Overtime in the Boss's Bed (13 page)

‘And, hun?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Maybe my visit will coincide with your nuptials?’

Cackling at the curse Starr let fly, Kit hung up before she could respond, leaving her contemplating a scenario so far from comprehension it belonged right up there with dreams of winning a Tony award or starring alongside Hugh Jackman in
The Boy from OZ.

Never going to happen.

Not that she hadn’t dreamed about tying herself to Callum for life on the island. She had tied herself up into deliciously anticipatory knots at the thought.

But, as she knew better than anyone, her romantic dreams had turned to nightmares.

A
FTER
making a few discreet phone calls, Callum finally had the information he required.

His first instinct was to high-tail it to Starr’s new address as fast as humanly possible and do what he had to do.

But if they were to have any kind of future he had some unfinished business to take care of first.

Wiping his sweaty palm along his trousers, he picked up the phone, dialled, knowing he should have done this a long time ago.

‘Frank Cartwright.’

‘Dad, it’s me.’

‘Hope you’ve got some good news for me after that merger fiasco.’

The words
shove it
prodded, begged to be said, but he needed to have this conversation for his peace of mind so he swallowed them.

‘This isn’t about business.’

‘Then what? I don’t have time to make chit-chat—’

‘We need to talk about Archie.’

Frank swore. The curse was nothing he hadn’t heard
a hundred times growing up, when he’d never lived up to expectations in his father’s eyes.

‘Just leave it the hell alone.’

Propping himself on the side of his desk, Callum rubbed his chest where a constant ache resided: for the loss of the brother he’d adored, the loss of his youth and, more recently, the loss of the woman who was everything to him.

‘No. You don’t have to say a damn thing, just listen.’ Anticipating Frank’s comeback, he added, ‘And don’t think about hanging up. If you do, I’ll quit.’

It wasn’t an idle threat. If his father didn’t give him the opportunity to have his say after all these years, he’d walk.

‘What’s all this about?’

Frank’s gruff tone was underlined with steel, but at least he’d conceded.

‘I’m done trying to make up for Archie’s accident. You don’t give a hoot what I’ve done for the company, how much I’ve put in. The only time I ever hear from you is to berate me. Something I’ve put up with through my own guilt, but not any more.’

‘What are you going to do?’

His father’s sneer rolled off him. The condescending bitterness was something he’d lived with almost all his life.

‘Tell you how it is.’

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, hoping to stave off the headache building.

‘I didn’t ask for this job, didn’t want it. The only reason I’m at Cartwright is to preserve Archie’s memory. You blame me? No more than I blame myself—and
being a part of your precious company reinforces that guilt every single day.’

He took a deep breath and continued, needing to get this off his chest before it festered any longer.

‘It doesn’t matter that you were so busy building your almighty business you ignored Rhys and me growing up. It doesn’t matter that nothing I did or said got your attention. And it sure as hell doesn’t matter that I’ve worked my ass off for the last fourteen years, giving two hundred percent in the hope you’d cut me some slack.’

Standing, he strode across his office, looked out of the window. Glimpsing the cottage through the immaculately trimmed trees, he was spurred on to finish this once and for all.

‘What does matter is how I’m going to run things from now on. No more working around the clock for your conference calls from London. No more working fifty-two weeks a year. And no more calls like the one on Hayman Island. From now, I do this my way.’

A small part of him wished for an apology, some small semblance of affection, any indication that his father had once loved him, had
ever
loved him.

But he’d given up on futile dreams a long time ago, the night he’d held Archie’s hand in hospital as he’d taken his last breath and wished he could take it all back, so he knew Frank would never acknowledge him in the way he’d always wanted.

‘Just keep those profit margins up,’ Frank growled, his tone devoid of any sentiment bar avarice.

‘That’s all you have to say?’

‘Goodbye, son.’

As the dial tone hummed in his ear, he stared at the phone, disbelief warring with relief.

He’d said his piece.

He was about to instigate major changes in his life—all for the better.

But what shocked him the most was Frank calling him ‘son’ for the first time ever.

He might not have received the recognition he wanted, the recognition he deserved, but from the narcissistic world of Frank Cartwright, Callum hearing him acknowledge he had another son was a start.

Maybe there was hope for the old reprobate yet.

