Nikki Moore - Crazy, Undercover, Love

I look for the car as I emerge onto the street, feeling sick and sweaty in spite of the chill in the air. Have I missed my ride? I’m only a couple of minutes late. Something cold kisses my cheek and I glance at the sky. Snow begins to eddy and swirl around me, getting in my eyes. No doubt I’ll end up with black Alice Cooper tracks down my face. I’m wearing cheap mascara – haven’t been able to afford the branded waterproof stuff in ages.

A wave of utter weariness drags me down. Perhaps this chance has slipped away. If so, standing here could make frostbite an unwelcome reality. How long to wait before I jack it in and head home? But then a swish black town car turns the corner and pulls in at the kerb with a quiet purr and I know this is it. It’s on. Time to meet the CEO.

Pasting on a shaky smile, I step towards the smart uniformed driver, holding back a laugh at the luxurious vehicle he’s stepped from. The formality reminds me of The Apprentice , when Lord Sugar emerges grumpy and grizzled from a flash car. I was a middle manager, so we were never kept in this style.

‘Can I help you?’ The man meets me at the back of the car, posture as rigid as his voice, whilst the wind whips grit and whirling snowflakes about us.

‘Good afternoon, I’m Charley Caswell.’

He peers down at me. ‘You are?’

‘I am.’ At least, I was last time I checked. ‘Would you like to see some ID?’

‘That would be helpful, thank you.’

Oh. I was joking. This is a bit weird.

Sliding a hand into my bag, I flip my passport open at the last page, placing my fingers strategically along the side to hide Wright, the second part of my double-barrelled surname.

He gives it a quick glance.

I stop breathing.

‘Thank you, Miss Caswell. Wait here a moment please?’

I nod, tucking the passport away and thrusting half-dead hands into my coat pockets. I should have swiped a pair of gloves from Jess on the way out of our flat. She’s used to me borrowing her stuff.

Focusing on the driver as he taps on the tinted rear car window, I watch the glass slide down but can’t hear his conversation with the passenger. The tension in his shoulders as exchanges rattle back and forth between them is obvious, though.

Gritting my teeth to stop them chattering, I scrunch my eyes against the awful weather. What’s taking so long? I can’t be busted so soon, surely? When registering with the latest batch of agencies, I only used the first part of my surname, the one I originally dropped when moving to the city, a change made back then to escape my upbringing. But for this weekend – at least initially – I needed to be safely hidden behind the name Charley Caswell, rather than marked out as Charlotte Wright.

The ex-employee.

The troublemaker.

‘I said, now!’

The order erupts from the window like something snarling with teeth and my eyes fly open. My stomach clenches in knots as the driver straightens, turning to fight his way back to me. Holding my breath, I wonder if I’m destined to go home with no prospects, no money and only numb toes and damp hair to show for my efforts.

‘Shall we go?’ he asks, stamping his feet for warmth.

My cover isn’t blown. ‘Yes!’ Oops, probably a little too enthusiastic.

He doesn’t seem to notice, opening the boot and gesturing to my case. ‘May I?’

‘No. I mean, I can manage. But thank you.’ I grab it and shove it in before he can. I won’t be waited on. If my independence is one of the few things I have left, I’ll guard it like a precious possession.

‘Fine, Miss Caswell,’ a tiny glint of humour warms his eyes, ‘but are you going to at least let me open the door for you?’

‘It’s Charley,’ I flash him a grateful smile as he swings the door open, ‘and if you’re going to insist… Yes, thanks.’

Mr CEO is on the phone as I get in, so I take a moment to appreciate the cosy, immaculate interior of the car. Heavenly. Smooth, black leather seats, walnut finish on everything, TV screens in the back of the headrests in front of us. Nice. I sink back with a sigh of relief, then ruin it by fumbling around trying to click the metal tongue of the seatbelt into place. My fingers are burning and tingling as they start to thaw, so it makes the job that much harder.

Finally buckling myself in, I glance up. And my mouth drops open. My hands clench and lust strums my knickers.

Oh … wow! I did not count on this.

I had a vague idea Alex Demetrio wasn’t bad looking but I’ve never seen a proper picture. He’s got an aversion to being photographed and any pics successfully snapped would appear in Hello or Tatler – not my type of reading material. The only photo I’ve seen was in a corporate brochure and he was standing scowling in the middle of a crowd. All I could tell was he had the same dark colouring as his father, the previous CEO.

So it’s a complete shock he’s one of the most astoundingly gorgeous men I’ve ever shared oxygen with, Brad Pitt-beautiful. Frozen, I admire his short, ruffled black hair, slightly olive skin and strong, sculpted face with angelically defined cheekbones. I’ve worked with good-looking men before but this guy is magnetic.

Thank God he’s on his mobile speaking in a language I can’t quite place and therefore oblivious to my unprofessional, uncharacteristic gawking. Then his gaze swings to mine and he loses the thread of his conversation, frowning. Bugger. Has he caught me staring? Embarrassing. But he shakes his head, responds to something the caller says and turns to face the window.

I wish ignoring him was so easy, but the deep-blue eyes I caught a flash of were captivating, framed by enviously long, black lashes that might make him pretty if he wasn’t so … manly. Icing on the cake (and I love my cake) are the kissable Tom Hardy pillow lips. And there’s The Body. Wide shoulders, broad chest and long muscular legs sprawled out in front of him. He’s not just hot, he’s mega hot.

This big handsome guy, a man who looks like a film star or a model in an American underwear ad, is the CEO? Unbelievable. Just my luck. My heart clunks to the pit of my stomach, feeling like it catches some vital organs on the way down. After all the gossip Tony circulated about me, and given the reason I’m here, my boss for the weekend is the last man in existence I can be attracted to.

I study him covertly, trying to swallow moisture back into my mouth. Being immune to his appeal fails in spectacular fashion, as an unfamiliar burn of heat sweeps along the back of my neck, spreading down my chest. I just manage not to wipe damp hands along my trouser legs. What’s wrong with me? Although a redhead, I never blush; something I’ve always been thankful for.

Boy, am I in Trouble .

There’s no time to dwell on the thought because he ends his call, throwing his phone onto the seat between us.

‘So. Who the hell are you?’ He demands as the car pulls out into the insane London traffic.

Teeth snapping shut, my shameless appreciation of his outrageous good looks nosedives. Is he for real? Why so rude? But I must keep him on side, can’t lose my cool, so I breathe in slowly, the scent of new leather making me feel slightly sick.

‘Well?’

‘Charley Caswell. Pleased to meet you.’ Forcing a brittle smile, I thrust a hand towards him. ‘The agency sent me to assist you over the next few days?’

His handshake is brisk and he withdraws as though I have a contagious disease. I ignore the tingle in my palm at his touch.

‘I know why you’re here,’ he replies, ‘I instructed the agency to hire someone. It’s just that you’re ah,’ a pause, ‘not what I was expecting.’