Читать книгу Stripped - Nicola Marsh - Страница 13

MY HEAD HURTS. I shouldn’t have drunk those cocktails last night. I shouldn’t have done a lot of things, starting with downing those Gorgeous Gems like cordial and ending with snogging Hart Rochester on the beach.

I have a presentation to nail shortly and the painkillers I took with OJ half an hour ago haven’t kicked in. Facing Hart after I practically mounted him will be hard enough without the drummer boy in my head practising his cymbal crashes.

I’ve done my research. I’m prepared. But unless I can pretend that kiss never happened, I’m in deep doo-doo.

I never should’ve run away. He called out to me too and I didn’t stop. I acted like some crazy hormonal teen when I should’ve been mature and blasé, as he was.

Adults kiss all the time. We were attracted, we gave into it, shit happens. But by running away like some mortified ingénue, I made more of it rather than dismissing it as a casual sexual impulse.

Maybe I can joke about it when I see him shortly. Something witty and fabulous that will clear the air and ensure he takes me seriously when I present my plans to him.

Only one problem: I can’t think of one goddamn thing to say beyond, ‘I’m an idiot for flinging myself at you but you’re a great kisser.’

Nope, not going to happen. I would’ve been nervous before this meeting regardless because I’m always like this before a presentation. Edgy and tense despite knowing I’ve considered every contingency.

My plans to promote this resort on Gem Island are foolproof. Starting with getting the new CEO, a renowned recluse, on board with a major social media ad campaign. It won’t be easy convincing him. If anything, the disparaging media surrounding the hotel giant’s fall from grace makes my job harder.

Ralfe Rochester’s failing health fails his shareholders.

The prodigal grandson returns to manage the teetering family business.

Has the Rochester empire lost its Hart?

I’m up for the challenge, but Hart’s minimal experience in this business and his lack of an online social profile means I’m in for a fight.

Hart needs me but what he doesn’t know is that I need him just as badly. I need a final gold star on my CV before I consider going out on my own. I want to be the woman who puts Rochester Hotels and Gem Island back on the tourism map.

Starting now.

Tucking my portfolio and laptop tighter under my arm, I shut the door to my villa and follow the frangipani-lined stone path to the main building. Reception staff smile in greeting as I traverse the polished stone tiles. Lush palms in terracotta pots are placed alongside cream and cobalt cushioned cane sofas. Floral arrangements featuring local tropical flowers—the Queensland Black Orchid, the Powderpuff Lilly-Pilly and the Giant Palm Lily—throw splashes of colour, adding to the overall sense of understated elegance.

It won’t take much to make this place noticeable amid the plethora of Whitsunday resorts. The owner may be another story. While Kevin gave me a rundown of the basics over the phone I garnered more information from what he didn’t say than what he did.

Hart will be a challenge. His email responses to mine have been terse. I expect my clients to be more forthcoming, especially when we’ll be working together.

I’m about to knock on a glass door leading to the office area when the concierge nearby waves me through.

‘He’s waiting for you.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, with a quick glance at my watch. I’m ten minutes early so I hope Hart values punctuality. With nerves making my knees wobble at our first confrontation since the awkwardness of last night, I need all the brownie points I can get.

The door to the sole office is open so I knock and push it when I hear a short, sharp, ‘Come in.’

Taking a steadying breath, I fix a smile on my face and enter the office.

To discover Hart Rochester glaring at me with ill-concealed disapprobation.

His disapproval washes over me and the blood drains from my face. I can’t move. My feet are soldered to the floor as embarrassment swamps me.

So much for witty banter to dismiss what happened last night.

A deep frown slashes his brow as he waves me in. ‘Come in, Daisy, and let’s get started.’

For a warped second I flashback to last night and think of the many ways we can get started. Before giving myself a mental slap upside the head.

I need to nail this job. Not this client.

I had my whole intro spiel worked out as I crossed the lobby on my way to his office. Something along the lines of, ‘That was bizarre what happened last night, me running off like that after a kiss that meant nothing. So let’s get down to work.’

But if he exuded powerful sexual vibes last night, I’m totally disarmed by seeing him again. He’s wearing a crisp pale blue shirt, with the top two buttons undone and his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. The shirt is tight, like his impressive torso doesn’t like being confined, and I can’t help but remember how hard those muscles felt last night.

His hair is tousled and it’s lighter than I thought: a lovely sorrel brown with caramel streaks from the sun rather than a hairdresser’s foil.

And those vivid indigo eyes...damn, even if they radiate condemnation, they’re striking.

I settle for a lame, ‘I’m looking forward to working with you.’

One of his eyebrows rises, imperious and condescending, like he seriously doubts my work ethic after last night.

I don’t blame him as I cross the office and place my paraphernalia on the desk. He’s silent, meaning I’ll have to broach the awkwardness of last night.

I try to come up with something droll and light-hearted when he says, ‘Last night was an anomaly. You need to forget it. I have.’

Right. Got the message loud and clear. Asshole.

