Doukakis's Apprentice

by Sarah Morgan

  Polly stood for a moment feeling displaced. Really, what had just happened? She was the same and yet she wasn’t the same. Opening her mouth a fraction, she traced her lower lip with her tongue.

  Her first thought was that clearly the kiss hadn’t affected him as it had affected her, and yet she knew that wasn’t true. She’d felt the strength of his reaction.

  However easily he’d walked away, it had definitely been mutual.

  He’d kissed her to prove—what? That he could walk away every time? That lust was a decision like every other? She wondered whether the intensity of the chemistry had been as much of a shock to him as it was to her.

  Anger flashed through her. How dared he kiss like that and then just walk away?

  No doubt he was feeling smug and superior, having successfully demonstrated the practical application of ruthless self control, whereas she—Polly breathed in and out slowly—she’d demonstrated nothing except an embarrassing degree of feminine compliance. Compelled by his breathtaking sexual expertise, she’d been ready to go the whole way. Like Icarus, she would have flown straight at that hot burning sun, the ecstasy of the flight obliterating any sense of caution.

  In proving his point, he’d made a monumental fool of her.

  Furious and humiliated, she turned her head and looked back towards the luxurious suite, but there was no sign of him. Presumably, having achieved his goal with such spectacular success, he’d taken himself off somewhere to focus his sought-after attentions on some aspect of his global empire before the meeting this evening. A meeting during which he was clearly expecting her to embarrass him.

  Dress is elegant.

  He thought she was going to mess up.

  Polly’s mouth tightened.

  She knew how good she was at her job. If only she were half as good in her dealings with men he wouldn’t have played that trick on her. So far he’d made nothing but false assumptions and she’d been so focused on handling the immediate crisis that she’d done nothing to challenge him on his opinions.

  But tonight that was going to change.

  If Damon Doukakis thought he could control everything around him then he was in for a shock.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘I’ll lead the meeting.’ Damon sprawled in the back of the limo, grateful for a stack of e-mails that gave him a legitimate excuse to limit social contact with the woman next to him. An expanse of soft leather seat stretched between them like no man’s land as they both kept a wary distance.

  Why on earth had he revealed so much about himself?

  ‘Why would you lead the meeting when you weren’t the one who won the pitch.’ Her tone was cool and when he risked a glance at her he saw that she was also on her BlackBerry, her slim fingers were flying over the keys with enviable dexterity as she responded to an e-mail. Not once did she look at him and Damon frowned, unaccustomed to such a lack of interest from a woman, especially a woman he’d kissed.

  ‘It makes sense that I’ll lead the discussion. I’ve known Gérard for fifteen years.’

  ‘Oh, I see. It’s the boys’ club approach. No worries. You just carry on and beat your chests and do all that masculine stuff, and when you’ve finished I’ll present my ideas.’

  Damon didn’t know which infuriated him more—her words, or the fact that she didn’t bother looking up as she spoke them.

  ‘The way I conduct a business meeting has nothing to do with the “boys’ club”.’ He chose to ignore the anatomical reference.

  ‘There’s no need to be defensive. You don’t have to apologise for feeling the need to be the dominant male in every situation. I’m sure that basic flaw has proved fundamental to your success in business.’

  ‘Are you calling masculinity a flaw?’

  ‘Gosh, no. Not masculinity.’ Her fingers flew over the keys swiftly. ‘Just dominant controlling tendencies that prevent you from ever thinking another person with a different approach could be saying something worth hearing.’

  Damon’s jaw ached from clenching his teeth. ‘I am always very receptive to fresh ideas.’

  ‘Providing they’re coming from someone dressed in a dark suit. Be honest—you took one look at me and dismissed me on the basis of my dress and my pink tights.’

  ‘That is not true.’

  ‘It is true. And once we’re in the restaurant the first thing you’ll discuss is the success of each other’s businesses, your various achievements and how many financial goals you’ve scored. He’ll acknowledge you as King of the Jungle, you’ll order an eye-wateringly expensive bottle of wine to prove your impeccable taste and his importance as a client, and once we’ve got all that alpha male posturing out of the way I can have my turn.’

