Undressed by the Boss (Mills & Boon By Request)

by Marsh, Susan

  ‘What else?’ Leaning half in and half out of the car, Raffa spoke to her in a muted and discreet tone that allowed him to get his message across loud and clear: ‘If this doesn’t work out for you, Casey, there are plenty of other jobs in my organization.’

  Roger that. ‘But this is the job I want,’ she said stubbornly, holding his gaze for as long as she dared so there could be no mistake.

  Sweeping inky brows rose minutely. Shutting the car door, Raffa made some signal, and then both he and the limousine swept away.

  So she liked to live dangerously, he mused, turning to watch Casey walk up the steps of the hotel. It amused him to see that she had managed to wrestle her backpack from the horrified doorman already. She was quite determined to go it alone and she made him smile. She hadn’t given him so much as a chance to have the shopping mall closed for her to have a spending spree on him. Oh, no, that wasn’t Casey Michaels’s way.

  He eased back in his seat, but found it impossible to relax. He swung round in his seat to take one final look at her.

  In fact …

  ‘Turn around, please,’ he told the driver. ‘We’re going back.’

  Oh, wow! She really must stop running around the suite, picking things up and putting them down again, and try to get over the fact that she had been given accommodation that exceeded her wildest dreams by her wildest dreams.

  Racing into the bathroom, she turned on the drench shower, getting drenched in the process, before sprinting back into the biggest bedroom she’d ever seen.

  Who needed a gym when you had your own running track?

  And, no, her backpack wasn’t in here, it was still in the ballroom-sized lounge, Casey remembered, chasing back the way she’d come. She had the whole of the top floor to herself, for goodness’ sake. It was less a penthouse and more a country. Even her bulging pack looked like a doll’s accessory, lying where she had discarded it on the football-pitch-sized rug in the centre of the floor.

  Fighting with the buckles, she flung it open and delved inside. The best she could come up with was a white T- shirt, a pair of old jeans and some flip-flops, but at least they were clean and fresh, and they’d have to do. Flinging the chosen outfit onto a chair, she raced back to the bathroom, tugging off clothes as she ran. Stepping gratefully beneath the tepid water, she soaped herself down. This was a bathroom fit for a king—a bathroom the size of her family home—a bathroom lined in pink-veined cream marble with a matching floor. There were black granite surfaces and golden taps. It wasn’t to her taste, but there was no doubt it was the height of luxury, the height of decadence, the height of—well, the height. And there was even a store-sized selection of high end products for her to choose from.

  But no time to use them.

  She grabbed for towels in her excitement, plucking the first ones that came to hand from the heated rail. Wrapping her hair in one, she almost managed to wrap her body in the other before barging through the door, and—

  Paling with shock, she remained rooted to the spot, clutching her wholly inadequate towel over those bits most obviously reacting to the ruler of A’Qaban.

  Raffa was currently lounging on the sofa. Surprised, excited and embarrassed, she performed a virginal two-step, backing her way to the bathroom door, conscious all the while her towel was slipping. ‘Wh … who let you in?’

  ‘Your butler.’

  ‘My …?’ She didn’t even know she had a butler. How many more invisible men were sharing the penthouse with her?

  Unfolding his powerful frame, Raffa straightened up and did the last thing she expected. ‘What are you doing?’ She backed away nervously as he strolled towards her.

  ‘I thought you might need these …’

  He sounded so relaxed she wondered if dealing with half-naked employees was par for the course. But then she saw what he was holding. As Raffa’s cool, sexy gaze remained steady on her face, she extended one hand cautiously to take the jeans and top she’d chosen to wear.

  ‘Most people who stay here use this space as a meeting room and reception area,’ he explained.

  And don’t run around it naked, Casey gathered, pressing back against the bathroom door. ‘Could you …?’ How to make the required gesture without dropping her towel?

  Fortunately, Raffa anticipated her. ‘Could I turn around?’ he suggested.

