Nicola Marsh - Undressed by the Boss

And she was going to build a world-class brand.

She put her computer to bed in the early hours, took a bath to ease feet screaming from pounding acres of marble mall floor, and tried to sleep. She couldn’t. Her brain was racing. Getting out of bed, she slipped on a robe and, picking up the previous day’s newspaper, unfurled the business pages of the A ’Qaban Times.

What an eye-opener that was. The first headline to catch her attention read:

Car numberplate fetches $3 million in charity auction! ‘Father gave me blank cheque to buy new licence plates for my 4-wheel drive,’ reports young socialite.

Holy moley! Dropping the newspaper on the bed, she paced the room, trying to picture that amount of money piled up in stacks around its perimeter. If it were piled up next to the off-roader it would probably hide it from view. But if the thought of so much excess went against her grain, at least it was a consolation to think a charity would benefit. And she mustn’t lose sight of her primary objective, which was to secure the job of marketing a country. So forget about blank cheques, car numberplates and over-indulged minor celebrities …

And Raffa.

Or she’d never get to sleep.

But as she wearily pulled back the bedcovers she couldn’t forget any of it; especially Raffa …

She must have drifted off to sleep some time in the early hours, Casey realized, as she woke slowly to find dawn peeping through the shutters. Making happy sounds of contentment, she decided to treat herself to another hour in bed. Firm and big, the bed was dressed with crisp white sheets that carried the faint scent of jasmine, and, like the hotel Raffa had put her up in, it was divine. Thankfully, the butler had remained invisible—ergo, also divine. And sleep was divine, Casey concluded, stretching lazily before turning her face into the soft bank of pillows. There was even a divine telephone within reach of the bed …

A ringing telephone.

She groped for it, grimacing at the unwelcome intrusion. ‘ … llo …?’

‘Ten minutes. Downstairs in the lobby.’

Raffa!

She sat bolt-upright.

The line was dead before she had chance to reply.

Rolling out of bed, she landed on the floor. Picking herself up, she staggered, half asleep, in the general direction of the bathroom, blundering into things as she went. She managed to run up a total of stubbed toe, banged head and almost dislocated shoulder. Raffa had made it sound cheerfully like the middle of the day. And why not, when he had probably worked out and swum a thousand metres before showering down and placing his call?

After which thought, she entered the bathroom and turned the shower to its lowest temperature. Readying herself, she leaped in. And leaped out again, shrieking. There was only so much she could cope with at five o’ clock in the morning.

Teeth chattering, she set the shower to warm and returned. Washing her hair, she soaped down quickly, rinsed off again, and stepped out.

Better.

Much better.

Wrapping a towel around her head, she cleaned her teeth, sprayed deodorant everywhere—it stung in some places—and gargled with mouthwash.

Okay, she was most definitely awake now.

Scampering into the bedroom, she pounced on her knapsack and plucked out her sensible knickers. Teaming those with her sensible bra—the one that didn’t show beneath the shirt she’d bought, she chose dark trousers and a red cardigan rather than a jacket.

High heels, of course …

With trousers?

Discarding the trousers, she tugged on the skirt.

No good. Pale legs.

Throwing it off, she grabbed the trousers again.

Shirt, trousers, high heels …

Shirt, trousers, desert boots …

Definitely high heels.

Spinning in front of the full-length mirror, she viewed herself as critically as a two-and-a-half-second spin would allow.

Whatever the day ahead held, she was ready for it.

There was no time for make-up, and her hair was a candyfloss explosion she just bound in a band as she raced to the door. Her hand stalled halfway to the handle. Back up. What about the survey she’d prepared?

And some of the duty free scent she’d bought on the plane.

Squirt everywhere; sneeze. Finished.

Ready.

Two seconds to tuck the survey under her arm in a professional manner, and tip her chin at a businesslike angle. And still two minutes left on the ten-minute deadline.

She opened the door. ‘Oh, hell!’

‘Hello, yourself …’

Did Raffa have to turn on the wolfish smile as he leaned one hand against the doorjamb? What toothpaste did he use? He smelled so good he made her hungry, and his teeth were really, really white …

‘Did I interrupt something? Only you look …’

Attractively flushed? Horrendously heated? ‘No … you didn’t interrupt anything.’ She drew a confident laugh from her depleted laugh quiver. ‘Not at all … I was just hurrying to get everything together.’ Fingers crossed behind her back. ‘Because I didn’t want to hold you up.’

‘You didn’t … So, did you have time for breakfast?’ He brought his arm down and straightened up, so she had that Lilliputian feeling again, compensated by a thrilling glimpse of tanned, stubble-shaded skin above the crisp white business shirt … and the deep blue silk tie … and the dark, sharply tailored suit that was either Armani or Savile Row.

Armani, Casey guessed, instinctively smoothing her chain-store trousers. No. She was wrong. It was Ozwald Boateng. The kingfisher silk lining gave it away. God, he was so sexy. And she was so red-faced—and just everything she had vowed not to be.

‘What’s that you’ve got under your arm?’ he demanded.

She grimaced. Hair? Dear God! Damp patch? Almost worse. She had to replay the application of deodorant in her mind before she could relax. ‘Oh, you mean my folder?’

‘What else?’ He frowned attractively. ‘May I?’

She handed it over.

‘What is this?’ He turned it in his hands.

‘My preliminary survey of my findings at the shopping mall …’

‘You typed it up?’ He leafed through the pages.

‘I used the business centre at the hotel. My handwriting’s dreadful …’

Without even sunglasses to hide his extraordinary eyes, Casey felt as if she were under a particularly penetrating microscope, with her deepest, darkest secrets laid out on a slide while Raffa put his eye to the scope. ‘Will I do?’ she said, wishing she could cut the nervous laugh; it was making her nervous. She assumed a look of quiet confidence as Raffa’s gaze ran swiftly over her.

‘You look lovely,’ he said.

She did?

No one had ever told her she looked lovely before. She was frequently told she was too intense, too career-orientated, too serious, too driven. And in fairness all of the above was true. Lovely, however, was not a word anyone associated with her.

‘Shall we?’ he invited, gesturing towards the bank of elevators down the hall.

She had to rip her stare from his face first, which wasn’t easy.

So what now? Casey wondered, trying not to make it too obvious that she had to run every now and then to keep up with Raffa. The avenue they were speeding down, which could never be called a corridor in a million years, had a gilded roof that arced above them, decorated with cherubs and rosettes of flowers, while the marble floor was strewn with priceless rugs and guarded by towering pillars garnished with gold leaf, lapis lazuli, and enough light to illuminate small town. So, if this was merely Raffa’s flagship hotel, what would his palace be like? Not that she ever expected to see it, of course.

Casey swayed dizzily as they reached the apex of the glass atrium. Was it her fear of heights, her reaction to the sight of Raffa in a business suit looking even sexier than he had in jeans, or the wildest daydream of all—which, if she had been another, bolder person entirely, was to loosen that tie and peel back that jacket?