Overtime in the Boss's Bed. Nicola MarshЧитать онлайн книгу.
on the stage. Yet here, now, standing in front of this powerful man, she felt something deep inside quiver at the enormity of what she was doing: aiming to work for a guy who’d initiated her into the joys of sex. In a big way.
‘I need a PA. Desperately.’
And she needed money. Desperately.
A win-win for them both.
If she could just forget the fact she’d had the best sex of her life with him.
She’d weighed her options and chosen to follow up his job offer when she’d withdrawn twenty bucks from an ATM this morning and seen her bank balance slip to under a hundred dollars.
Time for further job-hunting wasn’t a luxury she could afford, and his offer had niggled at the back of her mind—so tempting, so easy to chase up, so available…if only she could get past this. Him. The glorious memory of him naked that constantly flashed across her mind as she stood there.
But memories were worth nothing. The cost of starting a new life in a new city was way beyond her means if she didn’t start working ASAP, and right now she’d be a fool to pass up an opportunity like this for the sake of her inner vixen, cringing with embarrassment at working for a guy she’d bedded.
‘How soon could I start?’
He didn’t blink, didn’t move a muscle, his expression patient, as if dealing with a problem child.
‘Immediately. You have all those skills you mentioned earlier?’
She refrained from rolling her eyes. Not good interview skills for a woman desperate for this job.
‘I’ve temped before, in my early days as a dancer. Helped pay the rent.’
‘Good.’
‘Will I need book-keeping skills? Because—’
‘Your duties may include some housekeeping, alongside the personal assistant stuff.’
‘Housekeeping? But—’
‘You’ll find your remuneration more than fair.’
He ran roughshod over her, treating her like a subordinate, and she bristled, pulling herself up to her impressive five-ten. Pity it wasn’t a patch on his six-four.
‘Thanks. How much—?’
‘And of course you’ll be living in. The cottage will be yours, as part of your salary package, for as long as you work here.’
A cottage? All hers?
The next question died on her lips as she envisaged where she’d been staying for the last week: at a friend of Kit’s, whose ramshackle inner city rental doubled as a local hangout for uni students without a place to sleep.
If she hadn’t been haunted by memories of Callum she wouldn’t have been able to sleep anyway—not with the crush of bodies littering the floor, the constant doorslamming at all hours, and the noisy bodily functions of uni students existing on a diet of stale pizza and baked beans.
She’d crashed there out of desperation and a lack of funds—counted on this job to get her out, depended on it for her first decent meal, something other than instant noodles and a recycled green teabag.
‘You’re welcome to check it out.’
Inwardly shuddering at the thought of any more tasteless noodles and weak tea, she said, ‘Great.’
She followed him past the pool and a glass poolhouse, tucked behind immaculately trimmed hedges, and into a small clearing.
A small clearing that featured the most gorgeous little house she’d ever seen.
A cottage, just as he’d said, but what he’d failed to mention was its lemon rendered exterior trimmed in duck-egg blue, a criss-cross veranda housing a white wicker love-seat with striped cushions, and a border of petunias.
It was beyond cute, and the terracotta-tiled roof, reflecting the sun, seemed to shine directly into her eyes with some secret code that said Live here!
‘Go on—take a look inside.’
He flung open the door and she exhaled, confronted by paradise. Her version of paradise: buttercup walls, their rich gold depths enhanced by honey floorboards, solid pine furniture, pot belly heater, monstrous suede sofas piled high with scattered cushions and a four-poster bed straight out of a fairytale.
This wasn’t just any old ordinary cottage, no sirree. This place was a home—a place where she could start to rebuild her life, a place where she could instigate plans to get where she wanted to go.
‘What do you think?’
‘It’s nice.’
Nice? Nice? The place was a flipping palace compared to the dumpster she’d been living in the last week.
‘So you’ll take the job?’
Ah…the job…The major catch in all this.
If she wanted to live here, she needed to work for His Lordship.
Whom she’d seen in all his naked glory.
Whom she’d kissed and caressed and kept up all night.
Oh, heck.
Folding her arms, she propped herself on the back of the sofa’s headrest, ignoring how comfy it was.
‘Isn’t this at all awkward for you?’
There—she’d said it, flung it out there, trying to get a reaction out of him.
It didn’t work. He didn’t flinch, cringe, move a muscle. His expression was impassive.
‘Why? Because we slept together?’
‘You and I both know there was very little sleeping involved.’
It had been incredible—one of those once-in-a-lifetime nights that you stored away for wistful reminiscing in your old age.
The problem was the object of that fantasy night was standing right in front of her, looking way too cool in his designer duds, and the memory of the magic they’d shared was way too fresh.
‘That night was a little crazy. I guess we both felt like company. Let’s just leave it at that.’
She wanted to push the issue, wanted him to acknowledge there’d been far more between them than two people seeking company, but what was the point?
Nothing she could say or do would erase that night, and it sure wouldn’t make working for him any easier.
Working for him.
She was seriously contemplating working for a guy she couldn’t get out of her head, no matter how hard she tried?
‘Fine, we’ll leave it at that.’
It wasn’t fine, but what choice did she have?
The old cliché ‘beggars can’t be choosers’ sprang to mind, and as she cast a longing look around the cosy cottage she knew what she had to do.
‘I’ll take the job.’
She stuck her hand out to cement her decision, but as his hand enclosed hers, firm, solid, way too warm, she wondered if she still had time to flee.
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