  Could he read her mind? She hoped not. ‘Please …’

  ‘My pleasure …’

  It was a relief to turn his back on Casey and allow his stern expression to unbend a little. She was so warm and pink and flustered; she was adorable. Not a quality he sought, necessarily, in his executives.

  ‘Okay, you can turn round now.’

  How piquant to be given permission. But there had been too many compliant milksops in his life recently, and he rated ladies who stood up to him. Executives who stood up to him, he amended.

  ‘Did you need something?’ Casey sounded concerned, professional, as she straightened her clothes.

  ‘The shopping trip,’ he reminded her.

  ‘I’ve got it covered.’

  ‘You have?’ He narrowed his eyes, viewing the towel she had discarded on the floor. She blushed violently as she explained, ‘I called a cab.’

  ‘No need.’

  ‘No need?’

  As she angled her face and stared at him with an ingenuous look in her clear blue eyes he got a jolt. She affected him in a way no executive should. That didn’t stop him sticking to his plan. ‘I’ll take you.’

  ‘You?’

  She looked alarmed, as if he had suggested something immoral. His gaze dropped from her eyes to her lips. They were full, moist, and slightly parted. He had certainly never wanted to kiss one of his executives before.

  ‘Why?’ she said suspiciously.

  Had he had been expecting wall-to-wall gratitude? ‘Because it’s the least I can do,’ he explained. ‘I brought you here with a backpack and a shovel, and you need a suit.’ He made a gesture, as if to say that was an end of it. ‘Shall we go?’ He looked towards the door.

  ‘Only if you promise I can pay.’

  ‘What?’ As he held her gaze he was amused to think anyone could be so humdrum on paper and yet so original in the flesh.

  She brandished her purse. ‘Promise me …’

  ‘I thought Sheikhs were supposed to pay?’ He spoke lightly to restore her mood, but she only blushed again and looked away. He guessed she was concerned she had overstepped the mark and had lost the job without a hand being played. What would the papers have to say about this? he wondered as he gave his word.

  ‘Thank you. And as for Sheikhs,’ she admitted shyly, ‘I really don’t know—you’re my first.’

  And your last, he thought fiercely.

  ‘Muta assif, Casey Michaels,’ he intoned in a deceptively calm voice. ‘Please accept my apologies if I have insulted you.’

  ‘No insult,’ she hurried to assure him. ‘It’s just that I’m used to paying my own way.’

  ‘You should never apologise for that.’ He held the door for her.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE limousine had gone home to bed, and in its place was a blood red Lamborghini.

  ‘You wanted to go shopping didn’t you?’ Raffa prompted, when Casey remained rooted to the spot, staring at the fabulous vehicle in confusion.

  ‘Of course I do, but—’

  ‘But what?’

  But it was a small car where they’d almost be touching—where they’d be sharing the same air, the same breath. ‘Is the boot big enough?’

  ‘For one business suit?’ Raffa looked at her sideways.

  What to say? She couldn’t admit that she didn’t trust herself to sit so close to him without her brain scrambling and something addled coming out of her mouth.

  ‘The shops don’t stay open all night.’

  She took the prompt as a warning to get a move on, and made her way to the open door where, with as much grace as she could muster, she performed the contort
ions required to insert a reasonably well-upholstered body into a letter-box-sized opening.

  ‘It’s a moulded seat,’ Raffa explained helpfully as she bumped her hips in a dozen different places.

  Moulded around Tinkerbell’s bottom, Casey presumed, forcing her own rather more ample curves into the available space. ‘Lovely …’ She beamed, remembering not to flinch as Raffa settled himself beside her.

  He was being helpful, she reminded herself. He didn’t need to do this.

  And she didn’t need to stare at his strong, capable hands on the wheel, or his legs … But she could see the muscles in his thighs working as he operated the vehicle, and they were really gripping her attention. She raised her chin in time to see Raffa lower what to her would be around a month’s worth of wages in designer sunglasses past the obstacle of his ridiculously long eyelashes and part-way down his nose. Far too late now to evade his laser stare.

