Overtime in the Boss's Bed

by Nicola Marsh

  ‘Love me.’ She reached for his face, pulled it down.

  Her heart swelled when he whispered, ‘My pleasure…’ a moment before his lips touched hers.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ‘THAT’S the seventh morning in a row I’ve seen your dishy man leave here at the crack of dawn to head over to the conference room.’

  Katja, one of the resort’s maids, stood alongside Starr and watched Callum strut towards the cart. If the older woman had any sense her eyes would be riveted to his butt, exactly as hers were.

  Starr sighed, leaned against the doorjamb, raising her hand in a jaunty wave as he reached the cart, nodded at her, his sizzling smile filled with promise.

  Opening up to Callum had surpassed her wildest expectations. And now she knew he loved her, knew where this relationship was heading—into the happily-ever-after she’d always dreamed about—she could have walked on water back to the mainland.

  ‘Must be nice, working for a guy like that and maintaining a relationship away from work too.’

  Katja’s wistful sigh as Callum steered away from the kerb and tooted his horn didn’t capture her attention half as much as the maid’s comment.

  They’d practically lived together ever since she’d started working for him. She’d spent every waking minute with him, and now most of her nights too.

  Was the speed of their relationship a by-product of proximity? And, if so, what would happen when she found the dance job she craved?

  Would Callum revert to his trusty business, continue to assuage his guilt, leaving no room in his life for her?

  Icy dread trickled through her veins at the thought, freezing every ounce of confidence he’d restored with his declaration.

  He’d said he loved her. It should be enough.

  But she’d heard that vow before—empty words, used to cajole and convince and get what the guy wanted.

  Callum wasn’t like that. She was just letting her old stupid insecurities taint what they had.

  Oblivious to her misgivings, Katja prattled on. ‘He’s a keeper, that one. You’ll never want for anything as long as you’re with him. Lucky you.’

  Yeah, lucky me, she thought, hating that she’d allowed doubts to creep in to their relationship so early—and today of all days, when she’d been on a high after their deep and meaningful last night.

  ‘Anyway, enough babbling from me. I’ll clean your bungalow and be out in a jiffy.’

  ‘Okay.’

  As she glanced at her watch, wondering how much time she had before meeting Callum at the conference room to start work, her gaze fell on their beach towels, her bikini.

  A glimmer of an idea shimmered into her consciousness—an idea that would banish her doubts, at least for today.

  Now all she had to do was convince her boss to go for it.

  Callum dropped his towel at the pool edge, stretched and took a deep breath, surveying the lush garden on this spectacular morning.

  Everything looked brighter: the freshly mown grass and trimmed hedges were greener, the riot of bougainvillea a dazzling rainbow, the water sparkled a crystal-clear aqua.

  Feeling foolish, he dropped his arms, but couldn’t wipe the goofy grin off his face.

  He knew why this morning was so spectacular, and it had little to do with the weather and everything to do with one gorgeous, sassy, hot woman who had convinced him to play hooky for the first time in his career after another sizzling hour of memorable early-morning sex.

  They were incredible in bed together, having the kind of sex he’d heard discussed in the gym locker room. He’d always assumed it was big boys bragging about fictitious encounters. But it was more than that. They had a connection, a real one, and the longer he spent in her ravishing company the harder he fell.

  Their declarations last night should have sent him running for the next business conference in Greenland. Instead, he was content for the first time since Archie’s death, a part of him coming alive in a way he’d never thought possible.

  Sharing his innermost thoughts with her, especially regarding his guilt associated with Archie’s death, was tantamount to making a lifetime commitment.

  He’d never opened up to anyone about his feelings, and discussing it with her had been strangely cathartic.

  What they had was real. Scary, but real.

  But his fear had receded little by little, eroded by her warmth and passion and genuine spontaneity.

  With a rueful shake of his head he dived into the water, hoping a few laps would clear his head of love-struck musings.

  He’d barely finished his third lap when a shadow dappled the shallow end, and he surfaced to find his dream woman wearing a red scrap of material passing as a bikini.

  ‘That’s new.’

  ‘You like?’

  ‘Hell, yeah.’

  He reached for her, unprepared for the swift, hard shove in the middle of his chest that had him teetering on the edge of the step for a second before plunging backwards into the water.

  He spluttered to the surface to find her laughing, her eyes sparkling with mischief, and his heart turned over with how much he loved this woman.

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’

  Her mouth curved into a teasing smile. ‘Why? What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘This.’

  Before she could blink he’d dived underwater, tugged her legs, bringing her under with him.

  They thrashed together to the surface, her laughter the sweetest sound he’d ever heard as she wrapped her legs around his waist, hooked her hands behind his neck.

  ‘So you’re a big tough guy now, huh?’

  ‘Actually, I’m turning into a big softie around you.’ He faked a frown. ‘But, shh…don’t tell anyone. Terrible for my reputation and bad for business.’

  Her smile faded and she nibbled on her bottom lip.

  ‘Hey, what did I say?’

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘I don’t know if I should tell you this and spoil our last day.’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  When her lips clamped shut he tickled her, and she sighed.