  Damon breathed deeply. ‘You’re being intentionally confrontational. You’re upset because I kissed you.’

  That got her attention.

  She glanced up. Her brows rose. ‘Why would that upset me? You’re a good kisser. No woman is going to object to being kissed by a man who knows what he’s doing. Although you might want to work on the ending—it was a bit abrupt. But better that than slobbery.’ Having delivered what she clearly considered to be useful feedback, she returned to her phone. ‘So—back to this meeting of ours. I just need to make sure I understand the ground rules. You need to have control of everything you do, and that’s fine. I don’t have a problem with that. I’ll take a back seat until you’ve finished with the whole ego-massaging thing.’

  Still grappling with her matter-of-fact response to the kiss, Damon found himself unable to respond.

  He wondered whether her choice of long coat had anything to do with her rejection of what had happened earlier. It covered everything from her neck to her ankles, leaving no part of her uncovered. There was nothing sexual about her appearance. Nothing provocative. Which made the fact that he wanted to haul her across that void all the more unfathomable and aggravating. His fingers burned to reach out and grab her, rip open those buttons and feast on the flavours he’d sampled earlier.

  Acutely aware that he was entirely to blame for his current condition, Damon employed the last of his willpower and transferred his gaze from her face to the window. It was a mistake. Paris in darkness sparkled and glittered like a film set and lovers walked hand in hand along the banks of the Seine, creating memories that would be stored for a lifetime. Everything about the night suggested intimacy.

  Exasperated by the direction of his thoughts, Damon turned his attention back to his phone, forced to admit that in an attempt to prove his self-control he’d found himself severely tested. Yes, he’d won. He always made sure he won whatever battle he fought. But it had required a strength of will he’d never before needed to apply to that type of situation.

  When his driver pulled up close to the Eiffel Tower, Damon made a swift, smooth exit, relieved to be released from the claustrophobic confines of the car.

  Polly emerged slowly and stood a safe distance away from him. ‘This seems an odd venue for a dinner meeting. I hope you didn’t misunderstand.’ She stared at the long queue of people waiting for the opportunity to go up to the top of the tower.

  ‘Gérard is trying to impress you.’ Damon noticed that this time the silky soft blonde hair had been twisted into a formal up do—severe rather than sexy. The sheen on her lips suggested a faint gloss but nothing too provocative. In fact, her entire appearance was understated. And her shoes were flat—perfect for cobbled Paris streets.

  Clearly she’d paid attention to his instruction for ‘elegant’.

  He waited to relax—for the strange tightness to leave his body.

  It didn’t happen.

  ‘I’ve dined here before. The restaurant is up there.’

  She followed his gaze and tilted her head, looking up at the iconic landmark, its metal latticework turned to gold by hundreds of tiny lights, the famous structure standing proud again the spectacular Paris sunset. ‘Gérard certainly knows how to impress a girl. Or was this your idea? Maybe this is all part of
your God complex—you just have to be looking down on everyone else.’

  Ignoring that remark, Damon urged her forward towards the private elevator reserved for those dining in the restaurant. Bringing a personal note to their relationship had been a mistake, he thought grimly. Thank goodness the evening would be about business. He and Gérard would discuss the transition of Prince Advertising into DMG and Polly could fill in any blanks on the previous management of the account and expand on her creative ideas for the brand.

  As the elevator rose through the iconic building Damon kept his eyes forward. He was aware of Polly fidgeting beside him but he didn’t turn his head, determined this time to keep his focus.

  As they emerged into the restaurant they were met by the maître d’ and by Gérard himself, who had evidently arrived just moments before them.

  Long-time acquaintances and sparring partners, Damon and the Frenchman greeted each other warmly while the front of house staff took Polly’s coat. Deep in conversation about the strength of the euro, it took Damon a few moments to realise that he had lost his audience. Gérard’s thoughts on currency fluctuations had clearly been sublimated by some higher priority that could only be female. Amused and exasperated in equal degrees, Damon turned his head to see who could have caused that degree of distraction.

