Undressed by the Boss (Mills & Boon By Request) (50 page)

Time stood still. Shivery sensations trailed from his fingertips. She stood spellbound, immobilised by the seductive magic of his touch, electricity thrilling into her face and hair.

He drew her closer into his strong, hard body, and the intoxicating scents of him, the sound of his intense, rapt breathing—or was it hers?—mounted in her senses, and kindled that wildfire in her blood she’d been fighting all day. Like the weak traitors they were, her lips burned for another taste of his firm, masculine mouth.

‘Your skin is so amazingly delicate,’ he said thickly, and bent to sear her throat with a kiss. A deep gasp of pleasure escaped her.

With a thundering heart she felt his fingers slide below her neckline to release the top button of her jacket, and her breasts swelled in helpless erotic anticipation. But paradoxically, for some reason, even as her shameless flesh warmed
with enthusiasm to the unfolding scenario, the sweet narcosis in her brain cleared.

Time was marching on. She had a story to file, and a little old lady expecting her at six. Swiftly she grabbed Tom Russell’s hands to still them, and gave him a determined shove. ‘Look,’ she said hoarsely, backing away from him, ‘I have to go.’

As he stood blinking at her in the charged silence with apparent surprise, questions began to crowd in on her. What had he intended, stroking her like that? Was it just some weird impulse he’d given way to, or a calculated delaying device? Would he have actually gone all the way to
seducing
her?

When he spoke, his breath coming rather quickly, there was gruffness in his deep voice. ‘Sure, sure, of course.’ He ran his hand through his hair a couple of times, possibly to give his cool time to recover. ‘I’ll—I’ll drive you back.’ Then, as though in denial of anything outrageous having happened, he strolled across to a cabinet, and took some keys from a drawer.

She shook her head, confused and astonished by her own compliance, wondering if she should give herself a good, sound pinching. She’d come close to being hypnotised. What was he—a snake-charmer?

Hastily she tidied herself, ensuring that all her buttons were secure. ‘This—is exactly the sort of thing I mean,’ she said, her voice husky and tremulous. ‘I hope you aren’t trying to claim that what happened just now was part of the deal.’

His powerful frame tensed, then he turned to face her, the shadowed eyes below his black brows unreadable. ‘What happened, though?’ he said softly.

‘
What
happened? Well, you—you stroked my neck. You were caressing my hair.’

‘Caressing?’ His eyes sparked in denial. ‘I most certainly was not
caressing,
as you call it. I was merely calming you down.’

She could hardly believe her ears. He should have been a politician. His expression was bland, but there was no way she
could be bamboozled by a man who had now kissed her
three times.

‘But—that kiss on my neck. What do you call that?’

He lifted his brows. ‘I call it a reluctant, but graceful acceptance of our need to become more familiar with each other.’

She was about to deliver a caustic retort when a phone started ringing, and he smoothly excused himself and strode into his study.

She located her bag on a small side table in the hall, and plunged into its depths in search of her hairbrush, still conscious of his touch lingering on her skin. She needed to be alone to do some hard thinking.

After a short while he came back, his brows drawn in satirical amusement. ‘That was Devlin, checking up. But fine. He’s agreed to come.’ He made a wry face. ‘I knew he would. Just try keeping him away.’ He noticed her clicking her bag shut. ‘In fact, you don’t have to leave at all, do you? You can use my study to write your blurb. We should make some sort of action plan, so why not email your piece? It’ll give us time to talk.’

It sounded almost reasonable, but then he gave his brows a suggestive lilt that gave her a severe jolt. The faintest of smiles began to curl the edges of his chiselled, sexy mouth.

Her blood, still heavy with the power of his touch, beat confusedly in her ears. What did he really intend? Was he trying to tempt her into an afternoon of love-making? Against her will, against all the urgings of her intelligence, she felt the treacherous flame leap in her veins. Somehow, though, her conscience managed to assert itself. She could imagine Harry’s reaction if he knew she’d typed her Russell story on Tom Russell’s keyboard.

‘You know I can’t.’ Her voice came out with an annoying huskiness.

‘Why not? Surely journalists do that all the time.’

‘They do, of course, but I’m …’ She hesitated. How safe would it be to reveal to him, of all people, her lowly status in
the scheme of things? Although why should she care what he thought of her? She was hardly trying to impress him, was she?

