Undressed by the Boss (Mills & Boon By Request)

by Marsh, Susan

  Wherever he touched her, fire raged. In her lips, in the tissues inside her mouth, in her tender, swollen breasts. It licked along her veins, and inflamed wild cravings between her legs.

  He broke from her lips to deliver hot greedy kisses down her throat to her breasts. Painfully aroused, her nipples strained for his touch. As though in instinctive understanding, he sucked the yearning peaks one after the other through the fabrics of her dress and bra.

  His touch was so subtle and erotic, it was like paraffin to the flame. Desire blazed in her blood, arousing such a desperate hunger she felt a rush of moisture in her pants.

  In a frenzy for deeper, more intimate contact, she writhed in his strong arms, exulting in the hard length of his erection prodding her belly, lusting to feel the hot rod stroking her where it counted. To dare him on she pushed up his shirt, exploring in the dark with avid hands his smooth, satin skin, the gorgeous contours of his pectorals and hard, flat abdominal muscles.

  The strong rhythm of his heart beat against her ear, moving in its great invincible power, while at the same time so human and vulnerable. Somehow the thought of that intensified her passion for him. With thirsty lips she tasted his hot, salty skin and felt his chest hairs graze her cheek. Unbearably tantalised, knowing she was raising the stakes, she licked one of his nipples.

  A satisfying shudder rippled through his big frame. Groaning her name, he sank to his knees, his arms around her hips, and pressed his mouth hungrily into her dress at the juncture of her thighs.

  The shock sent a deep gasp of excitement through her, and she sagged, trembling, against the wall, barely able to support herself, while, through the thin layers of her clothing, he invaded the secrets of her mound with his sexy mouth.

  It was thrilling, it was titillating, it felt rapturously good. She panted for the delicious pleasure to go on and on, to get deeper, closer, wilder, and when he lifted her dress over his head and licked seductively across the flimsy fabric of her pants, she hardly recognised the hoarse animal sound that came from her own throat. She leaned back against the wall, her legs parted for him, willing the forbidden ecstasy to continue, quivering when his cunning tongue tip strayed inside the fabric and flicked across her most intimate place.

  She was interrupted from her swooning pleasure by a gradual and increasing awareness of hammering. At almost the same time, Tom Russell drew abruptly apart from her, causing her to overbalance and sprawl gracelessly on top of him.

  She heard him yelp with pain, and curse. He shifted position to prevent her knee from crushing his most vulnerable asset and her elbow from piercing his neck. After a stunned second, she scrambled up, feeling herself go scarlet with embarrassment. He followed suit more slowly, groaning at first, then breaking into a laugh.

  Hot and discomfited as she was, that laugh stung like fury. Did the man have a sensitive bone in his body?

  It impinged on her foggy brain that the hammering was someone knocking at the front door. She made a panicked attempt to smooth her hair and dress and cool her face with her fingers, ignoring Tom as he turned away from her to make adjustments to his clothes.

  It reminded her only too rawly of the aftermath of the fateful kiss at the yacht club. This time, though, her mortification was made worse by the awkward and painful discomfort of unresolved lust. And would he blame her, this time?

  She felt him glance her way again and avoided his eyes.

  ‘That’ll be dinner,’ he said, his voice like a gravel pit. At least he’d stopped laughing. He stood for a few pregnant seconds pushing back his hair, then after some strained moments in which neither of them uttered a word, made for the door.

  She heard the murmur of voices, and, casting about for a bolt hole, shrank through the nearest doorway and into the blessed shadows of his bedroom.

  The shadows were short-lived. Tom must have finally noticed the gloom and flicked a switch, because lights snapped on all over the apartment. Standing just inside the open bedroom door, she was caught, petrified, in the spotlight as a crowd of kitchen staff passed by and all turned to stare at her.

  On the one hand she should have been pleased. If a procession of chefs and waiters, the first wheeling a table set for two, countless others bearing stainless-steel chafing dishes, all supervised by a grandiose butler with a supercilious expression, had to enter a scene of unbridled lust, it was probably better if they didn’t find the place suspiciously dark.

