“Crayfish lightly steamed with a dash of lemon, grilled fig and fennel salad with goat’s cheese and roasted pecans,” she said, keeping her voice smooth.
“Sounds good. The redhead menu unless I notify you otherwise.” He leaned toward her and tossed his pen onto the desk.
The pressure in the room seemed to have dropped, as if a thunderstorm were brewing, air heavy, oxygen levels low. She’d do anything to throw open the windows, invite in a breeze. She sneaked a peek to see if he noticed the shift. Didn’t look like it. She’d guess he could win a Powerball jackpot, and the man would look the same. Mind you, it wasn’t as if she had any great experience in men, her ex being her one and only. She could be reading him totally wrong.
“What about dessert?”
She swallowed hard. No matter how many times she’d tried to make a never-fail cake, they failed. They were either as hard as concrete or forgot to rise and lay flat and unappealing as concrete.
A hollow sigh escaped her.
“Fresh fruit and ice cream maybe with a drizzle of hot chocolate sauce,” she replied, smoothing damp hands down her skirt. Gourmet ice cream was her savior, as was melting dark chocolate and cream for a quick but decadent dessert. Sprinkle on seasonal berries, and she was right up there with the Gordon Ramseys of the world, minus the forehead in dire need of a flat iron.
“Right. I think everything is in order.” He stood and placed himself directly in front of her.
“Are you sure you want me? There’s probably far better candidates—”
He cut her off. “You’re mine for the next twelve weeks.”
Their gazes locked over the table, and her whole body heated to combustion level.
Super.
She smoothed shaking hands down her skirt again. “Right. When would you like me to start?”
“Now.” He gestured to the desk in the corner and threw her a glance before he turned his back to her and immersed himself in a phone call. She let out a sigh, opened the laptop, and stared at the note stuck to the screen.
Dear Forty-Two,
I’m going to haul uranium – it’s easier.
Good luck. You’ll need it.
Forty-one.
…
At eight o’clock that night, Billie stretched burning shoulders. Dusk had come and gone. The moon was climbing the sky, and she couldn’t stop thinking of the note left by her predecessor. She was right. Uranium looked glamorous about now. In fact, she’d dig it up with her hands. To say the man was driven was an understatement. A diet cola she’d brought from home sat on her desk making sad popping sounds. Her stomach objected to her breakfast—a miracle diet pill guaranteed to keep hunger at bay—and she hadn’t brought lunch as she hadn’t anticipated starting today.
Twelve weeks, she told herself. Basically eighty-four days. She could tick them off like a castaway waiting for rescue.
She was tired, but in a good way. Her brain was humming along, but her body was having a hard time keeping up. It had been a long time since she’d worked, and she realized she’d missed it.
The hairs on the nape of her neck rose in awareness.
She looked up to find Mason’s eyes on her and a look she couldn’t work out on his face.
Her stomach sent out a protest so loud she was surprised it wasn’t heard in the next town. “Right. There’s zero in the way of food in the fridge. I’m not eating a wedge of cheese and throwing back a beer for dinner. I’m out of here.” She gathered her bag, threw on her jacket, walked to the door, and turned. Though her mind screamed for her to shut up and leave, she couldn’t help the words that came out of her mouth. “So are you coming?”
Chapter Two
Mason opened his mouth to protest that he could live on coffee and adrenaline alone, but she spoke first.
“There’s the best fish and chip place not far from here. People come from miles around. We could stop for dinner before we climb back into the excitement of environmental permits and fun things about wiring.” She glanced at her watch then his face before she straightened the strap of her bag on her shoulder. “Maybe you could let your buyer know about some local places you’ve sampled, maybe he’d appreciate the personal touch.”
Personal touch. Interesting. “Your idea has merit.” But fish and chips? It had been a while. He usually grabbed sushi if he was between assistants or ate something out of a can.