  ‘It is a very big shopping mall. Give me a clue as to what you need and I’ll decide where to park up.’

  ‘Just a serviceable suit.’

  ‘Which you’ll wear with flip-flops? Don’t waste my time,’ he warned, settling his sunglasses into position. ‘Remember the five “P’s”.’

  ‘The five what?’ She turned to look at him in bewilderment.

  ‘Proper Preparation Prevents Poor Performance.’

  ‘Of course …’ What? ‘I won’t,’ she assured him.

  As Raffa gunned the engine and released the brake her full attention returned to his face. He hated shopping; she could understand that—he was a man. But maybe, just maybe, she could use this opportunity to turn the shopping trip into an advantage …’I can’t wait to get star—’

  The rest of Casey’s sentence was lost in the roar of the colossal engine as the Lamborghini took off. G-Force knocked her back in her seat, rendering conversation impossible.

  He would give Casey the same chance he’d given all the other candidates.

  And then …?

  She’d fail, and he’d send her home, of course.

  His lips tugged as his body argued with this sombre inner counsel. It would be interesting to see which half of him won through in the end.

  He drew into the extensive car park, where a valet was waiting to park the car. ‘Money?’ he prompted, before Casey got out. He was still prepared to help her, but she had plumbed the pockets of her jeans, coming up with a handful of screwed-up notes and some spare change, which she now showed him. He stared at it dubiously. ‘Are you sure that’s enough?’

  ‘It’s plenty for what I need,’ she told him, jutting out her chin. ‘It’s more than I usually spend …’

  He raised a brow and said nothing.

  He followed her inside as his silent guards peeled out of the following cars. This was a first for them, he mused as he left the order of the car park behind for the bustle and glamour of an up-market mall. He motioned his guards to remain in the background as Casey consulted the mall guide. Having looked around to get her bearings, she headed off.

  He followed her with interest. Shopping malls in A’Qaban were for exclusive labels only. Most of the shops didn’t reveal anything so vulgar as the cost of an article, and though personally he hated floating prices, with increasing wealth they had become a fact of life in the country. The general consensus was, if you had to ask the price, chances were you couldn’t afford it. To him that was not only insulting, but open to misuse, allowing prices to be thought up on a whim. It was on his list of things to change—but not today, because this was Casey Michaels’s day and his concerns were all for her.

  He had brought Casey to A’Qaban to test her business acumen, not to humiliate her, he reminded himself, staying right behind her. If it got anywhere close to that, he’d step in.

  He waited in the shadows of the first boutique to see how she got on. The shop specialised in clothes he thought far too old for her. As he had feared, the misnamed ‘assistants’ were dismissive of Casey, and barely looked her way as she searched the rails. He felt insulted and angry on her behalf. He wasn’t surprised to see a photograph of the late Sheikh, a distant relative of his, still hanging on the wall. Attitudes here were still in the Dark Ages. He intended A’Qaban to be a country of equal opportunity, where everyone would be treated with respect. The employees here had some shocks in store when that happened, but for now Casey was stuck with the ancient regime, and it pained him to see her embarrassment when she came out of the shop.

  ‘I’m sorry to keep you, Raffa, but there’s nothing I like in here.’

  ‘Don’t apologise.’ Seeing her face fall, and knowing she couldn’t afford anything in the shop, he nudged Casey into the shadows, where no one could see what they were doing.

  She turned her face up to him, staring at him warily.

  ‘Call it an advance on your wages,’ he murmured, wanting to save her pride.

  ‘No … Please …’

  Her tiny hand pushed his away as he tried in vain to pass a wad of banknotes to her.

  ‘I mean it, Raffa. Please don’t …’

  He eased back, respecting her position, and had to satisfy himself with a raised brow at the snooty manageress as they left the shop.

  Seeing his face clearly in the light, the woman blenched.

  Without a word of complaint Casey headed for the next shop, but when she was shown the same lack of attention he decided he must put her out of her misery.

  ‘No, really—I’ve learned a lot,’ she explained when he again drew her to one side.

