Nicola Marsh - Wild Nights with her Wicked Boss

Though she did have a hard time tearing her gaze away from that chest; he would’ve given Superman a run for his money. Did guys actually have sculpted chests like that? Until now she’d assumed they were a figment of some female comic designer’s imagination; some very imaginative, very creative comic designer’s imagination.

Those hyperactive mice took to bouncing in her belly again, exacerbating the strange, fluttery feeling she put down to pre-interview jitters. No way could her reaction be remotely hormonal to a guy who would have women falling at his designer-loafered feet with a wink of those baby blues. She knew better than that. Boy, did she know better.

However, the longer the superhero stared at her she knew her racing pulse and somersaulting stomach had little to do with the impending interview and more to do with sexual awareness.

For that was the first word that leapt to mind with this guy: sex. Hot, raunchy, no-holds-barred sex.

As he continued to stare at her with blatant curiosity she suddenly knew how Lois Lane must’ve felt, all tongue-tied and nervous anticipation at the possibility of being squashed up against a broad wall of muscle covered in a big S.

Surreptitiously swiping her clammy palms down the side of her skirt, she hoped the unexpected heat flooding her body wasn’t reflected in her cheeks.

‘I was just—’

‘Wandering the corridors, snooping around?’

That annoying heat hit her cheeks in an incriminating blush.

‘I wasn’t snooping. My name’s Jade Beacham, I had an interview scheduled twenty-five minutes ago and I was directed to wait in here.’

The babbling wasn’t good and, combined with her blush, made her look like a fool.

Something akin to amusement flashed in those too-blue-to-be-legal eyes.

‘I’m sure that meant having a seat back there while you wait.’

His tone implied she was a thief about to steal trade secrets as he pointed to a row of chairs, the action stretching his ivory silk shirt tight across his chest.

Oh, boy, that chest…

‘You’re right. Sorry. Patience has never been one of my virtues.’

Damn, where had that come from? Way to go with first impressions. Mentally cringing and slapping a hand across her mouth, she searched her brain for something sensible to say, coming up a frustrating blank as he continued to stare.

Confident a few deep breaths would refocus her concentration, she took a subtle breath, another, instantly hit by an intoxicating blend of designer cool, warm sunshine and long, decadent nights, the images his aftershave invoked as mind-boggling as the man himself.

Not good. She was here to nail this interview, not swoon over some suit. Besides, her swooning days over any guy were over, remember?

‘Here’s the deal. I’ve got a bit of time on my hands, you look like you need to be kept out of trouble. Would you like to know more about your boss?’

His proposition surprised her more than his knockout aftershave. Surely he couldn’t be serious? Talk about unprofessional. As for him implying she needed a babysitter, where did he get off?

Shaking her head, she sent him a haughty glare. ‘Not interested in gossip. I’m here for an interview, not for you to dish the dirt on your boss.’

He returned her stare, unblinkingly, uncomfortably intense. Damn, why couldn’t he be more like mild-mannered Clark Kent? He wouldn’t be staring at her as if he wanted to rip away her outer layers and delve into her soul.

His eyes bored into hers, an unfathomable expression in their depths as she tried not to squirm under the scrutiny, wishing she’d never started strolling around here. As if she weren’t nervous enough, she didn’t need some GQ model wannabe giving her grief.

After what seemed like an eternity, he waved towards the empty office.

‘Why don’t you wait in here?’

His deep voice, combined with the brooding stare, had a similar effect on her senses as his tangy aftershave. ‘Wow’ didn’t come close to describing this guy. And he wasn’t even wearing a cape!

Anxious for her interview to start, she checked the name on the brass plate on the door. RHYS CARTWRIGHT—CEO.

Okay, so hot guy was being helpful after all, though how ethical was it to wait for the boss in his office? Unless…a strange thought niggled as she gazed from the name plate to the guy. Could Superman be her boss? If so, why was he playing games?

Making a lightning-quick decision, she decided to play along and see what he was up to. She’d come this far; she hadn’t gone through the rigours of a screening interview and all the legalities of obtaining work visas and insurance to be turned back now by some nutter, no matter how cute.

She gestured at the name plate. ‘You sure this is okay, waiting in his office? Not too presumptuous?’

He smiled, softening the hard plains. ‘Relax, you’re in capable hands.’

Oh-oh. Not only did he have the Superman persona, he had the killer smile to match. Not fair.

She glanced at his hands, impressed by their strength. Suddenly, a startling image of those hands caressing her skin crossed her mind and she wondered if jet lag had finally caught up with her.

‘I’m sure you could handle anything, Mr…?’

Maybe flattery would get her somewhere? She’d try anything to stop him gobbling her up with his eyes.

In response, he closed the door with a resounding thud and she wished the lid on her fertile imagination could be closed as convincingly. Languid warmth stole through her body as she watched him cross the room. He didn’t walk, his long legs stalked. Funny, considering she’d imagined them encased in blue Lycra and flying rather than walking.

So much for shutting down her imagination; it was still working a treat.

‘As much as I’m enjoying our witty repartee, let’s get down to business. Where do you think we should start?’

You can start by unbuttoning my jacket, unzipping my skirt and getting downright dirty.

By the amused look on his face as he sat behind the desk she had a horrifying feeling she’d spoken aloud. It was just like one of those dreams where she walked naked into a roomful of men and they all stared at her. Yeah, this guy had the same look on his face, though rather than making her feel uncomfortable it turned her on.

While she wrestled with her hormones he just sat there and waited for her to speak, looking like God’s gift to women. He hadn’t answered her question about his identity, so she took his perverse game to the next level.

‘Tell me about your boss.’

There. She’d thrown down the gauntlet. No boss would tolerate a prospective employee trying to get a job by such underhanded tactics. Surely he would divulge his identity now and cut to the chase?

‘He can be a tyrant—demanding, cranky, uncompromising. He lives for his work and expects nothing less from his employees.’ He pronounced it like the company’s mission statement.

A test. This bizarre charade had to be some sort of test. If so, she would beat him at his own game and then some.

‘Sounds like a real charmer,’ she muttered. ‘By the way, what’s with the secrecy act? What’s your name?’

He leaned forward, creating an immediate intimacy. ‘Are names important?’

Her traitorous heart beat a staccato rhythm; she didn’t know where he was heading with all this and she really wanted to tell him to shove it, but she needed this job. Desperately. Didn’t mean she had to kowtow to him.

‘You’re very confident.’

‘It’s an integral part of my job,’ he said, his gaze twinkling with enjoyment at their sparring, at odds with the steepled fingers resting on his chest, as if he knew something she didn’t but held all the power.