by Aimee Carson
Paulo cocked his head. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but at least his tone was businesslike. “Do we have a deal?”
Alyssa rounded the desk, not stopping until it was between her and Paulo. It was much easier to handle him from a distance. And her voice was clearer, too. “Of course.”
“Good,” he said, and then headed for the door. “I have a few things to discuss with my secretary.” He stopped at the threshold and turned to face her. His eyes communicated exactly what he wanted to see the woman about. The file. The twinkle appeared in his eyes again. “Anything you want to tell me before I go?”
“No,” she said coolly. “Not a thing.”
The light in his eyes grew brighter as he acknowledged the stalemate with a sharp nod. “Okay. I’ll be back to see how you’re doing at the end of the day.” And then he turned and headed out the exit.
Alyssa flopped into her chair and dropped her head back, staring at the door he’d closed behind him. Oh, joy. He was coming back to check on her. More nerve-racking moments to look forward to. This game of cat and mouse was doable until he stepped closer and she could feel the attraction, an almost physical presence. It was like being caught in a tractor beam.
Sucking her in.
And on the off chance her background check didn’t get her fired, now her job would involve daily direct contact with Paulo Domingues. Daily direct contact.
How in the world was she going to handle the constant scrutiny of the bedeviling man? Even more crucial, how was she going to survive the undeniable way he made her feel?
“Look,” Nick Tatum said. His sandy brown hair stuck out beneath the baseball cap perched backward on his head. “Right there.” Paulo’s friend hit the pause button on the security video, and an image of Alyssa from yesterday froze on the TV. She was standing at the reception desk of the Samba, in her boring gray suit. “Do you see that?” Nick pointed at Alyssa’s right hand where it rested on the counter. “Her fingers are angled in a different position.”
Paulo frowned and leaned in for a closer look at the screen.
Right after he’d spoken with his secretary, he called Nick. Friends since junior high, there was no one Paulo trusted more. For the last twenty minutes they’d been reviewing the tape in the security guard’s tiny office, and Paulo’s frustration was mounting. “That doesn’t prove anything.”
After calling a few of her former clients yesterday, every one of them singing her praises, Paulo had decided Alyssa might be able to cut the mustard. When she’d handed over the mountain of work she achieved overnight, his fascination had reached for the roof.
And the thought of leaving her supervision to Charles had left him feeling cheated.
At first he’d assumed she’d asked the secretary for the report, but that had turned up false. Then he’d thought she’d helped herself to the file from his office. But when he’d found the document in his filing cabinet, he’d run into a dead end. The security tape was supposed to give him the answer. And still he had nothing.
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Paulo said.
“I’m telling you.” In cutoffs and a T-shirt, Nick leaned back, pulling his bowl of popcorn from the table and balancing it on his lap. “She took the file.”
“But the file is still in the cabinet.”
“Dude.” Nick popped a piece of popcorn in his mouth. “She copied it.”
“There wasn’t time.” Aggravated he couldn’t solve the perplexing mystery, Paulo raked a hand through his hair. “She had to pull the document from my filing cabinet, use the copier in the staff hallway, return the papers to the office, and then get back to the counter. But every passing sweep of the security camera clearly shows she never left the reception desk.”
Crunching on his snack, Nick frowned, as if disappointed by the huge hole in his theory.
“Unless…” Paulo said, a slow realization dawning as he glanced at the watch on her wrist. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? “She knew exactly when the camera would be making its sweep, timing her movements to return to stand at the counter at precisely the same spot between each task.” He lifted a brow in triumph and glanced at his friend.
Nick’s eyes went wide as he let out a low whistle. “Now, that’s cool.” He gazed at the TV screen. “Who’d she organize parties for in the past? The Mission: Impossible team?” After a moment’s pause, he sent Paulo a grin, his green eyes lit with humor. “If I’d known your workday was this entertaining, I would have hung out here more often.”