  On the other hand, a woman who had just been kissed to within an inch of her life naturally felt cautious about advertising the fact. Hoping the passing parade hadn’t had enough time to properly register her, she summoned the strength to push the door to, and tottered to the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind her.

  At first she had to blink, dazzled by the light. A blaze of white and gold marble bounced from miles of faceted mirrors, until her eyes accustomed and she saw the mirrors had been cunningly placed to give never-ending reflections. She noted a shower cubicle large enough to host a reception, a deep luxurious spa bath with gold tap-fittings, and an elegant toilet and bidet in sparkling fluted porcelain, the like of which had never graced the boarding house. But it was her appearance she was most concerned about.

  She looked a mess.

  Her bodice was slightly askew, her hair ruined. Worse was her face. Her eyes looked languorous and overbright, her mouth as swollen as a Hollywood starlet’s. There were red blotches on her throat and chest, damning evidence of Tom’s enthusiasm.

  How could she have participated in something so shocking?

  She closed her eyes. Shocking but fantastic.

  Just remembering the intensity of the onslaught threatened to melt her insides, and she had to breathe deeply until the storm passed.

  She cast about for something she could use for repairs. Surprisingly, feminine toiletries had been placed on the wide vanity, including high quality shampoo and conditioner she would never have afforded for herself, fragrant gels and body washes, bath salts in lavender and honeysuckle, stored in pretty bottles.

  She washed, then dried herself on one of several fluffy white towels folded on a rack. Without the benefit of makeup, she had to resort to patting some talc onto her throat, and smoothed liberal quantities of moisturiser onto her mouth. She ran an experimental finger over her lips. There wasn’t much more she could do without some proper lipsalve. Satisfied, though, that she looked at least semi-human, she opened the door, hoping the kitchen crew would have left by now, and ventured back into Tom’s bedroom.

  It was the first time she’d really had a chance to appreciate it. Its furnishings were sparse and somehow masculine, with pure lines and uncompromising edges. The polished floorboards were bare, apart from a glistening silken rug some fine oriental hand had woven with the Tree of Life. Nightingales, hummingbirds and peacocks fluttered through its gorgeous branches.

  Heavy silk curtains half obscured the view. On another wall a small exquisite watercolour showed the harbour from almost the same vantage point over a hundred years earlier. She moved closer to peer at its lower right hand corner and saw it was a Streeton. And it was real. Of course it was.

  And there was the bed. For a second she allowed herself to take in its full voluptuous extent, with its quilt turned down, the lamplight warming its pillows. The sexual prospects of that seductive bed swam before her eyes, and her insides warmed and coiled in a confused mingling of sensations.

  It was then she noticed her overnight bag, reposing on a bench created for that purpose. Tom must have placed it there as soon as she’d arrived. She frowned, realising that that had been before they’d even kissed. With dismay it occurred to her that he’d just taken it for granted she would sleep with him. Certainly a woman expected invitations, but this—

  Discomfort gnawed at her. It was one thing to be attracted to someone, even to engage in a little flirtation, quite another for that attraction to translate into sex. Nothing could have shown more clearly what he thought of her. What had she done to convince
him of her easy compliance?

  Although, it wasn’t as if she cared what he thought of her, was it?

  Except … Something panged in her chest. It was no use telling herself she didn’t care what he thought. Ridiculous, but she did. And if she challenged him about it now, after engaging in that sizzling hot clinch, she’d have no credibility. The only thing left to her to retrieve her pride was to make sure he understood she wouldn’t sleep with him under any circumstances. There would be no more kissing, no more … Dismay at her wanton behaviour crept through her and she covered her cheeks with her hands.

  Face it. She’d only known him a day. Could she have lost all touch with reality? She’d known he’d had too much to drink, the circumstances weren’t exactly romantic, only a few hours earlier he’d been treating her with dislike. He knew nothing whatsoever about her, or her life. He didn’t have the slightest interest in her as a person. She would have to … Damn, if she was to live with herself she’d have to deal with it. Straighten it out with him. Tell him plainly where she stood. Otherwise … well, perhaps she’d have to consider leaving.

