Nicola Marsh - Undressed by the Boss

‘Just try to bear in mind this is a hotel room and not my home,’ Raffa told her dryly.

A hotel room? Right. They really did come from two different worlds. Hotel rooms in Casey’s world came with a bed, a chair and a Formica desk.

‘Describe what you see in one sentence,’ Raffa suggested.

‘Fabulousness pumped up on gold dust and dressed like a movie set fit for a king?’

‘Bravo!’ He laughed, strong even teeth a flash of brilliant white against his bronzed face.

With her heart thundering like an express train she took a look around to distract herself … Venetian glass, Italian leather, and a vast wall of windows overlooking the marina and the turquoise ocean far below. On the walls Fauvist paintings, flaunting colour. She crossed the room to take a closer look at them, remembering Fauvist was French for wild beast. Casey smiled. Someone here really had a sense of humour.

‘Do you like them?’ Raffa asked as she went to take a closer look at a Matisse.

‘I love them. They’re so vibrant …’ And she was trembling all over. Her enthusiasm could so easily get the better of her, Casey realised, reining it in. She was alone with Raffa in his apartment; this was not the time to get carried away.

‘I’m glad you like them. Which one is your favourite?’

The group of naked people, dancing free, hand in hand around a grassy mound …

‘The townscape …’

‘Ah, the view of Collioure …’

‘Yes, that’s the one,’ she lied.

Raffa’s darkly luminous stare had followed her gaze, and now he looked openly disbelieving. She had told a silly lie that only betrayed her lack of sexual confidence. Lucky for her that wasn’t a consideration for him when it came to deciding on the best candidate for the job.

Seated on facing sofas a safe distance apart, they settled down to enjoy the food the waiters brought them. The tempting platters of savoury and sweet delicacies were delicious, as was the freshly squeezed mango juice served with ice and fizzy water.

And Raffa was delicious too. Everything about him said he was a sensualist, a man of potent sexuality who would be completely without inhibition in the bedroom. Maybe he could help her … Maybe she should find out …

Maybe she should pull herself together, Casey’s sensible self advised.

‘I’m going to suggest something to you,’ Raffa said, breaking the spell. ‘And I’ll be angry if you refuse me.’

Casey’s mouth turned dry. She found it wasn’t quite that easy to pull herself together—especially when Raffa got up from the sofa and proceeded to come round the table towards her.

‘I know how difficult you can be about money …’

With her bubble well and truly burst, she frowned. ‘I’m not difficult.’

‘Stubborn, then?’ he suggested, clearing his throat to hide his laugh.

‘Absolutely not.’ She was as stubborn as a mule, but with one eye on the job she wasn’t about to admit to it.

‘Well, if you’re so compliant and easygoing, why don’t you sit down and relax while I tell you what I’ve got in mind?’

It took her a moment to realise the most dangerous thing in Raffa’s hand was his wallet. ‘You carry money?’

‘Of course I do. What century do you think this is?’

‘And what’s that for?’ She stared suspiciously at the credit card he was holding out to her.

‘Do you have a gown for the ball, Cinderella?’

‘Cinderella?’ Casey’s eyes narrowed.

Raffa clearly enjoyed baiting her. Holding up his hands in mock surrender, he said, ‘Let me put this another way. You surely don’t think I’m such a lousy employer I expect you to pay for the ballgown you’ll be forced to wear at the auction? Think of it as a uniform,’ he said, tongue in cheek. ‘It might sit better with your conscience that way. Unless, of course …’here he paused, eyes glowing with humour ‘ … you have a little something tucked away in your backpack I don’t know about?’

‘Like a catwalk creation?’ As she looked at him her lips threatened rebellion too.

‘Just so long as you don’t turn up in jeans and flip-flops.’

‘Or a safari suit?’ she suggested.

They held each other’s gaze like old friends who were accustomed to teasing each other.

‘You can show this anywhere,’ Raffa explained, holding out his gold card, ‘and buy anything you want. It will all be charged to my account, no questions asked.’

‘Except by me.’ It was Casey’s turn to bring the conversation to a halt. ‘I’m sure I can find something—’

‘Appropriate?’ Raffa cut across her. ‘I’m sure you can too. But I want you to have something special—something that makes you feel like a queen.’

‘And I need to wear something expensive for that?’

‘What you spend is up to you. I just want you to feel good.’

Any more argument and she’d sound churlish, Casey thought, staring at the plastic Raffa was holding out to her. ‘Thank you …’ She took the card and put it safely away.

‘Don’t stint yourself. Shoes, make-up, jewellery—whatever you need, buy.’

His driver arrived, and Raffa explained that he would take Casey wherever she wanted to go. ‘I think you’re going to have fun,’ he said.

And Raffa sounded as if he meant every word. It made her doubly determined to land the job and repay every penny.

CASEY thought she had prepared well enough for her entry into the ballroom, but she was wrong. It was full of the most sophisticated people she had ever seen, all dancing to the strains of a full orchestra, and everyone without exception was in evening dress. Some of the men wore orders over one shoulder, and medals, while the women were in a rainbow-hued selection of couture gowns.

Taking a really deep breath, she tried hanging on to the moment the personal shopper had exclaimed with genuine relief after a whole raft of failures, ‘This is the one!’

She hoped Raffa would approve of the gown. She had tried to strike a balance between modest and fashionable. Anything else in her favour was down to the team of women who had worked on her all day today, endlessly primping and plucking and polishing and buffing. This was their moment, Casey thought, preparing to walk down the steep flight of stairs.

Like every other man with blood running through their veins, he stopped midway through a conversation to stare at Casey, who was standing framed beneath an archway of flowers at the top of the stairs.

She had taken his advice and spoiled herself for once …

Taken his advice? She had gone so far beyond his advice he was transfixed. The diamonds must have come from Harry Winston, and the gown she was wearing—flesh-coloured and form-fitting—defied description. Except to say that it was fabulous.

And so was she.

The gown, in floating silk chiffon, criss-crossed Casey’s breasts before falling in an elegant column to the floor, making her look like a Greek goddess. It exposed her peach-tinted shoulders, but in deference to the traditionalists amongst them she had covered herself with a wisp of beaded silk. Her hair was dressed up, in a way that suited her, with a few tendrils loose around her face, and she hardly needed the fresh flower in the soft blonde chignon to ornament the outfit when she was already the most fragrant woman in the room.

A woman, he noticed now, who had chosen to wear the most ridiculously high-heeled sandals he’d ever seen—which meant he had to get up there before there was an accident. Making his excuses to the ambassador, he headed straight for the loveliest woman in the room.

The most promising candidate, he corrected himself sternly as he strode quickly up the stairs.