Yvonne Lindsay - Bedded By The Boss

She pushed open the door and stepped into the hushed space. No paintings or statues, not a single photograph ornamented his desk. Elan was clearly all business all the time.

She’d felt it necessary to establish that she was not the coffee waitress, but now she was keen to prove she’d do everything in her power to make Elan’s day run smoothly. With brisk efficiency, she sorted and rearranged the disarray of papers on his desk, labeling them with sticky notes if they required action. She sharpened his pencils and tested his pens, threw away any dry ones.

She’d rustled up a can of WD-40 to rid his chair of its infuriating squeak. Proud to be a roll-up-the-sleeves type of person, she was on her hands and knees under the chair when the door opened.

“What on earth…?” Her boss’s deep voice rumbled across the silent office. From her vantage point under the desk she could see two shiny black brogues, and the crisp cuffs of his pinstriped suit.

A fist of apprehension seized her gut and she obeyed the instinctive urge to leap to her feet.

“Ouch!” She banged her head hard on the underside of the chair.

The brogues took a step forward and Sara swallowed hard. She maneuvered out from under the massive chair and clambered to her feet with as much dignity as her fitted skirt would allow.

The sunset streaming through the wall of windows made her blink. As did the sight of Elan, his broad shoulders silhouetted in the doorway. His suit jacket was unbuttoned and his tie loosened, revealing a glimpse of dark throat that beckoned her eyes.

The harsh features of his face gleamed like rare metal in the copper rays of the lowering sun as he stared at her, dark brows lowered over narrowed eyes.

He looked down at the shining mahogany surface that had previously been covered by papers, then at her, and the can in her hand.

“What are you doing?”

She cleared her throat. “Your chair creaks.”

One black brow raised.

“Didn’t you notice? It’s been driving me crazy. Let’s see if I got it.” She jumped down into the seat of the enormous leather chair and was pleased to hear absolutely nothing. “I think I nailed it.”

He hadn’t moved a muscle. “What have you done to my desk?” He wrenched his eyes from hers to the newly uncluttered expanse of mahogany.

“I sorted your papers into relevant categories. I didn’t throw anything away, but the pile on the left can go, I think.”

He frowned at her. His face darkened and suspicion clouded his eyes. “How could you possibly know enough about my work to organize my papers on your first day?”

“Instinct.”

But all instinct fled as her skin began to sizzle under Elan’s searing gaze.

“Please rise from my chair.” He spoke slowly, as if attempting to communicate with someone with a poor command of the language.

She jolted to her feet. She’d been so transfixed by him she’d forgotten she was lounging in his personal throne.

His dark pupils tracked her with laser-beam intensity. “What made you think you could enter my office and handle my effects without permission?”

She struggled to regain her professional demeanor. “I consider keeping your desk organized to be one of my responsibilities.”

He lowered his head slightly, scrutinizing her. “How do I know you weren’t placing a bug there?”

“A bug?”

“To record my conversations.”

Indignation stung her. “Are you saying anything worth recording?”

She immediately regretted her childish pique.

Elan stared at her. His brow furrowed as he digested her insolence. But his reply was measured, calm.

“To my business rivals, yes.” He strode across the room and maneuvered around her. He quickly crouched down and reached a hand under the seat of the chair.

Sara found her eyes resting on his neck, on the strip of tan skin between the starched collar of his white shirt and the close-cropped black hair at the base of his skull. His small, delicate ear was at odds with the massive, powerful build of his body.

He knelt on the floor and reached an arm under his desk. The roping muscles of his back, visible even though the dark fabric of his suit, captured her attention. It took a few seconds before she realized he was feeling the underside of the desk, searching for electronic devices.

Anger at his suspicion pricked her. She’d never been accused of criminal activity before, and distrust didn’t sit well with her. She’d worked at one job or another since age fourteen, and the admiration and satisfaction of her boss had always been something she could count on.

Elan leaned further under the desk. His suit jacket lifted, revealing the curve of his rear. Good Lord, the man was built like a decathlete.

She took a step backward, trying to regain control as a sudden swell of heat made her body uncomfortable inside the stiff fabric of her suit.

He backed slowly out from under the desk while she tried to look anywhere except at his well-muscled backside. Elan avoided looking at her, too, as he pulled himself awkwardly back up to his feet.

“Still think I’m a mole?” She cocked her head, daring him to extend his accusation.

He ran a hand through his thick hair. “Your previous job was with an electronics firm, no?”

“Yes, Bates Electronics. I worked there for two years. They have no relationship to the oil industry that I know of and no reason to engage in industrial espionage. I am not a spy.”

“Couldn’t you have alerted building maintenance to the fact that my chair creaks?”

“Sure, but by the time I’d called them, explained the problem and demonstrated the squeak, I could have fixed it myself. There’s nothing highly specialized about spraying lubricant.”

He looked at her. The word lubricant hung in the air between them. An innocent word, related to the greasing of cogs, the oiling of hinges, the wetting of pistons. Images which sent Sara’s mind spinning in all sorts of forbidden directions.

She remembered his warnings against showing any prurient interest in him. The thought triggered a rash impulse to test Elan’s sense of humor by asking if she could be fired for saying the word lubricant in his presence.

Mercifully she held her tongue. She dug her fingernails into her palms, tried to control the craziness goading her. Why on earth would she want to provoke and irritate her new boss?

She had an almost irresistible urge to see what lay behind the highly polished granite facade Elan Al Mansur presented to the world.

He drew himself up, took off his suit jacket and hung it over the back of his chair. Unhooked his gold cuff links, dropped them on the desk and rolled up his sleeves. His forearms were muscled, brown and dusted with black hair.

The thought of those forearms closing around her waist, holding her tight, swept through her mind like a gale-force wind.

She stepped backward and smoothed the front of her suit with a hand, trying to brush away the bizarre physical sensation assailing her.

Elan pushed his shirtsleeves up above his elbows as he settled into his chair. Sara suspected her face was blazing as she struggled to keep her eyes off his arms. An arm, for crying out loud! What on earth was wrong with her?

The watch on that arm probably cost more than her mother’s last round of chemo treatments. It was gold, the white face covered with dials. Probably a Rolex. She suspected nothing but the best was good enough for Elan Al Mansur.

“You have no work to do, Sara?” He looked up from his papers, fixing her with a slit-eyed stare. She jumped inwardly.

“I wasn’t sure if you needed anything.”

“If I want something, I’ll let you know.” One broad finger rested on the page, marking his place. “In the meantime, I’ll expect you to provide your own entertainment.”