  His attention arrested by the woman behind him, it took him a moment to realise that it was Polly, minus the coat that she’d handed to the hovering staff. In the few seconds he’d had his back to her she’d gone from understated to unbelievable.

  Transfixed by the dramatic transformation, Damon suddenly understood why she’d chosen to cover herself from head to foot. Had he seen her outfit he would have locked her in their hotel suite and thrown away the key. Abiding by his instruction to dress elegantly, she’d chosen to wear a black suit, but all hint of compliance ended with the colour. The tailored jacket was fastened by a single shapely button. A hint of black lace camisole was peeping naughtily from under the V of the lapels. The skirt was short, her legs showcased in a pair of exotic black stockings that shimmered and glistened in the candlelight. Mesmerised by those incredible legs, Damon saw that the shimmer was created by a pattern of tiny hearts embroidered in glittering silver thread and spiralling up from ankle to thigh.

  They were cheeky and sexy and perfect for a hot date. Which made them completely unsuitable for a client meeting in his opinion.

  ‘Mademoiselle est ravissant.’ Apparently disagreeing with him, Gérard took her hand in a typically Gallic gesture and lifted it to his lips. ‘Once again I am impressed. Your decision to showcase the jewel in our new product range in this high-profile venue is yet more proof that I was right to hire you. I love these. They are my favourite and I consider myself a connoisseur.’

  Both of them looked down at her legs and Damon felt his core temperature rocket to dangerous levels. He was about to snap something when he realised they were talking about the tights, not her legs.

  ‘I love them.’ Polly beamed up at Gérard, paying Damon no attention whatsoever. ‘They’re special, sexy and so affordable. They can transform a plain boring black suit with no originality whatsoever—’ her eyes flickered briefly to Damon ‘—into an outfit that makes any woman feel like a princess. They’re the perfect day-to-night accessory and what’s more they’re within the budget of every discerning woman. I adore them. All the girls in the office are crazy for them. They’re so very now.’ The corners of her mouth dimpled as she smiled up at the captivated Frenchman. ‘We’re going to make sure they’re the next big thing.’

  ‘And you have ideas for me about how to turn that adoration into a worldwide campaign that will propel High Kick Hosiery into the must-have fashion statement of the decade?’

  ‘Tons of ideas.’ Reaching into her bag, Polly pulled out her pink notebook and waved it under Gérard’s nose.

  The notoriously hard-nosed businessman laughed indulgently. ‘Ah, the famous notebook and even more famous pink pen. The deadly weapon with which Polly successfully defeats the opposition. Had Napoleon had you and your pink pen by his side, history would have been changed.’ Smiling, he took her arm and led her towards the table. ‘I want to hear your ideas. Given your love of pink, I’m surprised you didn’t opt for our hot pink tights this evening.’

  ‘Mr Doukakis isn’t a lover of hot pink.’ Balancing on impossibly high heels, Polly was almost as tall as the Frenchman. ‘Apparently it makes him think of flamingos.’

  Absorbing the fact that the hot pink tights had been another product in the High Kick Hosiery line, Damon wondered at what point his own agenda had obliterated his usual ability to think clearly. She’d chosen to showcase the sparkling tights at one of the most high-profile venues in Paris. Not only that, she’d worn the long black coat simply because she’d known he would have disapproved.

  The fact that she could easily have told him she was wearing her client’s products was something he’d raise with her later.

  Poised to offer reassurance to Gérard on what the takeover would mean to his business, Damon found himself taking a back seat as Polly presented ideas for a global campaign—a campaign that left Damon speechless with its scope and creativity.

  It slowly dawned on him that her contribution to the company was far greater than even his glimpse into her notebook had suggested.