Totally unfair, because that’s exactly what I want him to do, but his curt dismissal irks more than it should.

When he continues to stare at me, for a horrifying second I wonder if I spoke out loud. But he gestures at the seat opposite and I try not to collapse into it in relief.

‘I’ve taken a look at the preliminaries you emailed and I have some questions.’

‘That’s what I’m here for.’ I clasp my hands in my lap, doing my best to appear cool and professional, while all I can think is, You are the hottest guy I’ve ever kissed.

‘The PR campaign for the resort is clear-cut but I need clarification on your ideas for making the brand more marketable.’ He jabs a finger at my portfolio. ‘You mentioned a more elaborate presentation? Do you want to run through it before I work through my questions?’

‘Yes.’ I sound like an idiot, answering with a monosyllabic affirmative, so I busy myself flipping open my laptop and trying to ignore his impenetrable stare.

He’s making me uncomfortable, staring at me like he can’t work me out. Join the club. How can he dismiss that kiss last night like it meant nothing?

Technically, it did, a random brief hook-up between two adults on a moonlit beach that probably happens every night of the week on an island like this; an unfortunate blip in our upcoming working relationship, a moment of cocktail-driven madness. So what was his excuse?

‘You’re overthinking this.’

My fingers stall on the keyboard as I’m bringing up my presentation. He’s undermined me with his casual observation.

‘Aren’t you the least bit uncomfortable?’

I throw it out there, expecting him to shut me down. Then again, he’s the one who’s brought it up again and I’d rather confront the invisible tap-dancing elephant in the room than have to work in this tension-fraught environment for the foreseeable future.

‘Maybe.’ He shrugs, drawing his business shirt taut across his broad shoulders. ‘But it happened. We can’t change it. So what’s the point of overanalysing it? We’re adults. We acted on impulse. Why worry?’

I’m not worried, other than by an insistent hankering to do more than kiss him, and I can’t help but look at his lips and remember how they felt moving against mine.

‘Don’t do that,’ he says, his voice barely above a low growl.

‘Do what?’

I muster my best innocent act when in fact I’m slightly peeved. He wants to dismiss the kiss, fine. But there’s something in his tone that makes me feel belittled when it was pretty damn fantastic.

‘Stare at me like you want a repeat.’

He’s saying all the right things but I glimpse hunger in his eyes, a desire that matches my own. Crap, we’re in trouble. For despite our protestations there’s a powerful undercurrent between us. I can feel it, an insistent throb where I want him most.

I wriggle in my seat. It doesn’t ease. Yep, trouble. So I settle for funny to ease the tension between us. I hold up my palm and mimic writing on it. ‘Got it. Memo to Daisy. No more kissing hot guys on the beach.’

His eyes blaze with lust and I clench my thighs together, swamped with a ferocious heat like I’ve stepped too close to a smouldering volcano. After a long pause, he drawls, ‘Nice to know you think I’m hot.’

That’s the problem with being a smart-ass. Sometimes my mouth runs ahead of my brain. I should’ve omitted the part about him being hot.

‘What I think is you need me to make you look good so let’s start.’

‘I need you to make this resort look good.’ He leans forward, rests his forearms on the desk, smug and insufferable. ‘I’m doing just fine without your help.’

Heat creeps into my cheeks, scorching and utterly embarrassing. I should’ve turned tail and run the moment I entered this office. But I need to ensure this job is the best work I’ve ever done and if that means battling wits with this inscrutable man, I’ll do it.

Maybe I’m playing this all wrong? If I acknowledge what happened in a fun way, perhaps we can move on to work?

‘Look, we really need to move past this. I acted on impulse last night, something I never do, and it was a kiss, nothing major.’ His eyes widen, as if he can’t believe I’m being so blunt. ‘As for the debate regarding your hotness, I’m not in the habit of kissing random guys I just meet. I ended my engagement a year ago and haven’t dated much, so considering the way we went at it last night I guess my libido classifies you as hot even if I don’t want to acknowledge it myself.’

That’s another thing that happens when I’m floundering. Verbal diarrhoea. It’s too late to take it all back and he’s gaping at me in open-mouthed shock.

I bite my bottom lip and start typing, bringing up my presentation. ‘Now we’ve got all that uncomfortableness out of the way, let’s get to work.’

I could kiss him—again—when he nods. But he doesn’t stop staring during my entire spiel and I’ve never been more grateful for my obsession with preparation, because if I didn’t have slides I wouldn’t have been able to speak.

I blather about social media campaigns and photo shoots and upgrading websites. I manage to sound halfway intelligent but the intensity of his stare is unnerving.

When I give my final spiel about a newsletter blitz to tourism boards around the world, I’m ready to snap my laptop shut and bolt.

‘Your work is excellent.’ He steeples his fingers and rests them on the desk in front of him, channelling a guy double his age. ‘But you can forget about doing most of what you just said.’

I struggle to hide my shock. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I won’t do it.’

With those four little words, I realise I’m in for the fight of my life.