Undressed by the Boss (Mills & Boon By Request) (25 page)

‘You don’t fit the image of the average tour guide.’

She chuckled, her soft laughter as enticing as the rest of her. ‘So what does an average tour guide look like?’

‘Not you,’ he muttered, glad they’d reached his office.

Most of the lights had been turned off at closing time and walking along the narrow corridor hip to hip with her had him wishing he hadn’t suggested this after-hours meeting.

Proving to himself he wasn’t interested in her was great in theory. Pity the practice did little more than show him up for fraud.

He was her boss. Which meant she was a no-go zone. Now he just had to remember it.

Eager to get this over and done with, he flung open the door and gestured her to enter before him.

Bad move.

If that itty-bitty skirt highlighted her incredible legs, it did amazing things to her butt.

‘Okay, let me have it.’

He wrenched his gaze up to meet hers in record time, but the knowing smile curving her lush mouth spoke volumes: she’d caught him checking her out and was enjoying every minute of it.

Irritated by his slip-up, he strode to his desk and handed her the written complaint.

‘Here. Read this, then we’ll discuss it.’

She sped-read it, anxiously gnawing at her bottom lip while he tried to ignore the crazy urge to do the same.

When she reached the end, she ran a shaky hand through her hair, inadvertently draping it over a delectably bare shoulder.

‘So what do you want to do about this problem?’

Furious he couldn’t keep his mind on the task at hand and off trifling observations like the subtle glimmer of bronze dusted on that bare shoulder, he gestured for her to have a seat while he perched on the edge of the desk.

‘This problem is indicative of a larger one, namely you.’

Her eyes flashed emerald fire while her bottom lip wobbled ever so slightly. ‘I wasn’t a problem when your father hired me. He thinks I’ll be an asset to the museum.’

‘And do you feel the same way?’

‘Of course.’

While that tremulous bottom lip suggested she was quaking inside, she locked stares with him, challenge in her green depths, taunting him to break the deadlock and look away first.

Like hell he would.

‘My father may have hired you, but that doesn’t mean I can’t fire you.’

He dropped the magic F word and she dropped her gaze in record time.

Well, well, looked as if Miss Fancy Feet valued her job more than she let on.

‘The train thing was a misunderstanding.’ She handed him the complaint pro forma and sighed. ‘It wasn’t my fault the little monster—uh, cutie-pie—was fiddling with the display.’

How did she do that—undermine his annoyance with a hint of a smile and a blunt response?

Nothing was remotely funny about this situation—the written complaint highlighted a day filled with her incompetence—yet he had to hide his amusement before responding. ‘It’s an interactive display. Kids are meant to fiddle with it.’

‘How was I supposed to know that?’

‘It’s your job to know.’

‘Good point.’

Feeling like an ogre and wishing like mad she’d stop worrying that delectably full bottom lip, he said, ‘You may have convinced my father to hire you for this job but I’m calling the shots now. And right now I’m less than impressed with your performance. Your résumé doesn’t inspire me with confidence and neither have your skills on the first day.’

She stood so swiftly he found himself reaching out to steady her, his hands connecting with her bare arms before he had time to think.

‘Look, I’m just nervous, okay? This job means a lot to me and I’m sorry for the misunderstanding with that, uh, little angel. As for the rest, I’ll try to do better. Honest.’

He heard the sincerity in her voice. However, it didn’t match the banked heat in her eyes and yet again he found himself contemplating the mysteries simmering beneath the surface of this vibrant woman—before mentally yelling to stay the hell away.

‘Was there anything else? Because if there isn’t you can probably let me go now.’

He dropped his hands in record time, unwittingly captivated by her warring vulnerability and defiance to the extent he’d forgotten he still had hold of her.

‘A better effort is all I ask. So you’re off to get that drink now?’

She shook her head, sending an intoxicating waft of peach and vanilla his way, instantly transporting him back twenty-five years to the rare indulgent days when his mum actually took time out to cook his favourite peach cobbler dessert.

‘Bobby’s not the patient type so he pretty much took off when I rang him and said I didn’t know how long I’d be here.’