His brows lifted interrogatively. She felt the faint colour warm her cheeks, but met his gaze coolly enough. ‘Well, actually … This is my first news story. I expect Harry might want to talk about it with me. I don’t want to disappoint him. And I’ll need to go through the photos with Mike.’

‘Ah.’ His black brows shot up again. ‘Your first break. So this is a big day for you?’

She made a stiff, self-conscious nod.

His eyes dwelt thoughtfully on her face. Was she imagining it, or did they have a softer light? Suddenly he looked kind, almost sympathetic. ‘So … would Harry be Harry Fitzgerald?’

Her jaw dropped. ‘Do you
know
him?’

‘Of course. We’re in the same business. He’s a good man, Harry. I think I know most of your bosses—and you’d be surprised how much about your reporters.’ He wrinkled his brow in thought. ‘What’s the name of your boy wonder, now? The guy with the ginger hair? Wilson, isn’t it?’

She acknowledged it with a slight nod. ‘Steve.’ She’d loved to have seen Steve’s face at being described as a boy.

‘That’s right. I do try to keep an eye on my competitors.’ He threw her an amused glance. ‘You know Harry worked for my father once?’

‘Did
he?’

She could scarcely believe her ears. Wait till she told Marge. And to think that Tom knew so much about the
Clarion.
She couldn’t help looking at him with more respect. Suddenly their separate news worlds seemed more connected than she’d thought.

He smiled, and the smile crept into his eyes. ‘I hope that doesn’t turn you off him.’

She acknowledged the dig with a small laugh, and as their glances meshed in a rare cosmic moment of shared appreciation pleasure surged in her heart. The lines around his eyes
and mouth were alive with sudden humour, and she was seized with a breathless desire to hold things still, to stay bathed in the warmth of his smile, savour his deep laugh …

Regretfully, though, she had to tear herself away. She picked up her bag and slung it on her shoulder. His eyes sharpened and followed the movement.

He strolled over to her, standing idly with his weight on one foot, his hands loosely tucked into his jeans pockets. ‘I can see why you’re so anxious to rush back and write your story.’ His tone was very, very casual. ‘Covering the memorial was of great importance to you, personally.’

She nodded, wary at a sudden tension she sensed in him.

‘It must be quite a temptation to report everything. All that you overheard.’

‘No, no,’ she hastened to reassure him. ‘The memorial itself is a great story. I’m aware the private stuff is off the record. The legal boys probably wouldn’t even let me use it. And if I know I’ll have the big scoop at the end …’

‘And you will.’ He smiled, but his eyes were unreadable. He added, as if he’d only just thought of it, ‘You
could
phone your copy in, though, couldn’t you?’

She gave a light laugh to disguise her unease. ‘I hope you’re not trying to keep me away from my desk. You can’t lock me up and keep me prisoner, you know.’ She saw him flick a glance towards the outer door, and wondered with a small shock if he’d considered doing just that. She added softly, ‘You’ll have to trust me, won’t you?’

He didn’t answer, but a tiny involuntary flicker of his black lashes said it all.

An ominous truth dawned on her. No way did he trust her. Not in the slightest.

Phones started ringing, several phones, all shrieking at the same time. He hung there poised, glancing from her to the door with a narrowed gaze—measuring the distance?—then with a muttered curse sprang to deal with them.

Perhaps she had been momentarily beguiled, but her brain hadn’t quite lost it. If Tom Russell was dreaming of locking her up, he could forget it.

She made a dash to the front door, dragged it open, and, vacillating between the lift and the stairs for less than a nanosecond, was in the lift pressing the button for ground before the heavy door even had time to click shut.

Quickly, quickly, she willed the lift doors, in a torture of suspense as they took an eternity to glide across. An instant before they met, her frantic gaze caught the flash of his dark figure racing towards the stairs.

T
HE LOBBY
seemed quiet. At one end the concierge leaned on his lectern, chatting with a security guard. As Cate burst from the lift to flee for the entrance she saw them look up in surprise. Although in a fever of expection of Tom Russell’s hot breath searing the back of her neck at any second, she thought it prudent to slow a little, and flashed them a friendly glance to allay any suspicions.