She stuck her hand on her hip. “Yep, I’m going. It’s either that or gnaw my left arm off.” She dug into her handbag for keys. “It’s just down the road. I’ll jump in the O.B. and will be back before you know it. I’ll leave you with the wedge of Stilton.”
He looked out the window. “What’s an O.B?”
“He’s my car. It’s a family affair. He’s the Old Bastard. That’s what I yell at him as we struggle to get up a hill. Gives him encouragement.”
Fuck me, I’ve gone and hired a crazy.
She cocked her head to the side. “You never name anything? You don’t have a toaster named Terry or a vacuum cleaner named Horace?”
He ignored the comment and stared at her. It was too bad she was certifiable. He’d bet she’d look stunning with her dark hair down and free instead of clipped up in a sensible bun at the back of her head. Man, she had awesome eyes. Large and hazel. She was certainly rocking the beige look with a tan shirt tucked into a brown baggy skirt and mud-colored flat shoes on her feet. He got the impression she preferred to hide, didn’t like to be noticed. He was no reader of Vogue , but with her hair pulled back and not a touch of makeup on her face, she looked older than twenty-six. If she wasn’t working for him, he’d wine, dine, take her to bed, then send her the courtesy Cartier box when she started to get ideas of longevity. But Forty-Two’s employment as his assistant put her off limits.
His stomach growled reminding him it had been breakfast since he’d finished the last of the bread. He scanned his laptop. No new emails had come in. He could take ten minutes, and the thought of hot food in his stomach held appeal. Good thought on the personal touch. He could work that angle.
“If it’s just down the road, we’ll take my car.” He grabbed his keys and followed her out the door, his eyes drawn to the gentle sway of her hips in that ridiculously baggy skirt. They walked past an old red Honda hatchback, and through the filtered moonlight, he read the words “clean me” inside a heart traced in the dirt on the back window. His Land Rover sat a few feet away, recently detailed and still gleaming despite the dry, dusty summer weather.
Ten minutes and a gutful of exasperation later, he again turned to the woman next to him. She stared out the window.
“How long is this fucking road?” He gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles protested.
She fiddled with the radio. “Not far. What’s with all the sad and lonely people on the radio calling in to tell the pissed off presenter that the world sucks?”
It was the only station he listened to, and he wasn’t sad or lonely. His stomach growled again, and irritation at the missed time working on the property forced him to bite back his impatience. “If we don’t come upon this place in ten seconds, I’m turning the fuck around,” he said.
Her hand landed on his forearm. Her scent and warmth burrowed into the crawl space between his skin and muscle and held fast.
“Look, there it is.” She leaned forward and let go, pointing to a caravan perched in a gravel car park by the side of the road. “And stop swearing at me.”
He glanced at her, surprised. “I don’t swear much, and if I do, it isn’t directed at you. I wouldn’t swear at a woman.”
The vibe in the car turned arctic. “Right. Good to know that I’m not a woman.”
He wasn’t going to touch that last comment even with snap-on latex gloves. He glanced at her. She glared at him, her face pale but for the color spotting her cheeks.
He pulled the car to a halt. “Look, we’re here to do a job, nothing more. I’ve never sworn at a woman in my life.”
“You just did!” Her eyes narro
wed. “Unless you don’t think of me as a woman.”
He’d bet she wanted to clock him. Heat poured out of her body, and the interior space was filled with her scent. He ignored the double-time beat of his heart.
“I don’t think about you at all, to be honest.” Which wasn’t exactly true. He’d have to be walking around without a head not to notice her, and she had a backbone which was refreshing. Not one of his assistants had stood up to him before and not one of them had elicited a physical reaction from him before. Ever.
She opened her door without looking at him. “I’ll order for us.”
Before he could protest, she’d joined the line of people waiting and was soon deep in conversation with the person behind her.