  ‘As I was leaving the bungalow a call came through. Some guy saying it was urgent, but he wouldn’t leave his name or a message.’

  His brain leaped to a host of possibilities before he deliberately calmed. He hadn’t had a day off in years, and he wanted to spend this last day on the island with her.

  ‘Although…’ All the cheek had drained out of her and she shrugged. ‘He did say something like “Get that damn stand-in to ring me.”’

  Hell.

  Only one person would say something like that.

  And the fact dear old dad was calling him on the eve of one of Cartwright’s biggest deals sent foreboding stabbing through him.

  ‘Starr, I’m sorry. I have to—’

  ‘Go.’

  She sighed, slithered out of his arms. ‘I figured you would if I told you.’

  ‘You did the right thing.’

  Climbing the ladder, he hoisted himself out of the pool, grabbed his towel, tied it around his waist, chilled by more than a sudden gust of wind as he contemplated what Frank Cartwright could possibly want.

  ‘Do you need me for anything?’

  He shook his head, his gaze zeroing in on her cleavage as she propped herself on her forearms on the pool’s edge, temptingly buxom.

  Jeez, what was wrong with him? Even at a time like this, when faced with a possible problem, he couldn’t get his mind off sex with Starr.

  ‘I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Call me if you need anything.’

  He raised a hand in farewell. The only thing he needed for a phone call with his father was a thick skin—something he’d honed to great effect since his teenage years, when Frank had viewed him as the screw-up of his boys. His opinion had never changed, despite him busting a gut to make up for Archie’s death all these years.

  Barging into the bungalow, Callum slung his beach towel over the back of
a chair and reached for his mobile.

  The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could return to Starr.

  Punching in a number from memory storage, he waited, not surprised when Frank answered on the second ring. Patience wasn’t a virtue Frank Cartwright cultivated.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’

  No polite greeting, as usual, which only made him want to reinforce normal phone etiquette more.

  ‘Hi, Dad. I’m good. You?’

  He’d learned a long time ago to keep his cool, not to lose control around his father. It only fuelled his rage, gave him more ammunition to belittle him with.

  ‘This merger is about to go pear-shaped and you want to exchange pleasantries? What the hell is wrong with you?’

  Mention of the merger had him snapping to attention, and he clutched the phone to his ear.

  Last he knew, everything was signed, sealed and delivered. It was the reason he’d taken today off—that and the fact he couldn’t say no to his beautiful girlfriend.

  ‘The merger is fine.’

  ‘Bull! I’ve fielded five phone calls in the last half-hour from execs who can’t get hold of you and are panicking. What’s the deal?’

  ‘Everything is fine—’

  ‘Aren’t you listening to a word I’ve said? The bloody deal’s off! They’ve invoked the cooling-off period.’

  Stunned, Callum collapsed onto the nearest chair. ‘But I handled it personally. They were—’

  ‘Fishing for a better offer—and they’ve found it, dammit!’

  He held the phone away from his ear as Frank continued to bellow.

  ‘You’ve screwed up!’

  Disgust crawled across his skin as he rubbed the back of his neck. The deal falling through had sent his blood pressure skyrocketing, but not as much as his father’s lack of confidence in him.

  ‘Go ahead, Dad, why don’t you say it?’ Regret, heavy and thick, roiled in his gut. ‘I screwed up. Again.’

  Frank paused, before spitting out, ‘You said it.’

  He should be used to this by now—his father’s total disdain for him as a person, as a son—but it still hurt as much now as it always had.

  ‘There’s nothing else I can do to make up for Archie’s death, Dad. He’s gone and I’m doing my best to—’

  ‘Don’t you dare bring your brother into this! He’s gone, thanks to you.’

  The venom in Frank’s tone was nothing new, and at that moment Callum realised something.

  Nothing he said or did would ever be enough for his dad.

  He was done trying to apologise for Archie’s death, done trying to make amends.

  Everything he did at Cartwrights from now on in would be for him, for Rhys, for the memory of a brother he’d give anything to have back in his life.

  Frank could go jump.

  ‘I’ll salvage what I can from the deal.’

  Which was more than he could say for their relationship.

  Frank snorted his contempt. ‘Yeah, good luck with that.’

  ‘Bye, Dad.’

  He hung up on the man who’d never been a father to him, a man who wouldn’t know the meaning of the word. Flinging the phone at the far wall gave him little satisfaction.

  Fury pumped through his veins as he stalked the room, clenching his fists, needing an outlet for his rage.

  As a teen, he’d dealt with his father and mother’s indifference by rebelling, doing anything and everything to get their attention.

  But they hadn’t given a damn—had been too busy playing First Couple in Australia’s financial circles, living up to their business mogul reputations to bother about him or Rhys.

  Archie had been the golden child, the chosen one, the eldest, who’d fallen into line and done exactly what Frank and Maureen wanted. They’d adored him, focussed all their energies on their first-born, and had had nothing left to give to their other sons.

  It had made it all the easier for him—shirking responsibility, doing exactly as he pleased.

  Until the night Archie died—a night none of them had ever recovered from.

  ‘Damn it!’