They smiled uncertainly, then the smiles froze on their faces. She noticed the guard snap up straight and move sharply away from the desk, while the concierge’s gaze seemed to be captured by something behind her.

Someone.

A strong, lean hand closed around her upper arm and her heart jarred in her chest.

‘You didn’t say goodbye,’ Tom Russell said, spinning her around to face him.

She was panting, partly from the exertion of dashing, and partly from the strange exhilaration of being physically pursued by an attractive and dangerously sexy man. Even after he’d raced down several flights of stairs
his
breathing was as even and controlled as a somnolent lion’s. He tossed some car keys to the concierge over her head, then turned back to grill her with his smouldering gaze. She had the sensation of being bathed in a shower of sparks.

‘No, well …’ she said, wilting to the stern accusation in his compressed and sensually stirring mouth, ‘I was feeling queasy. I’m actually very susceptible to seasickness, and this building does churn about, doesn’t it?’ She dragged in some air. ‘As well as that, you were … so busy with all your important calls, I didn’t want to intrude on your private business affairs.’

He looked sceptical. ‘Since when?’

It was a cynical gibe, but she let him get away with it. ‘Anyway,’ she added, ‘you know I’m in a hurry to get back. I thought if I took a taxi it would save time.’

His eyes grew reproachful, as if he were completely innocent of abducting her with the intention of making her his prisoner, and probably his sex-slave. She felt a qualm of doubt. Had she been unfair to mistrust him?

‘I can drive you there before you can even say
taxi,’
he said tightly, almost spitting the word. ‘Unless you don’t trust me to?’

Though he was no longer gripping her arm, his chest was practically grazing her nipples, swelling her bra to bursting point and rendering her knees strangely weak. She was breathlessly alive to the persuasive power of his bronzed, muscular arms, her chances of making a break seemed slim.

‘Oh. No, no, it’s not a matter of trust. Of course I—I
trust
you …’

His mouth only made the tiniest curl, but it was so potently expressive of disbelief.

She was racking her brains for a neat way out when she noticed his eyes shift, then light with satisfaction. Following their direction she saw a sleek, sporty car sweeping into the driveway. Emblazoned on its red mudguard was a prancing horse, almost certainly a stallion. Tom Russell overrode her protestations about hailing a filthy taxi. He hustled her outside and deposited her into the car’s deep leather passenger seat, then strode around to assume the driver’s seat.

‘I know this can be difficult for a woman,’ he said grimly, firing the ignition, then easing them down the driveway and
into the traffic stream, ‘particularly one in your profession, but I expect people to be straight with me. If you had no intention of honouring your end of the deal, you should have said so.’

She gasped and retorted, ‘I did—I
do
intend to honour it.’

‘My point being,’ he continued in a measured, chilly tone as if she hadn’t spoken, ‘that with all the life-and-death matters screaming for my immediate, urgent attention, so far I’ve dedicated most of this day to you. I had even started to believe that there was some sort of rapport happening. But after your astounding exit, how can you expect me to trust you?’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ she snapped, to cover a degree of guilt. ‘I explained why I did that. You know very well I’m in a hurry to get back to work. I’ve wasted enough time as it is.’ She glowered mutinously ahead. ‘Haven’t I already agreed not to report your conversation with Olivia? You should learn to trust people.’ An upcoming traffic light exacerbated her frustration. ‘Can’t this thing go any faster?’

There was a brief, appalled silence. ‘This—Ferrari?’

He made a smooth, deliberate gear change, put his foot down, and whizzed the machine through the intersection, then, as if to taunt her, wove it with giddy, split-second timing, in and out between the lanes, speeding down a confusing series of streets, alleys and narrow old byways until she had no idea where they were.

She refused to be impressed. ‘It must be dreadful to have a pretty toy like this and still be stuck with having to drive it through the same shabby old streets and grimy old buildings as everyone else.’

‘Not at all,’ he said politely. ‘I happen to love these shabby old streets. I find these grimy old buildings quite beautiful.’

How did he manage to make her feel like a snark? Scanning the current streetscape, she supposed some of them could be considered beautiful for anyone rich enough to have the time to look at them. Now that he’d mentioned it, it was as if she were seeing them for the first time.