He got out of the car and glanced around. A dog chased complaining seagulls on the shore. The gentle rumble of waves hitting the sea-soaked sand was kind of hypnotic. Insects started their shift, their busy hum filling the humidity soaked air. He slipped off his jacket, threw it over his shoulder, and walked toward an empty table in the rear, dodging wooden tables adorned with tiny glass hurricane lanterns. A couple with eyes only for each other sat with their child at one of the tables, oblivious to their cooling dinner and warming wine. The little girl stuffed a bread roll into her mouth. She caught Mason’s eye and raised a chubby hand in greeting. Jesus. She’d be about the right age.
His stomach clenched, and a dull throb beat against the base of his skull.
Fuck.
He sucked in a dying breath and beat back the pain. He slumped into an empty chair, his elbows on the table, staring sightlessly. The picture-perfect couple with the picture-perfect child should have been him and his wife Monica sitting there. Even the little girl looked about the right age. Ruby would have been four now.
His shoulders and spine locked, he stared at the sea and thought of houses and buildings and minimalist retreats and Japanese gardens with sand and rocks and bonsai trees.
“Mason, are you okay?” Forty-Two’s soft voice sounded like it had traveled from another time. Her eyebrows were drawn together.
“Yep.” He cleared his throat, burying the memories and the pain. He didn’t do memories anymore.
She sat across from him, piling newspaper packages on the wooden table. “I didn’t know what you’d like, so Bert gave us his famous tasting plate.” She put her chin in her cupped hands and gazed toward the shoreline. “I love it here. This part of the world. I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.”
He did a quick scan of the bay. Apart from the murmur of the diners and the waves hitting the shore in a gentle sigh, it was quiet. Too quiet. The occasional car passed, slashing the darkening scene with beams of light. “I think it has the potential to be a great place for a sports fishing retreat.” He mulled the idea over in his head and filed it in the potential box.
Her mouth dropped open. “That’s all you see, Jimbo? A potential to better your investment? You don’t smell the salt in the air, feel the sand under your feet, or want to dive into the waves?”
Jimbo? Did she just call him Jimbo? Maybe she wasn’t all that up in the smarts department. For the second time that day, he wondered if he’d made a huge mistake in hiring her despite her qualifications and the detail-oriented focus she’d brought to the office.
Her hand brushed his as she reached for the salt and he reached for the vinegar. A surge of attraction rippled up his arm and settled in his pants. Jesus, he must be tired, hungry, or both.
“I think Footsteps Bay is gorgeous.” She shot him a steely look. “I hope it doesn’t change.”
He ignored her. No point getting into an argument about things she didn’t understand, like what drove the property market.
Soon the air was filled with the scent of fresh-cooked flounder, a half-dozen shucked oysters, golden scallops, and a banana fritter that might have had him groaning for more if he were the type to groan over food.
His assistant’s eyes sparkled, and the light from the candles hit threads of gold in her hair. Such a contrast from the firecracker in the car. And then she smiled, and her whole body got in on the act. She actually shimmied.
“It’s good, right?” she said, sucking her fingers.
He ignored her finger-sucking as best as he could. “Your name is unusual,” he said to make polite dinner conversation. Get fed, then move on.
“Unusual. Are you kidding me? Try and pronounce a name like that when you’re five years old. That’s why I go by Billie. I got Willie for too long, and being a girl named Willie really doesn’t do much for your self-esteem.” She shook her head. “Mum was in love with a British artist with that name when she fell pregnant with me. And my middle name is Flamingo, so I can’t use that.” She waved a chip. “Tragic, I know, but that’s Mum.”
Flamingo? Christ. And there was no way he’d call her a male appendage when she was so clearly a woman. His habit of numbering his assistants worked in Forty-Two’s favor.
A dollop of ketchup hung at the corner of her mouth before her tongue snaked out and caught it. He concentrated on the food before him, anything but the woman across from him. It was only mildly difficult because the food was great. No, it wasn’t. It was fucking awesome. The fish melted in his mouth, and the chips were crisp, golden, and fluffy. The scent of the sea clung to the oysters. The scallops were cooked to tender perfection.
