Kate Hardy - His Permanent Mistress - Mistress Under Contract

‘Let me guess. You’d be a “yes” for “you are inclined to rely more on improvisation than on careful planning”. And a “no” for “it is in your nature to assume responsibility”.’ He waited for her response, his eyes issuing a hard challenge.

Her hackles were up again instantly. ‘And I’m betting that you’re a “yes” for “your desk is usually neat and orderly”.’

His tight smile flared to a grin. She fancied she’d scored a hit, but then he sent the curveball. ‘Maybe I should have made it clear that I’m not looking for work. I’m looking for a temp to work for me.’

‘Oh.’ Of course. What an idiot. Temps did not dress in made-to-measure suits and walk around with the assured confidence of a bona fide Greek god. But she rallied immediately. Spot the opportunity. Strike before they know what’s hit them. ‘What do you need?’

‘Bar manager.’ His eyes narrowed.

‘Look no further.’

‘You know the perfect candidate?’

‘I am the perfect candidate.’

She saw his attention slide over her ancient jeans and skimpy singlet top and was fully aware that she was hardly looking perfect. And that he was thinking the same thing.

‘You don’t even know what the job is.’ He mocked her.

‘You just told me. Bar manager. I can manage a bar.’

A wolfish smile appeared. ‘You can manage a strip club?’

Her jaw dropped. Now that she hadn’t anticipated. He looked way too square for anything remotely grey—more your black and white kind of guy. Right, wrong, official, unofficial, permissible, forbidden. His world would be one of order—totally opposite to her freewheeling one of complete chaos.

He leant forward. ‘No. Not a strip club. I’m looking for someone with experience. Someone who can handle responsibility.’

‘I can handle responsibility.’

‘You just said you were a “no” to responsibility.’

‘No, you said that. I neither confirmed nor denied.’

Their eyes met. Squaring off like a couple of cowboys in a spaghetti western.

‘Give me your CV.’

‘Give me details of the job.’

OK, so he held all the cards, but she could bluff. Better than anyone.

The silence was steady as they waited each other out. She lifted her chin a little and saw him focus on her mouth as she did so.

She couldn’t stop the tiny curve to her lips as his parted. He’d speak first. She’d known his politeness would win out—he was that type. Cool. In control. Icily well-mannered.

‘Principesa. It’s a small bar but popular. I don’t want it to start failing.’

She’d heard of the club. A new one—opened on the scene during the year she’d been away. As he said, small, but definitely had potential.

‘What’s your interest? You own it?’ Her incredulity was doing her no favours but she really couldn’t see him in the centre of such a scene. Principesa was for night owls—party people. He had white-collar workaholic stamped all over him.

‘My cousin owns it. Lara Graydon.’

She knew of Lara. Six foot something, looked like a Nordic goddess. Had been a diva in the Wellington social set for several years.

‘She’s gone to the States for a couple of weeks on a personal matter.’ His grimace indicated his displeasure. ‘Leaving me to oversee the manager.’ The last two words were ground out through a rigid jaw.

‘And the manager?’

‘Was found rotten drunk slumped behind the bar this morning by council authorities who were called when the club failed to shut down at the required hour. Music was blaring and then I discovered discrepancies in the till.’

‘And this—’

‘Adds up to one sacked bar manager.’

Lucy had the feeling that far more minor transgressions would also bear the wrath of this man. He was not the kind of guy to settle for anything less than the best. ‘So you need someone as soon as possible.’

He nodded. ‘It’s Wednesday today. I can get away with keeping the club shut for a night or two but it must be open again on Friday. I want someone in there right away to clean up the mess it’s been left in. There isn’t enough stock to last half a night. I want someone who can walk in and take over.’

‘Why can’t you do it?’

He rolled his eyes. ‘Dressed like this?’ So he could do irony. He elaborated. ‘I have a day job—one that keeps me busy enough. That’s why I need someone responsible to take over so I can forget about it until Lara gets back.’

‘When’s that?’

‘Wouldn’t we all like to know?’ He shrugged. ‘Shouldn’t be more than a couple of weeks.’

There was a silence. She eyed him calmly while her brain worked furiously. She tried to ignore the fact that he was incredibly arresting and that his cool determination was intoxicating. He was bright, blunt and to the point and, frankly, he turned her on. Under that suit lurked a sense of humour. What else was hidden under that remote veneer? But a suit? Come on. She’d never been attracted to a straight A type before and now wasn’t the time to experiment. She was flat broke and needed work—to start immediately. Manager would pay more, even if it was only a week or two. She could puff up the experience for her next job.

She quickly opened her dog-eared satchel and took out a copy of her CV, wishing the other fifteen copies weren’t quite so obvious. She masked her unexpected nervousness by pulling her shoulders back and handing the paper over with an assertive flourish.

He took the CV, not looking at it until he’d held her gaze in a challenging stare for so long that she was finally forced to break it. Looking down and away, she instructed her lungs to inflate. For some reason they didn’t seem to be working on auto any more. It was as if he knew exactly what he was going to find on the page. And he didn’t think much of it. As if he knew she could do better.

Rebellion burned.

There was a long silence as he read it through. His face gave nothing away but she knew he was less than impressed. Well, who wouldn’t be? Even she could admit it wasn’t great reading.

Finally he spoke. ‘Well, we have one thing in common.’

‘What’s that?’

‘You’re not big on commitment either.’

She blinked.

He looked back at the paper, obviously biting back a smile. He’d shocked her. He knew it. And he thought it was funny. She gritted her teeth to hold back her sarcastic response. She needed this opportunity and she wasn’t going to lose it by mouthing off at him. She inhaled deeply before inquiring in a voice that screamed frigid politeness. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘You’ve not held a job longer than three months.’

‘I’ve been at university until the end of last year. Student jobs, summer jobs. They never last long.’

‘And this year?’

‘I’ve been travelling about.’

‘Why did you leave your last job?’

Why did she leave any of them? That boredom, that restlessness, that niggling feeling that she wasn’t quite right for it. She tried, genuinely tried and was your average, dependable worker—with a short expiry date.

‘You phone any of my old employers and ask for a reference. I’ve never taken a sick day, I’m happy to work double shifts. I guarantee they will all say nothing but good.’

‘You’ve a strong sense of your own worth, then?’

Well, there was the biggest bluff in history. She was good but not great. More mediocre than marvellous. She’d never really shone, but she’d never really tried to. What was the point? She’d been pigeon-holed years before as someone who wasn’t ever going to excel. The only prize she’d ever deserved was for biggest idiot. A blip in her personal history that had given rise to feelings of humiliation, inadequacy and fear—feelings that haunted her still, that coloured each world she tried to build for herself. Which was why she kept starting over. Ultimately she feared to try her best because she suspected it still wouldn’t be good enough.