Entertaining. His new event planner had pulled off a heist in broad daylight, and, short of dusting for fingerprints, Paulo couldn’t prove a thing. Granted, she hadn’t actually stolen anything, and it would have been information she would have had access to anyway, but that wasn’t the point. The point was…
Paulo’s thoughts trailed off as he stared at the beautiful woman on the monitor. He couldn’t remember his point anymore.
Nick tossed a kernel into the air, caught it in his mouth, and then wagged his finger in the direction of the video recorder. “Let’s rewind the tape and watch it again.”
Paulo shot Nick a wry look. “Glad you’re enjoying the midday movie.”
“You’re just ticked she bested you at your game.”
No, he wasn’t. And that was the problem. He wasn’t angry; he was massively, massively intrigued by his new event planner’s cunning and finesse.
Intrigued and attracted. Not a reassuring combination.
Paulo was saved from dwelling on the growing concern when his cellular phone beeped, and he pulled it from his pocket. Scanning the text message, he felt his snowballing curiosity reach gargantuan proportions. “The results of her background check,” he said, waving his phone in the air. “Ten years ago she was convicted of stealing.”
They both turned to view the woman on the screen.
After a moment’s pause, Nick said, “Why would she risk a stunt that could trigger a look at her record?”
It was the first question Paulo had a ready response to. Eyes fixated on his new event planner, Paulo answered, “She’s sending me a message. She doesn’t care if I know.”
The ticking of the clock on the wall was loud, until Nick finally broke the shocked silence. “Wow. I think I’m in love.” His tone proved just how impressed he was. “If you fire her, I’m hiring her at my club.”
And miss out on the most exciting woman he’d ever met? Not a chance in hell. Paulo continued to stare at Alyssa’s image. “She doesn’t want to be one of your many girlfriends.” He shot Nick a quick look from the corner of his eye. “And I financed that club, remember?”
“And to return the favor I found you the perfect replacement band for the opening of the Samba.” Nick stood and set his popcorn aside. “Seven o’clock. Old Beachside Park. Be there tonight and you can hear their stuff.”
Right now Paulo was too distracted to think of much outside his new employee. He stood, arms crossed, absorbed by her demeanor on the screen. Her posture was dignified as she waited at the counter, her tote hanging from her shoulder. Very professional. How had she retained such a calm expression during her caper?
“Ahem.” Nick waved his hand in front of Paulo’s eyes. “Beachside Park? Seven o’clock?” Paulo turned to face Nick. His friend looked amused as he continued. “Maybe I should just leave the two of you alone.”
Paulo ignored the comment. “I’ll go see the band tonight,” he said. He was more wound up than he’d realized. “Thanks for finding them. I owe you big time.”
Nick shot him a grin. “Always good to keep my obnoxiously rich friend indebted to me. Could come in handy again someday.”
Paulo let out a soft snort. “You’re such a moron.”
“Coming from you, that means nothing,” Nick said, and then his grin grew bigger. “Now I’ll let you get back to your new girlfriend.” After a salute, he headed out the door, chuckling all the way down the hall as he left.
Paulo returned his gaze to the monitor, taking in the curve o
f Alyssa’s backside, the slim calves and the delicate ankles above the spectacular shoes.
Who was this unflappable lady that had descended like Wonder Woman upon his hotel, promising to solve his problem? A woman with enough poise to greet the Queen of England, enough spunk to take on Hell’s Angels, and the ability to fight dirty when pushed into a corner.
But she hadn’t hidden what she’d done. Instead she’d flaunted it. Gleefully waved it under his nose. Daring him to say something.
While most aggressive go-getters learned to think outside the box, she upped the ante and thought outside of the whole shipping container. And he was developing a deep admiration for his wily new employee.
Admiration, intrigue and attraction.
Man, he really was in trouble.
At six-thirty that evening Paulo sat on his motorcycle in front of the Samba, waiting for Alyssa to show. Traffic zipped by on Ocean Drive. Pedestrians meandered along the terracotta walkway, passing hotels and trendy shops, enjoying the cooler evening breeze.