A comfortable silence stretched between them, comfortable in a way that he hadn’t felt in years. His whole body went tight, and he struggled to finish his mouthful.
“What do you do in your spare time?” She looked at him, eating yet another oyster. He wondered for a brief moment how many she’d eat and whether she’d feel any of the purported effects.
Holy hell. He rocked back in his chair, and his mind went temporarily white before it was blanketed in images of Forty-Two alone in bed, her hand down her pants, a moan on her lips.
This ended now. He really needed to get laid. And to stop eating oysters.
He cleared his throat. “I don’t have spare time. Work takes up almost all the hours in the day,” he said, sounding strained even to his own ears. “Forty-One claimed I was a vampire and never slept.”
“And are you? A vampire? Should I take to wearing garlic?” She laughed.
“No, I’m just driven. I know what I want out of life, and I get it.”
“Yeah, I bet you do.” She shook her head, but a smile hovered on her lips. “Even vampires have a social life, don’t they? Town hall meetings, worrying about the price of coffins. Dodging wooden stakes.”
He started at her crystal laughter and cursed under his breath. This wasn’t right. If he lost focus, he’d sink back into the state he’d found himself in after he lost Ruby. Time to get this back to where it should be. “Before we get started, I want to be on the same page. My personal life is personal.”
Her eyes widened, and her face reddened. “Right. My mistake. Won’t happen again.” She made to stand up, avoiding his eyes. “We…um…should get going. It’s getting late.”
In an instant, she retreated. The warm, open woman disappeared behind a wall. Her face blanked, eyes dulled, and he stilled at the closure. The warm, buzzing energy dissolved faster than a chilled beer to a man in the Sahara. Shit, he hadn’t meant to make her flinch, but small talk was as unnecessary as public displays of affection or his birthday. He had to keep Forty-Two. He didn’t have the time to advertise for Forty-Three. Already, his plans for this house were moving slower than a sloth at a sleeping convention.
“I didn’t mean to sound rude, but right now my life is pretty much tied up with business.” He stared out at the rising moon sending welcoming paths of silver across the waves. A couple and their dog stood at the shore, holding hands as the golden retriever ran circles around them, a piece of driftwood in his mouth. Mason looked away.
She turned her attention to her purse, as if dismissing him. “No problem, Herbert.”
He stared at her. “Herbert? Jimbo? What’s with the names?”
Before he could get a handle on her comment, she looked away and put her chin in her hands Her eyes got a faraway look. “I love this time of day, when the sun and the moon meet. The night flowers open and drench the air in jasmine.”
He used to love this time of day as well. He’d rush home so he and Monica could give Ruby her nightly bath. Ruby would squeal when he scooped her up, her tiny fists and chubby legs pumping with joy. Staring up at him, knowing he’d keep her safe.
Acid clawed at his throat.
“I’m out of here.” He stood and walked toward the car, jangling his keys.
Behind him, she muttered, “Really!”
When he turned, he was surprised at the totally pissed-off look burning in her eyes. No matter. It was time to get back to work.
They arrived back at the house in silence. He’d changed the radio back and cranked it up, thus negating any chance of conversation. When he killed the engine, Forty-Two clasped the door handle, hesitated, and looked back at him.
“It gets easier.”
“What does?”
“The pain. If you let it go, it gets easier.”
She slipped from the car. He watched her walk away. What the hell did that mean?
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she called over her shoulder before jumping into her car. “I’ll be here bright and early with groceries, and I’ll bring Stanley.”
Her words echoed around his brain as he watched her tail lights disappear into the night.
She didn’t know. It didn’t get easier. It never would.
Forty-Two’s soft scent hung in the air, reminding him he was put on this earth to go through it alone. Everyone got one shot at perfection, and he’d had his.
He inhaled deeply and pushed her scent out of his lungs. But Christ, he’d felt alive tonight. More alive than he’d felt in three long years, even if it had only lasted minutes.
His hands gripped the steering wheel tighter.
Winning the Boss's Heart Page 2