  He punched his fist into the wall, barely registering the pain, and Starr chose that moment to waltz in the door.

  ‘Hey! Are you okay?’

  She rushed towards him, opened her arms, and he stepped back, held up his hands to ward her off. He needed space right now, needed to calm down, gather his thoughts and get back to work to salvage what he could from the botched deal.

  Hating the hurt in her eyes, he crossed to the other side of the bungalow, grabbed his suit, shirt and tie before heading for the bathroom.

  ‘Callum. Talk to me.’

  He whirled on her, anger making him crazy.

  ‘And tell you what? That by taking the day off today I’ve lost the company billions?’

  Her mouth sagged before she snapped it shut. ‘I thought the deal was done.’

  ‘You thought wrong.’

  She flinched at his outburst, and while his brain knew she didn’t deserve to bear the brunt of his anger he was running on pure emotion now—something he never did.

  ‘Is it salvageable?’

  Her calm tone riled him further. He wanted her to rant and rave at him for being such an idiot, give him an opportunity to really let fly.

  ‘Anything I can do?’

  ‘Yeah, you can leave me the hell alone.’

  In a flash her calmness vanished, and her chest heaved, her hair bristled like a golden Statue of Liberty, her eyes sparked indigo fire, and all he could think was how gorgeous she looked and how much he’d like to take her up against the nearest wall.

  ‘Are you implying this is my fault?’

  Her voice, deadly calm, screeched across his nerves like nails down a blackboard, and realisation slammed into him full force.

  He did blame her. His anger was equally directed at his dad, the injustice of losing Archie, and at her, for distracting him from what he did best. Staying in control, staying on top.

  If she walked away now, gave him a chance to cool down, he might have a chance of not saying something he’d regret.

  Instead her mouth twisted, her eyes filled with betrayal, and the knowledge he’d hurt her kicked him in the guts.

  This was why he didn’t do involvement. Falling for someone, caring what they thought, robbed him of his detachment, robbed him of control.

  He hated feeling like this, had vowed after the last time it would never happen again.

  Only one thing to do: push her away before he lost it completely and did long-term damage to the company that meant everything to him.

  Folding his arms, he leaned against the bathroom door and nodded.

  ‘I’m not implying anything. I’m stating a fact.’

  ‘What the—?’

  ‘You convinced me to play hooky today. You, with your constant smiles and upbeat peppiness and glass half-full crap.’ He jabbed a finger in her direction, his anger spilling out in a torrent. ‘This is why I don’t do involvement. It ruins concentration, ruins companies. You—’

  ‘Stop right there.’

  Tears filled her eyes, turning them a luminous blue, and something broke inside him.

  What had he done?

  ‘Starr—’

  ‘No!’

  She blinked, the teardrops clinging to the ends of her lashes scattering like delicate rain before she shook her head.

  ‘Don’t say another word.’

  Regret, anguish, loss, contorted her features as she backed away a few steps, before turning and making a run for the door.

  He could have called out to her.

  Dashed after her.

  Implored her to listen.

  He did none of those things.

  Turning away, he stepped into the bathroom and slammed the door.

  On the best thing that ever happened to him.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  STARR SPRINTED TO catch the last tram, ignoring the curious looks fr
om passengers as she tripped up the steps and collapsed onto the nearest empty seat.

  She hugged her bag close, comforted by its contents: her favourite audition outfit. Fluoro orange legwarmers, her oldest dance shoes, her lucky charm butterfly bracelet.

  ‘You’ve got the job, Miss Merriday. Welcome to Studio Bolero.’

  The phrase still echoed through her head, had kept tempo with her feet as she’d run down the street to the tram stop. She should be ecstatic, should have twirled and jigged and allemanded her way onto the tram.

  Instead she slunk into her seat, clutched her bag tight and tried to ignore the constant pain in her chest.

  Damn Callum Cartwright for taking the gloss off her first dance job in Melbourne.

  And damn him for breaking her heart.

  She’d known it was all too good to be true: the cottage, the job, the incredible guy. All a mirage that had vanished as quickly as his supposed love for her.

  Love? What a crock.

  She should be thankful. When she’d taken the first flight out of Hayman Island, e-mailed him her resignation, it had taken her a day to do what she should have done the moment she landed in Melbourne.

  Chase down more leads. Not settle for rejection. Push her way into auditions she knew she could nail, given half a chance.

  And now she could move out of Kit’s uni friend’s halfway house again, and into a tiny apartment over the Studio Bolero.

  She’d be gone before he returned—just the way she wanted.

  She couldn’t face him. Not without hurling something at him. Not without verbally abusing him.

  Her fingers flexed, digging into her straw bag, and her entire body was taut with tension.

  She could kill him for what he’d done to her, to them, but that part of her life was over, finished. She had to get used to it.

  This was what she wanted. Dance was her life.

  The moment she’d stepped onto the old stage at the studio, surrounded by bright lights shielding the yawning seats in front of her, with dust motes from the heavy crimson velvet curtains shimmering under the spotlight, the distinctive smell of greasepaint lingering in the air, a sense of coming home had descended over her—a sense of belonging she found nowhere but in dance.