Cathy Williams - One Night with Her Brooding Boss

She found it bizarre that they were talking about food while she was still shimmering from the effect of Quinn’s kisses.

Quinn appeared unaffected. ‘Cheese? Plain? Herbs? That’s the selection I have on offer tonight.’

She inhaled swiftly when he levelled a keen gaze on her face. ‘Cheese would be good.’ Why must she always feel as if Quinn knew everything she was thinking? Did she need to be so sensitive? Quinn was a hot-blooded man and it was she who was out of sync here. She wasn’t embracing the sixties vibe; free love, free from commitment, was the norm.

‘Would you like your omelette well done, or a little soft and liquid inside?’

She swallowed convulsively. Must that deep, sexy voice make everything sound like an invitation? ‘Moist and not too well-done, please.’

Would she disappoint in the sexual-performance stakes? Quinn was highly sexed, while she wasn’t exactly a well-oiled machine. In fact, she was probably starting out at a lower point than a virgin—she knew what to expect and how badly she could disappoint.

‘Are you frightened of all men or just me, Magenta? ‘

‘I’m not frightened of anyone,’ she protested. ‘If I was frightened of you, I wouldn’t be here.’

‘But you don’t think much of men, do you?’ Quinn observed as he reached inside the cupboard for a bowl and a whisk.

‘That depends on the man in question.’

‘Tell you what we’re going to do.’ He swung around to face her. ‘I’m going to make supper, and while I do that we’ll talk through your plans for the Christmas party and anything else connected to the business. Then I’m going to make love to you. Does that sound reasonable? ‘

Her intake of breath was swift and noisy. ‘You are one arrogant son of a bitch.’

‘Guilty as charged,’ Quinn acknowledged calmly.

‘I’ll eat, we’ll talk business and then I’m going home.’

‘Whatever you like.’

Couldn’t he show a bit more disappointment? She was more mixed up than the egg was about to be, Magenta felt as Quinn reached inside his large and very stylish refrigerator. It must have come over from America with him; this was a time when many people still stored their perishables in a meat safe in the cellar. ‘What? ‘ she said defensively when he started to laugh.

‘You’re as bad as me, Magenta Steele.’

No one was that bad, Magenta mused, taking in the hard-muscled package that was Gray Quinn. ‘Explain.’

‘You do nothing by chance.’ Reaching inside a drawer, he found a pan and tossed it, catching it niftily by the handle. ‘You plan carefully and you do your homework. You’ve proved yourself to be an effective team leader in a short space of time. You know where to locate the rich veins of business and how to mine them. You’re wasted behind a desk, Magenta.’

‘You’ve noticed,’ she said dryly.

‘I notice everything,’ Quinn assured her, breaking eggs in a bowl. ‘I brought you here because I know you’ll be good for the business and I want to talk to you about that.’

She should be pleased. But female vanity, however fragile—and, boy, was hers fragile—demanded more. But Quinn wasn’t going to give her anything more. Sex and business was for him the perfect combination—with an omelette on the side.

‘Your team will sit in on the next board meeting. If there is an untapped resource in-house, I’m going to use it.’

She struck while the iron was hot. ‘So you’re going to take down the partition? ‘ she enquired. When Quinn gave her a warning glance, she added, ‘As you said yourself, sharing ideas in an ad agency is paramount.’

‘Anything else?’

Magenta listed everything she thought might give the girls an even playing-field at work—including banning sexist comments.

‘You are turning into quite a force to be reckoned with.’

His thoughts on that were unreadable. Would he crush her, or would he give Magenta and her team a chance?

Quinn pushed a bowl of salad towards her with the instruction to add dressing and give it a toss. She did as he asked and then sat down across the polished-steel breakfast bar from him.

Quinn’s gaze remained steady on her face. ‘You sure don’t go for gentle change.’

‘Gentle might not be enough.’

‘You want things fast and now.’

Intensity had drawn their heads closer to the point where she could see the flecks of amber fire in Quinn’s eyes. It was warning enough, and she started to draw back, but Quinn caught hold of her wrist, stopping her. ‘Don’t back off now, Magenta.’ His voice dropped low. ‘You know there’s nothing more you love than a challenge.’

Just when she thought she was safe, Quinn reminded her there was another tension between them, and one that had nothing to do with business. Part of her longed to go along with this, to soften and invite as Quinn expected her to. Fortunately, that part was firmly under control.

‘You’re blushing,’ Quinn observed.

Yes, because he had no inhibitions and she had plenty.

The breath hitched in her throat when Quinn ran one firm fingertip very slowly down her heated cheek until it came to rest on the swell of her bottom lip. ‘Why are you blushing, Magenta?’

‘No reason,’ she said, pulling back. ‘The heat of the kitchen, probably. I’m impressed you can cook,’ she added, moving out of range.

‘The men you know don’t get hungry? ‘

‘I don’t know many men.’

‘I taught myself how to cook.’

‘That’s good.’

‘More like necessity.’

She relaxed a little. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just, you don’t look the type.’

‘To cook? What type of man doesn’t like to eat, Magenta?’

‘Most men have someone to cook for them.’ Yes, even in the twenty-first century, Magenta thought wryly.

‘More fool them. I’d rather trust my own abilities.’

Than those of some woman—was that what Quinn had left unsaid? How much leeway would he give her, or any woman in his business? ‘I’m sure you have all the skills required,’ she said recklessly.

How was she supposed to concentrate on her concerns at work now when Quinn’s eyes had darkened to smoky black?

SHE was operating on two levels, Magenta realised as she watched Quinn’s skilful hands at play on the second omelette. Whether the cautious part of her approved or not, she was violently aroused. And this was the best chance she was ever going to get to discuss business with Quinn, that sensible side reminded her.

‘Sit. Eat,’ he said, putting a perfectly prepared golden omelette on the table in front of her.

The aroma alone was enough to make her salivate. ‘This is delicious,’ she said, forking up a feather-light morsel of buttery, golden egg.

Quinn joined her at the table and dumped some salad on both their plates. ‘Tell me more about your ideas.’

He never wasted a moment; she liked that about him. It encouraged her to confide more. Quinn was an attentive listener. He asked her about the Christmas party. She took him through her plans as far as she’d got. ‘I’m pleased you trust me to take care of it.’

‘If I can’t trust you on any level, Magenta, you’d better let me know now.’

And there it was again—the change in Quinn from charming host to uncompromising employer in the blink of an eye. She would have to be more circumspect in future, Magenta warned herself.

‘I just make these stipulations for the party,’ Quinn continued ‘No clichés. No glitz. No threadbare traditions. And, of course, no unnecessary expense. And I love surprises,’ he added, having wiped out most of her plan in a matter of seconds. ‘Eat,’ he insisted.