  Intercepting his stunned look, Gérard lifted his champagne glass. ‘Incredible, isn’t she?’ There was a speculative look in his eyes as he looked at Polly. ‘Much as it pains me to compliment a man whose ego is already robust, I salute Damon for his astute business sense in locking you into his company. Talented people are rare. With you, it is like finding a precious uncut diamond in a bucket of gravel. I admit that when my colleagues recommended that we invite Prince Advertising to pitch, I refused. But then the word spread about the girl with the pink pen and the creative brain. Only Damon Doukakis would be bold enough to take over an ailing company in order to secure one member of staff.’

  Damon didn’t correct him. ‘She has some truly original ideas,’ he agreed smoothly, ‘and fortunately within the group we have the muscle to turn those big ideas into reality. We’ll put out top team onto your account.’

  ‘I don’t care who is in the team.’ Gérard dug his fork into marinated scallops. ‘I just want Polly. You’re a crafty dog, Doukakis. I was about to recruit her myself.’

  Reflecting on the news that Gérard had intended to offer Polly a job, Damon frowned, but Polly had abandoned her meal and was scribbling over her pad, absorbed by the ideas she was creating.

  ‘We’ve plenty of time to agree tactics, but the overall strategy should establish the brand image. Then the emphasis needs to be on social media. It isn’t just about getting across a message and selling, it’s about relationship-building—engaging with our customer … I’ve got his brilliant idea for using YouTube—’ Her suggestions were clever and intelligent and she charmed her client so completely that by the end of the meal he’d agreed to triple the budget and hear her ideas for two other major brands.

  Damon watched her in action, unable to think of anything other than how her mouth had felt under his. His view of her as his baby sister’s disruptive friend had somehow morphed into something dramatically different. He remembered the way she’d stood up to the board and challenged them. At the time he’d assumed her defence was driven by self-interest, but now he understood that her behaviour stemmed from the fact that she had a deep commitment to the people who worked for the company. Guilt stabbed him hard. It was gradually dawning on him that, far from being lazy, she worked every bit as hard as he did. She cared about the employees as much as he did. Even now, she was ignoring the throb in her head to honour a meeting with this important client when ninety nine percent of staff would have stayed in bed and called in sick.

  Unaccustomed to being wrong about people, Damon was forced to admit that he’d allowed his anger with her father and his past experience of her to colour his judgement.

  Br
ooding on how that could have happened, it took him a few moments to notice that Gérard was increasingly attentive to Polly. Recognising sexual interest when he saw it, Damon felt a flare of outrage. When Gérard suggested ending the evening with a trip up to the viewing platform, Damon immediately vetoed that idea, appalled at the thought of the notorious French playboy accompanying Polly to a destination favoured by those seeking romance.

  Shaken by the depth of that primal response, a devotee of rational, logical decision-making, Damon shocked himself by launching himself out of his seat and demanded their coats. It wasn’t rational or logical, but he wanted her covered up as fast as possible. He wanted that coat back on, buttoned to the neck, concealing those amazing legs. The thought of the whole of Paris following the spiralling upward path of those tiny sparkling hearts made him sweat like a man running a marathon in a desert.

  ‘We’ll send you a full proposal in the next few days, Gérard.’ Taking control, he ended the evening and then guided Polly back down to the waiting limo.

  As his driver opened the door for them she stopped and shook her head. ‘I want to go for a walk. It’s been a horrible week and it’s so beautiful here. It would be nice to get some air.’ Behind her the Eiffel Tower was illuminated against the dark sky and he saw her glance wistfully towards the tourist attraction. ‘You go. I can find my own way back to the hotel.’ Balancing on one leg like a stork, she removed her stilettos and replaced them with her flats.

  Knowing that if he left her alone for two minutes she would be mobbed by Frenchmen, Damon took the shoes from her, handed them to his driver and held out his arm.

  Her gaze lifted from his arm to his face and he acknowledged her astonishment with a faint smile.

  ‘Truce. I’m protecting my asset. Clearly I should have your pink pen insured for an astronomical amount.’