Starr gritted her teeth and forced a smile for the umpteenth time that evening, wishing she’d never agreed to take this jazz ballet class.

Standing in for a sick teacher was one thing. Having to kick her legs and swing her arms and look happy about it in front of a bunch of teenagers was another.

What was it with the kids of today? They were taller and gutsier and far more astute than she’d ever been at that age. Fifteen going on fifty, the lot of ’em, and if she had to field one more smart-ass question she’d make them shimmy across the splintered floor on their pierced flat bellies.

‘Excuse me, miss?’

Inhaling deeply, she fixed a semblance of a pleasant smile on her face.

‘Yes?’

‘Is that hottie your boyfriend? Because if he isn’t, we’d all like dibs.’

Yet another lousy distraction technique from this bunch of slackers who were only here because their exhausted parents needed to foist their monster teenagers on someone else for a few hours—and were willing to pay for the privilege.

They were good; she’d give them that much. They tittered and grinned and cast longing looks over her shoulder, and with an exasperated sigh she finally turned, ready to yell if they were having her on.

Her angry scream died in her throat, which was suddenly clogged with something far scarier: elation.

Quickly replaced by anger and sadness and regret.

How dared he show up here after what he’d done?

To her?

To them?

‘Excuse me, girls.’

She stalked towards the door, oblivious to the twittering reaching ear-hurting decibels, determined to get rid of Callum before this day got any worse.

‘Hey, sorry for showing up like this but—’

‘I’m busy. Leave.’

She swivelled on her heel, faced her audience of curious onlookers, who were now goggle-eyed as well as muttering.

‘No.’

His hand shot out, grabbed her arm, leaving her no option but to stop.

‘Let go of me.’

Her order came out a hiss, barely audible. She hated they were doing this here, now. ‘I’m working. Something
you
know all about.’

‘I’m not leaving.’

Stubborn oaf.

‘Fine. You’ll have to join the class, then.’

Her chin thrust forward, challenging. He’d back down. No question.

As if the uptight, always-in-control Callum Cartwright would get down and jiggy with a bunch of schoolgirls.

‘It’s not ballroom, but what the hell?’

Stunned, she watched him shrug out of his jacket, toss it on a nearby chair, whip off his tie and shove it into his trouser pocket, and roll up his sleeves. His grin screamed triumph.

He thought he’d best her? She’d show him.

Pointing at the group of girls, who were now giggling and whispering, she said, ‘You’ve missed the warm-up but go ahead—be my guest.’

Now was the time he’d balk, make an excuse, head for the door and wait for her to finish up. Instead, he marched straight towards the girls, introduced himself amid a flurry of blushes and giggles and sighs, then turned to face her, shoulders squared, ready for anything she could dish out and more.

He stood out among the girls, a gorgeous giant who knew his power over her, intent on wielding it. Tough. This little Lilliputian was through with being trampled on.

Clapping her hands, she waited until silence fell.
‘Okay, girls—’ she sent Callum a pointed smirk ‘—and boys, let’s crank it up a little.’

The girls cheered as she hit the switch on the ancient stereo and music pulsed out of the speakers, the beat strong and loud and mesmerising.

Ignoring Callum completely, she allowed the music to infuse her, letting her body set the tempo as she let rip a string of moves that would challenge the best dancer.

The girls loved it, and to Callum’s credit he did his best to keep up, that ‘I’m the king of the world’ grin firmly fixed in place.

And, try as she might, she couldn’t help but watch him, her curious gaze drawn towards the way he moved, how in sync with the music his body was.

Oh, yeah, he had the moves, all right—and not just on the dance floor.

Her body zinged with the heat of remembrance, a heat that spread through every inch of her until her muscles cramped with it.

Dragging her gaze away from the sensuous swing of his hips, she focussed on the girls, on the steps, mixing it up a little when the music changed, setting them challenges.

As an avoidance technique, it worked. Until the music stopped and she glanced at the clock over the door. It signalled the end of class.

‘Good effort, class. Let’s call it a night.’

She waved at their applause, headed for her bag in the far corner of the studio, willing Callum to leave with the rest of them. Fat chance.