  Hopeful that the staff had gone, she opened the bedroom door a crack. Clattering sounds came from the kitchen, and savoury aromas that sent her weak at the knees. Her poor stomach rumbled. If she had to leave, surely she could wait until after dinner?

  Steeling herself for public exposure, she drew a deep breath and walked out into the sitting room. Voices came from the kitchen, and she noticed that the balcony was now a blaze of light. A waiter was out there hovering over the table.

  Tom materialised from the kitchen holding two glasses of champagne, and her stern resolutions fell, panting, to their knees. His smile was so darkly wicked and sinful, as if there was some bad conspiracy between them. And there was. Her weak, treacherous body knew it only too well. He pressed a glass into her hand, appraising her with a veiled, solemn look. ‘Are you—all right?’

  ‘Of course I’m all right,’ she snapped.

  What did he think—that she was too unsophisticated to move on from a minor embarrassment? At once she was transported back to that frantic moment when she parted her legs so he could plunder her with his mouth. Against her will, she couldn’t repress the hot sensual tide that rose at ankle level and flooded her all the way up through her neck to the roots of her hair.

  Anger with him for having such inflammatory power over her when she was struggling for poise made her terser with him than she might otherwise have been.

  Anyway, with that predatory alcoholic glow in his eyes, should he even be drinking champagne?

  ‘I see you’ve put my suitcase in your room,’ she asserted coldly.

  His brows made an amused twitch. ‘It seemed the best place.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Well, the bed is comfortable, and I thought you’d enjoy the bathroom. The spa in there is—quite good.’ His black lashes flickered sensuously down.

  ‘Is it? And where do you think you’ll be sleeping?’

  He scratched his ear. After the briefest hesitation, he said, ‘Ah … well. Along here. Come, I’ll show you.’ He held out his hand to take hers but she coolly avoided it.

  She accompanied him along the small hallway that led past the kitchen, where a small crowd was now busily ensconced, and showed her into his study.

  Her jaw dropped. To her complete surprise she saw that a bed had been set up in there. After a few nonplussed seconds, in which she tried to look as nonchalant as if she’d expected it all along, she followed him inside.

  The room was a gracious and pleasant-sized second bedroom. Its walls were lined with bookshelves from ceiling to floor, much like Gran’s, only on a grander scale. There was an en suite bathroom she hadn’t noticed at her earlier visit, showing signs of masculine occupation. Although its fittings were similar to the one in the master suite, it was smaller and not equipped with a spa.

  ‘I work in here at night,’ he explained, leaning his tall frame against his desk and ravishing her with smiling, heavy-lidded eyes. ‘I wouldn’t like to think I was disturbing your sleep.’

  ‘Oh.’ She felt her flush rise again, and turned sharply away to conceal it. It should have been a relief to be able to exonerate him, but somehow it made things more complicated than ever. Everything felt wrong. Posh penthouses with their Persian rugs and gold-fitted marble only irritated her. And how … how could a woman talk to a man she barely knew … after …?

  ‘It’s—it’s very good of you to give up your room. Are you sure you want to do that? I’m sorry if I seemed … I didn’t want to think you might have made some assumption …’

  His eyes were glinting in that way that made it hard to know if he was being sincere, or subtly mocking her and dying to laugh. ‘No need to apologise. If you think about it, it would look strange if you weren’t sleeping in my bed. It would certainly arouse the suspicions of the staff. And then if anyone were to drop by …’

  ‘Oh, you mean … Malcolm Devlin?’ He hesitated to reply, and she added, trying to read his expression, ‘You did say he was coming tonight. Isn’t that why it was so urgent for me to—be here?’

  His eyes shimmered, and a small prickling silence fell. ‘One of the reasons,’ he said at last. ‘As a matter of fact, I—put him off.’

  He didn’t smile. His stirringly sensuous mouth was grave, but she had a sudden piercing insight. Malcolm Devlin wasn’t coming. He’d never been coming. And she knew without a doubt that Tom Russell was as aware as she was of the question clammering in her head and pulsing between them like an electric current.