‘Sorry,’ he said, not sorry in the least.

Though he had no right to feel this way, the thought of her spending time with any guy, friend or not, looking as she did, annoyed the hell out of him.

‘How sorry are you?’

‘Pardon?’

‘If you’re really sorry, you’ll make it up to me by buying me that drink I’ve missed out on. I’ve had one heck of a first day, including being dragged in here out of work hours by a very demanding boss. I’m stressed. I need to wind down.’

She tilted her chin up and tucked a curling strand of blonde silk behind her ear, befuddling his senses with her sensual scent and quirking lips.

He should’ve said no.

He should’ve cited work as a plausible excuse.

He should’ve remembered every sensible reason he had for pushing her away and not getting involved.

Instead, he found himself grabbing his car keys off his desk, placing a hand in the small of her back and propelling her out the door while trying not to grin as if he’d just discovered Tutankhamen’s forgotten tomb.

‘Lucky for you, I’m in an extremely forgiving mood. Let’s go get that drink.’

‘I
S THIS
one of your regular haunts?’

Beth bit back a smile at Aidan’s dubious tone. She’d been right in her assumption the stuffy boss man wouldn’t frequent a place like this.

That was pretty unfair. Aidan wasn’t all that stuffy considering she’d basically run a guilt trip on him earlier, not expecting he’d take her up on it. And not only had he gone for her idea he’d been laid-back, witty and charming on the way over here, regaling her with tales of his adventures overseas, making her all too aware of how downright tempting he was.

Much easier to think of him as stuffy and not her type when in fact his stories of travel, exploration and discovering hidden delights of places she’d never been to only served to add to his appeal.

As if he weren’t attractive enough already!

She really needed to concentrate on doing well at this job, securing the gallery, making loads more money from selling her work and guaranteeing a stable future, something she’d craved her entire life but never had.

And doing well at this job meant not melting in a puddle
at his feet every time he smiled that gorgeous, almost-dimpled smile.

Trying to delude herself into focussing on ‘stuffy’ and not ‘sexy’, she glanced around. The Loft was packed to its steel rafters with patrons draped over the expansive mirrored bar, the low, curved ruby sofas and each other, while funky acid jazz spewed out of floor-to-ceiling speakers designed to wake the dead.

‘Don’t worry, Professor, I’ll look after you.’

She raised her cranberry martini in his direction, her hand jerking when she registered the shocked look on his face meant she’d let that little gem slip out.

‘What did you just call me?’

‘Professor,’ she mumbled into her drink, using the glass to shield her burgeoning smile at the frown creasing his brow and making him look more professor-ish than ever.

‘Why?’

She waved away his question, sloshing some of her drink onto his leg in the process.

‘Oops, sorry.’

She grabbed at the napkin serving as a coaster on the table and dabbed at the spreading gin stain on his trousers.

‘Leave it, it’s fine,’ he snapped, stilling her frantic hand while she tried not to yank hers out from under his.

If she thought he looked hot it had nothing on the effect he had on her body when he touched her.

It had taken all her will-power back in his office not to lean into him when he’d taken hold of her arms in a purely reflex gesture, the type of rescuing gesture a guy like him would make.

He was a gentleman, no two ways about it, so what was she doing here flirting with her boss?

This was madness. What had she been thinking?

She hadn’t thought as usual, caught up in living for the moment, flying by the seat of her pants.

Story of her life, really.

‘You didn’t answer my question.’ He released her hand before taking a healthy slug of his boutique beer. ‘Why professor?’

‘It’s a term of endearment.’

She raised her martini glass in his direction before draining the rest of her drink. Better to down her drink and appear a lush than accidentally upend it over his chest.

Though if she got a chance to dab at that broad expanse of muscle because of it …

His lips twitched, drawing her attention to their shape. They looked tailor-made for imparting instructions to his employees … or for kissing crazy women not doing a very good job when their dreams depended on it.