  Such as she couldn’t afford anything in A’Qaban? Such as people without enough money got snubbed here? That wasn’t what he wanted for his country. He felt ashamed, and was already reaching for his wallet again when Casey’s face suddenly lit up.

  ‘Ah, that’s what I need,’ she exclaimed, heading off in the direction of a well-stocked stationery shop.

  ‘Don’t get distracted,’ he warned. He was sympathetic, but he’d brought her here for a purpose, not for a protracted shopping trip.

  ‘Will you wait outside for me?’

  He ground his jaw. He could understand she wouldn’t want him witnessing any more embarrassing situations, but now was not the time to be searching for a postcard home. ‘Will you please take some money from me and get whatever it is you need?’

  ‘I won’t need a lot of money for this,’ she informed him.

  Intrigued, he followed her into the shop, where she bought a clipboard and a pen. ‘That’s it?’ he said as she paid for them.

  ‘What more do I need?’

  ‘Do you intend wearing them?’ he asked dryly.

  Casey’s response was to press back against the counter, clutching her purchases to her breast like a shield.

  ‘That was a joke?’ he prompted lightly.

  ‘Of course I don’t intend wearing them.’

  She acted bold, but not for the first time he sensed her fear of him as a man. It was raw and very real to her, and it made him curious, but for now he stepped away. The last thing on his mind was to intimidate her.

  ‘Will you come with me?’ she said, as if concerned she’d tried his patience too far.

  ‘Lead the way …’ He made a gesture for her to go first, noticing her lips were parted and her gaze was fixed on him. And she was breathing too fast. She was a lot more innocent than he could ever have imagined, but she was aroused.

  She was vulnerable, he told himself sternly as she walked past, and as such Casey Michaels was untouchable.

  He matched his stride to her shorter one, keen to see where this was going. He waved his guards away when they threatened to get in her way. She was retracing her steps, he noticed with interest, heading back to the first shop. He waited while she went inside. He waited with rather less forbearance when the same snooty assistants were rude to her again. They ignored her. Or at least they ignored her for the first five minutes—after which they paid her a lot more attention. Perhaps that had something to do with the fact that Casey had t
aken up a position in the centre of their store and was using her clipboard to write down what appeared to be a detailed inventory of their stock.

  ‘Can I help you?’ the assistant detailed to apprehend Casey demanded.

  ‘No, thank you,’ Casey replied politely. ‘But I’m pretty sure I can help you.’

  Botoxed brows rose as far as they were able.

  His ears pricked up. He took a step forward and had to curb his impatience to step in. If the woman saw him, whatever project Casey had embarked on would be sunk.

  ‘Actually,’ Casey continued in the same pleasant and confiding tone, ‘I’m conducting a survey for Sheikh Rafik al Rafar bin Haktari on the level of service customers receive in his stores.’ As the woman tensed, she added, ‘The Sheikh does own this boutique, I believe?’

  ‘Together with every other shop in the mall,’ the assistant confirmed, in a voice that not only lacked its former sneer but had gained a wobble.

  ‘Yes, that’s what I thought,’ Casey agreed. ‘You see, I am what’s known in the trade as a Secret Shopper.’

  At this point he thought the assistant in more need of assistance than Casey, and had to admit he was impressed by the end result—which involved Casey making a clean sweep of the store without a penny changing hands.

  ‘Sale or approval,’ she explained to him breezily on her way out.

  He got it now. He would pay for them eventually. Clever? Yes. But ultimately disappointing. It always came down to money in the end. He could only hope that if Casey intended to repeat the exercise she would choose a younger range of clothes for her next rapacious fashion trolley-dash.

  But she had another surprise in store for him.

  ‘I shan’t keep them,’ she confided as they strode together down the brilliantly lit mall.

  ‘So what will you do with them?’ He waved a hovering security guard forward to take the packages.

  ‘Return them, of course.’

  ‘But how does that help your situation?’

  She gave him a look, clearly getting into her stride now. ‘Can I have a little longer to prove my point?’