  She tried to bury its insidious little voice and consign it to the outer regions of hell, but it would come back and insist on asking itself.

  If, it shrilled in her frontal lobes, a man and a woman had engaged in an activity that had failed to reach its natural conclusion, what happened then?

  CHAPTER TEN

  DINNER on the balcony had a certain ambience. From her chair Cate could see the harbour lights, the streaming blaze of headlights overhead on the great bridge, and, rising tier upon tier from all around the shoreline, millions of glowing golden dots that were people’s private windows.

  It was magic. It gave Sydney a cosy, intimate feel, as if personal communications were bouncing from shore to shore across the harbour, and she and Tom were part of them.

  The fairyland effect was enhanced by the excellence of the food. It convinced her that a billionaire employing a private chef didn’t have to be a social evil.

  A chef needed a job, after all. And when Tom introduced her to his chef, his butler, and the waiter with friendly humour, as people he valued and respected, she found it hard not to see him through their eyes. Certainly, he was their boss. She was pretty sure he’d be exacting, even impatient. But she could see they liked and respected him, and weren’t too in awe of him to crack a joke.

  If Gran could have seen her now. Actually, she was glad Gran couldn’t. So much would be hard to explain. And she knew what the people in the newsroom would say. They’d accuse her of selling out her principles to big business interests.

  ‘Does your butler always serve you dinner out here?’

  Tom Russell’s mouth quivered in amusement. ‘I don’t often eat in the apartment. Tonight they thought it was special. They wanted to impress you.’

  Soon afterwards, the subtle delicacies of asparagus soup and gnocchi with truffled mushroom sauce washed down with wine eased some of her tensions. Then coral trout flown in from the Great Barrier Reef, and served with fried potatoes and a lime-and-honey-dressed salad, slid down into her grateful interior and quelled the rest of her qualms. She began to forgive Tom for the kiss debacle. A woman had to eat, after all.

  Although he’d had a few drinks, Tom’s lean, tanned hands moved with the same swift grace as ever, and the only hint of his high-flying mood were the shocking, irreverent stories he told her of celebrities who’d been at the service. She felt that he’d let down his guard to her. He made her laugh an
d kept her imagination on the simmer, her spine tingling like a thrill-seeker on a fun-park ride. Was this how it would feel to be close to him, like a real girlfriend? What dangerous excitement might he plunge her into next?

  Why not admit it? She was hooked on the adrenaline.

  By the time the dessert came, though, his mood grew more pensive, as if laughter was becoming too much of an effort to sustain. She sensed the fragility of his emotions, although he still seemed determined to keep serious issues at bay, and concentrated all his energy into finding out about her. He asked her searching questions. Grilled her, in fact, about her friends at work. At one stage when she was relating an amusing anecdote about the newsroom, he interrupted her with, ‘Who was the guy you were engaged to? One of your workmates?’

  When she hesitated, he said, ‘Was it Steve Wilson?’

  She raised her brows in surprise. ‘How did you know?’

  He made a vague, noncommittal gesture then. Later on in the meal, he brought the subject up again. ‘So—what went wrong?’

  Glancing up, she met his veiled gaze. She shrugged and plunged her spoon into her raspberry and chocolate mousse tart. ‘Let’s just say he made a mistake.’

  His brows shot up. ‘Only one?’

  She lowered her lashes and slid the spoon into her mouth. ‘Mmm.’ She closed her eyes to savour the rich, smooth lusciousness.

  When she opened them he was watching her with an intense, wolfish hunger. His hot gaze drifted to her throat and breasts. Her thrumming heart began to bump against her ribs. He was thinking about something else, she felt sure. The something that drummed on the breeze like the call of the wild.

  Eventually, the remains of the sumptuous tart were cleared away, and he suggested they take their coffee and the dregs of the claret to the sitting room. ‘Where we can talk,’ he said.

  They were drawn to the same sofa he’d occupied earlier. This time Tom replaced the cello suites with a bluesy Miles Davis trumpet recording of ‘Summertime.’ There was no reason not to relax and engage in some intelligent conversation. So why, all at once, had her speech dried up?