‘But we hardly know each other. Not to mention I’m your boss and have taken you to task several times today, and you find me endearing?’ He shook his head, a slow smile spreading across his face. ‘You’re full of surprises.’

If he bowled her over with his touch, his charismatic smile slugged her with its sensual power and she cast a frantic glance towards the bar, wishing it weren’t inappropriate to get tipsy in front of the boss on the first day.

‘So tell me a bit about yourself—something I wouldn’t know from reading your résumé.’

Twirling the delicate martini glass stem between her fingers, she decided to have a little fun. If the professor wanted her to do a better job, why not impress him with a little knowledge?

‘I collect vintage hotties,’ she said, trying not to giggle at his incredulous expression.

‘What?’

‘You know, old hot-water bottles made from porcelain.’

As if.

The only old stuff she collected came in crates, the bits of scrap metal essential for her unconventional creations.

However, Lana collected old hot-water bottles and Beth had been drilled in the finer art of what a good hottie entailed considering the museum had an extensive collection and she’d need to expound its virtues on her tours.

‘Really?’

By the sardonic quirk of an eyebrow, he was having a hard time believing her. ‘Tell me about them.’

Wishing she hadn’t drunk her martini in record time, she tried to recall every boring detail Lana had imparted, though she doubted her cousin had envisaged the cosy couch and drinks when they’d been practising the Q and A routine.

She certainly hadn’t and, while she might have a razor-sharp memory, sitting this close to him, trying to stay focussed on his eyes and not his lips, trying not to inhale for fear of copping another delicious lungful of the faintest ripe blackcurrant so reminiscent of her favourite Shiraz, it was increasingly difficult to string two coherent words together, let alone recall boring facts.

‘Well, they date back as far as eighteen ninety. Of course, they’re not practical, made from porcelain and all, but I love their uniqueness. My favourite is a cylindrical foot warmer made by Lambeth Pottery in London, closely followed by a brown ceramic hot-water bottle in the shape of a Gladstone medical bag. That one’s made by Bourne Denby England. Then there’s the foot warmer in the shape of a pillow, which bears the word Osokosi, a play on the phrase “oh so cosy”.’

She slapped a hand over her mouth, pretending to shut herself up when in fact she couldn’t remember any more of the facts she’d rote-learnt.

‘Look at me, running away at the mouth. I’m sure you didn’t expect such a long-winded answer.’

Something shifted in his eyes, a hint of shrewdness mingling with confusion, as if he wanted to believe her but didn’t.

‘On the contrary, I’m fascinated by your hobby. Tell me more.’

He was testing her. She could see it in the triumphant glitter in his eyes, in the smug smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Too bad she’d run out of hottie facts to bore him senseless with. Oh, hang on a second, that was her being bored out of her brain. He probably lapped up mindless drivel like this, considering he had to be fixated on old stuff to be an archaeologist in the first place.

Faking a trill little laugh designed to distract, she placed her glass on the table in front of them and clapped her hands together.

‘Uh-uh, that’s enough about me. What about you? Is there more to the professor than meets the eye?’

She half expected him to tell her to knock off the professor stuff, but to her surprise he slugged back the rest of his beer before answering her.

‘Not much to tell. I’m an archaeologist by profession who has temporarily traded in his trowel for a briefcase.’

‘Why?’

‘My dad’s unwell and asked me to fill in for a few months, which is about all I can handle. The thought of being stuck behind a desk for longer than that drives me crazy. I’m a nomad through and through.’

He spun the empty bottle in his hand, the expression on his
face surprisingly sombre for the discussion they were having. Since when did trading small talk get so serious?

‘I guess adding CEO of a museum looks good on a résumé but it doesn’t compete with the thrill of the next big thing?’

‘You bet.’

Though the gloss of constant travelling around as a kid had soon worn off she understood where he was coming from. She couldn’t think of anything worse than being stuck in an office job, compelled to enter the same building every day, cooped up in some dingy office, seeing the same people, doing the same tasks.

Give her the freedom of working from home, when the mood struck, if her muse came out to play. Total freedom, just the way she liked it.

‘What about you? Have you travelled much?’