled to, Magenta reasoned. Quinn ran the show now. But what had happened to her friends? And what had happened to their working environment?

So many questions stacked up in her mind, with not a single answer to one of them that made sense.