The Boss's Bedroom Agenda. Nicola Marsh

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      ‘Here. Read this, then we’ll discuss it.’

      She sped-read it, anxiously gnawing at her bottom lip while he tried to ignore the crazy urge to do the same.

      When she reached the end, she ran a shaky hand through her hair, inadvertently draping it over a delectably bare shoulder.

      ‘So what do you want to do about this problem?’

      Furious he couldn’t keep his mind on the task at hand and off trifling observations like the subtle glimmer of bronze dusted on that bare shoulder, he gestured for her to have a seat while he perched on the edge of the desk.

      ‘This problem is indicative of a larger one, namely you.’

      Her eyes flashed emerald fire while her bottom lip wobbled ever so slightly. ‘I wasn’t a problem when your father hired me. He thinks I’ll be an asset to the museum.’

      ‘And do you feel the same way?’

      ‘Of course.’

      While that tremulous bottom lip suggested she was quaking inside, she locked stares with him, challenge in her green depths, taunting him to break the deadlock and look away first.

      Like hell he would.

      ‘My father may have hired you, but that doesn’t mean I can’t fire you.’

      He dropped the magic F word and she dropped her gaze in record time.

      Well, well, looked as if Miss Fancy Feet valued her job more than she let on.

      ‘The train thing was a misunderstanding.’ She handed him the complaint pro forma and sighed. ‘It wasn’t my fault the little monster—uh, cutie-pie—was fiddling with the display.’

      How did she do that—undermine his annoyance with a hint of a smile and a blunt response?

      Nothing was remotely funny about this situation—the written complaint highlighted a day filled with her incompetence— yet he had to hide his amusement before responding. ‘It’s an interactive display. Kids are meant to fiddle with it.’

      ‘How was I supposed to know that?’

      ‘It’s your job to know.’

      ‘Good point.’

      Feeling like an ogre and wishing like mad she’d stop worrying that delectably full bottom lip, he said, ‘You may have convinced my father to hire you for this job but I’m calling the shots now. And right now I’m less than impressed with your performance. Your résumé doesn’t inspire me with confidence and neither have your skills on the first day.’

      She stood so swiftly he found himself reaching out to steady her, his hands connecting with her bare arms before he had time to think.

      ‘Look, I’m just nervous, okay? This job means a lot to me and I’m sorry for the misunderstanding with that, uh, little angel. As for the rest, I’ll try to do better. Honest.’

      He heard the sincerity in her voice. However, it didn’t match the banked heat in her eyes and yet again he found himself contemplating the mysteries simmering beneath the surface of this vibrant woman—before mentally yelling to stay the hell away.

      ‘Was there anything else? Because if there isn’t you can probably let me go now.’

      He dropped his hands in record time, unwittingly captivated by her warring vulnerability and defiance to the extent he’d forgotten he still had hold of her.

      ‘A better effort is all I ask. So you’re off to get that drink now?’

      She shook her head, sending an intoxicating waft of peach and vanilla his way, instantly transporting him back twenty- five years to the rare indulgent days when his mum actually took time out to cook his favourite peach cobbler dessert.

      ‘Bobby’s not the patient type so he pretty much took off when I rang him and said I didn’t know how long I’d be here.’

      ‘Sorry,’ he said, not sorry in the least.

      Though he had no right to feel this way, the thought of her spending time with any guy, friend or not, looking as she did, annoyed the hell out of him.

      ‘How sorry are you?’

      ‘Pardon?’

      ‘If you’re really sorry, you’ll make it up to me by buying me that drink I’ve missed out on. I’ve had one heck of a first day, including being dragged in here out of work hours by a very demanding boss. I’m stressed. I need to wind down.’

      She tilted her chin up and tucked a curling strand of blonde silk behind her ear, befuddling his senses with her sensual scent and quirking lips.

      He should’ve said no.

      He should’ve cited work as a plausible excuse.

      He should’ve remembered every sensible reason he had for pushing her away and not getting involved.

      Instead, he found himself grabbing his car keys off his desk, placing a hand in the small of her back and propelling her out the door while trying not to grin as if he’d just discovered Tutankhamen’s forgotten tomb.

      ‘Lucky for you, I’m in an extremely forgiving mood. Let’s go get that drink.’

      CHAPTER FOUR

      ‘IS THIS one of your regular haunts?’

      Beth bit back a smile at Aidan’s dubious tone. She’d been right in her assumption the stuffy boss man wouldn’t frequent a place like this.

      That was pretty unfair. Aidan wasn’t all that stuffy considering she’d basically run a guilt trip on him earlier, not expecting he’d take her up on it. And not only had he gone for her idea he’d been laid-back, witty and charming on the way over here, regaling her with tales of his adventures overseas, making her all too aware of how downright tempting he was.

      Much easier to think of him as stuffy and not her type when in fact his stories of travel, exploration and discovering hidden delights of places she’d never been to only served to add to his appeal.

      As if he weren’t attractive enough already!

      She really needed to concentrate on doing well at this job, securing the gallery, making loads more money from selling her work and guaranteeing a stable future, something she’d craved her entire life but never had.

      And doing well at this job meant not melting in a puddle at his feet every time he smiled that gorgeous, almost- dimpled smile.

      Trying to delude herself into focussing on ‘stuffy’ and not ‘sexy’, she glanced around. The Loft was packed to its steel rafters with patrons draped over the expansive mirrored bar, the low, curved ruby sofas and each other, while funky acid jazz spewed out of floor-to-ceiling speakers designed to wake the dead.

      ‘Don’t worry, Professor, I’ll СКАЧАТЬ