Alyssa appeared and headed down the front steps of the hotel, turning north on the sidewalk. Her respectable pantsuit was paired with a purse that added a bit of chic. Yesterday it was the shoes; today it was her bag. And, though she handled herself with decorum, he was beginning to get a better taste of the woman beneath.
A delicious concoction he’d never encountered before.
As he watched her walk, his eyes dropped to her feet. Before she’d left the building, she had exchanged her heels for a pair of athletic shoes. Interesting.
He started his bike and pulled up beside her, flipping up the visor on his helmet. “I like the new shoes,” Paulo said as he balanced the slow-moving motorcycle with his feet. “If you’re going home on foot, I can give you a lift.”
She kept walking and sent him a tight thanks-but-no-thanks smile. “I’m fine.”
“You must be tired after producing such a detailed report.”
She ignored his dig and continued her sexy saunter on the sidewalk.
He tried again. “Do you always work this late?”
“The more I get done now, the more time to solicit new events later.” She turned to look at him as she continued on her way.
His eyes dropped to take in the translucent pink of her lipstick. The fierce need those full lips created was enough to require a “caution—contents hot” label.
“More events, more income,” she said. “I’m sure you understand the benefits of more income.”
The words triggered a cascade of memories, every one of them leaving an acrid taste in his mouth. Profit had been the singular concern at Domingues International. But no matter how much he’d added to the bottom line, busting a gut, sacrificing everything to match his brother at work, he’d never obtained that elusive Holy Grail: his father’s recognition.
He pushed the bitter thoughts aside, turning his focus back to the feminine challenge before him. “Your long hours are none of my business. All the better for me, I suppose. But personally, I don’t think work is worth ruining your health over.”
Alyssa stopped mid-step. “Poverty doesn’t increase your lifespan either,” she said dryly.
Paulo halted beside her, taking a quick glance at her bag, amused. “Is Prada the latest trend among the destitute?”
Her lips quirked, as if holding back a smile. “I bought it secondhand.”
“Chic, yet frugal.” He stared at her, more intrigued than ever. But what did he expect? A confession that she’d swiped it? “That’s a rare female combination of traits.” Everything about this woman was exceptional.
“As the daughter of a teenage mother working for minimum wage, I didn’t have much of a choice,” Alyssa said, and started up the sidewalk again.
Hmm, now he was getting somewhere. Because he was burning with curiosity about her past. With his twist of the throttle, the motorcycle revved in response, and he pulled forward on the road to follow along beside her again. “I imagine that was a tough way to grow up.”
A small smile graced her lips, but she didn’t turn to look at him. “No offense, Mr. Domingues,” she said as she continued her stroll, her silky hair swinging against her shoulders. “But I really don’t think you can.”
Paulo grinned. He got a kick out of her refreshingly sassy mouth that kept lobbing subtle barbs in his direction. There was no resentment in her tone. Nor any sign of anger. Only a slight impatience, as if she was in possession of super-secret knowledge he wasn’t privy to.
With the roaring pop of a wheelie, he pulled up on the sidewalk in front of her, and had the pleasure of seeing a startled look fly to her face as she came to a halt. “I have to check out a potential band for the grand opening,” he said. Pleased by her expression, he struggled to keep a straight face. “As my new event planner, you should be there.” While she stared at him, he sent her a measured look as he tipped his head toward the back of his bike. “Hop on.”
CHAPTER THREE
ALYSSA looked down at the candy-apple-red, ultra-modern motorcycle, more suited for a racetrack than a city street, and her body reacted. Heart stomping. Stomach swirling. Nerves churning. She hoped her eyes didn’t resemble those of a tree frog. “You want me to ride there on that?”
His look was deceptively bland beneath the matching red helmet. “It’s just a Ducati. It doesn’t bite.”
As she continued to eye it dubiously, he straightened up, balancing the idling motorcycle between his legs. “Are you afraid?”