When the last giggle and footfall had faded she risked a glance over her shoulder, only to find him waiting patiently by the door, jacket hooked on one finger, resting on his shoulder, leaning against the wall, oh-so-casual, oh-so-divine.

Did he
have
to look so damn gorgeous when she needed to kick his cute butt out of here?

‘I’m not leaving ’til we talk.’

His words carried across the room, and with a reluctant sigh she slung her bag over her shoulder and sauntered towards him.

‘I kinda got that impression from the way you stuck it out for the last fifteen minutes.’

He fixed her with a determined stare—the kind of stare that meant business.

‘I’m not the type of guy to walk away. From anything.’

Ignoring the traitorous beat of her heart, she shrugged. ‘And here I thought you already had.’

‘Wrong.’ Jerking a thumb over his shoulder, he said, ‘Is there somewhere private we can talk?’

She didn’t want to do this—didn’t want to rehash their relationship, didn’t want to give him a chance to say anything that might undermine her wavering resistance, which had taken a serious hit just by seeing him again.

‘There’s nothing left to say, so just go—’

‘Please. It’s important.’

His verbal request didn’t affect her half as much as the unspoken plea in his expressive eyes, and she sighed.

‘Come upstairs. I’ll give you five minutes, then I have to rehearse for tomorrow.’

‘Sounds reasonable.’

He gestured for her to go first up the stairs.

Like hell. And have him stare at her butt all the way up? No way.

‘Gentlemen first.’ His grin widened at her muttered, ‘And I use the term loosely,’ but he bounded up the stairs like an athlete, with her trudging reluctantly behind.

The rickety old stairs weren’t wide enough for two, and when she reached the top she had to squeeze past him.

A gentleman would have stepped back, given her plenty of room, but, as she’d just asserted, Callum was no gentleman.

He stood there with that smug grin on his face, his eyes darkening as she wriggled past him, carefully trying to avoid body contact, failing miserably when her breasts brushed his arm, her hips collided with his.

Gritting her teeth against the insane urge to linger, she swung her bag with particular force, somewhat mollified by his muttered curse as it connected with his elbow. She fiddled with the key and swung the door open.

‘Your five minutes starts now.’

‘Good. Let’s start with this.’

She was wedged in the doorway, with the jamb pressed against her back, and he kissed her—hard.

A furious, desperate, no-holds-barred kiss that bombarded her senses, seared through her body, exploding like a fireball and wiping out every logical argument as to why they shouldn’t be together like this always.

When she finally came to her senses it was too late.
He’d eased off, broken the kiss when it should have been her, giving him the upper hand yet again.

‘That’s not talking!’

She shoved him away, slammed the door and stomped to the window, feeling as thick as the ugly bricks she looked out at.

What was it about this guy that had her so befuddled with just one glance, one touch?

‘Yeah, but much more fun, don’t you think?’

Fixing him with a withering stare, she tapped her watch.

‘Three minutes, thirty seconds. Start talking.’

‘Okay.’

He draped his jacket over the back of a chair, held his hands out to her, palms up. As if she’d be stupid enough to believe he didn’t hide a host of tricks up those sleeves.

‘I’m sorry for overreacting on the island, for pushing you away.’

She wanted to believe him, she really did, but the memory of Sergio’s duplicity had shattered her trust. Gullible might have been her middle name once, but not any more.

When she didn’t say anything, glancing at her watch instead, he continued.

‘I took my anger out on you when the person I was really angry at was myself, for losing concentration, losing perspective.’ He shook his head, regret twisting his mouth. ‘I blamed you for what happened with the deal and that was totally unfair.’

‘Too right. You were an idiot, throwing away what we had.’

‘You’re right. The worst kind of idiot.’

She wanted to be angry at him. She wanted to fling her arms in the air, whirl around, stomp her feet. But this wasn’t the time for melodrama. It was the time for truth. He owed her that much at least.

‘So what was your meltdown really about? It couldn’t have just been the lost merger.’

He stilled, his expression impassive, not a flicker of a muscle.

‘Right again. There’s more. And I know if we’re to have any kind of future you need to hear the truth. All of it.’

Her heart leapt at his mention of a future, before her common sense slapped it back down.

She wasn’t going to take crap from any guy ever again, remember? And right now Callum would have to get down on the floor and crawl on his belly for her to even consider taking him back.