The hint of an I-dare-you tone and the suggestive question pricked a nerve. “Of you—no,” she said firmly, hoping to convince herself. She wrestled with the alarming and distressingly heady idea of touching him again. “Of splattering my brains on the pavement—yes.” It seemed a logical enough excuse.
With a look of suppressed humor, Paulo took off his helmet and held it out in offering, waiting patiently.
“What about you?” she said.
The angular, masculine features, combined with the waves of hair and Latino coloring, made him hot enough to star on the silver screen. “I’ll risk it.”
Her lids dropped to half-mast. “I just bet you will.”
Unfortunately, he’d addressed her safety concerns. Any more excuses would look too obvious. And he was right; she needed to be there to hear the band. Blowing out a breath, she wordlessly accepted the helmet and clamped it on her head. After securing her bag on her shoulder, she threw her leg over the back of the bike. She leaned forward, struggling to hold on to Paulo with dignity and still keep her distance.
“Hang on tight.” Paulo pulled her arms firmly around him, spooning her body against his.
The surefire kick to the solar plexus restricted air entry into her lungs. Every solid inch of him was hard, from the back plastered against her breast, to the chest beneath her arms and the thighs between her legs. Alyssa fought for breath as Paulo twisted the throttle, and with a rumbling whine they were off.
For the next few minutes she concentrated on the view of the Atlantic and the sun on her shoulders while trying to rein in her response. The decadent agony ended when Paulo stopped at a park bustling with people and dismounted.
He nodded toward an ice cream vendor. “Vanilla or chocolate?”
Alyssa paused in the midst of pulling off the helmet, a smile of surprise threatening to hijack her mouth. The handsome man wearing a rakish expression looked more inclined to buy her a beer or a whiskey or a Blue 32 shooter. Ice cream sounded so innocent.
“Vanilla,” she said.
While he made their purchases, Alyssa headed toward one of the few empty benches and sat down. When Paulo joined her, he handed her a vanilla cone and kept a chocolate for himself, taking a seat beside her. Desperate to ignore his proximity, she studied the scene.
Sun sparkling off its surface, the Atlantic Ocean spread out before them in shifting shades of blue moving from aquamarine to dark indigo as the ocean floor dropped away. People in shorts and bathing suits milled about on grass dotted w
ith palm trees, while the band set up their equipment on the outdoor stage.
One by one her muscles relaxed, her posture easing against the seat. And the vanilla treat tasted like heaven.
After a few minutes, Paulo interrupted the silence. “Where did you grow up?”
Alyssa tensed. Here we go. Time for the third degree. She turned to look at him as calmly as she could. “I thought you didn’t need to pump me for information?”
A dimple popped into view. “Maybe I spoke too soon.”
The nonchalant words were harmless enough, but she wasn’t fooled. And she wouldn’t volunteer anything more than he asked directly. “I was born in Okeechobee County and moved to Miami when I was five.”
“A country girl at heart, huh?”
“Country. City.” She shrugged and sent him a pointed look. “I prefer not to be characterized in such a shallow way.”
A second dimple popped into view. “How would you characterize yourself?”
She met his gaze, refusing to give anything away. “As an excellent businesswoman.”
“Any other traits I should be aware of?”
Alyssa’s brow pulled tight as her words from their first meeting were being thrown back in her face. And as she studied him—the expression, the knowledge in his eyes—she knew. He’d run the check and heard about her record. Asking her to come see the band was an excuse.
She was about to get canned. Again.
With the bellowing dive alarm of a submarine, her stomach descended to her toes. Her dream job was coming to an end before it began. And she was so tired of being labeled by her past. So very, very tired.
But she wasn’t going to cower like a coward. She crossed her legs, summoning every ounce of poise she possessed. “For a self-described straight shooter, you beat around the bush a lot, Mr. Domingues,” she said. “Why don’t you just tell me what’s on your mind.”
“I read about your conviction.”
Though her heart pounded, her gaze didn’t flinch. She hated excuses, and she wasn’t about to offer him one. But she hated being defined by that moment even more. And what was she supposed to say? She hiked an eyebrow. “So…?”
