Undressed by the Boss (Mills & Boon By Request) (9 page)

C
ASEY
let her clothes lie where they fell and collapsed into bed. She’d probably been unconscious before her head had hit the pillow, she realised when the bedside alarm rang. She hadn’t noticed how tired she was—but Raffa had. Was that why he had left her so abruptly? She traced the path his hand had taken down her face. She still wore the memory of his touch, which led seamlessly on to wondering how the rest of her might feel now if he had continued his explorations.

Don’t even think that way, she told herself firmly, swinging her legs over the side of the divan. She was innocent, she was inexperienced, and this was business. She might have had only three hours’ sleep, but another working day had started and she had to be ready for anything Raffa threw at her.

The phone was ringing when she came out of the bathroom. She pounced on it, thrilling at the sound of the familiar voice—though she started smiling when she heard his words. ‘This time don’t tell me you’re ready if you’re not.’

‘Give me five minutes.’

‘I’m in the lobby.’

And pacing up and down, Casey guessed as the line went dead.

Raffa took Casey to the venue where the auction would be held. It was the ballroom of his latest hotel. He showed her the guest list, as well as the table plan she’d asked to see. She said
it was crucial to understand the rivalries between the various tables, and that was where he could help out. By lunchtime she had a good overview, and had convinced Raffa that he had a strong new team member in Casey Michaels. He had only one small niggle left. Casey could pull people together and work effectively in a team, but could she whip jaded billionaires into a frenzy of competition? That remained to be seen. Meanwhile …

‘Lunch?’ he suggested.

‘I’ve no time for lunch,’ she said as a florist arrived.

‘Delegate,’ he said, taking hold of her arm.

‘But, Raffa, I—’

‘Can you delegate or not? You’re no good to me if you can’t.’

‘I can delegate.’

‘Then do so. Give the florist credit for knowing what she’s doing. You can’t handle everything single-handedly, Casey.’ His eyes lit with humour. ‘Even
I
can’t do that.’

He took her to his private elevator. Discreet and luxurious, it played host to one man. There were no bodyguards here, and no glass walls. There was just one man and one woman on a three-hundred-metre trip to a fabulous penthouse that took up the whole of the top floor.

He brought the elevator to a halt halfway to its destination. Casey stared at him in alarm. ‘Is something wrong?’ she asked.

‘Absolutely.’ As he spoke he placed one fist against the wall next to her face, effectively pinning her in position.

She stared at him. Her eyes darkened. ‘I don’t understand …’

‘I think you do.’

‘Did you lean on the controls by accident?’

‘Have some confidence in yourself, Casey.’

She looked at him, and then her glance flickered away.

‘Would you
like
me to say I leaned on the controls by accident? Would that make you feel more relaxed?’ He angled his head to look at her—to drink her in. She was aroused, and their lips were only inches apart. ‘Yes?’ he prompted when she
remained silent. She eased her shoulders in a tiny shrug and looked away, but he cupped her chin and made her look at him. ‘Believe in yourself, Casey …’

Her breathing was unsteady in the silence, and he remembered how innocent she was. The comfortable banquette, the mirror and accommodating padded wall would all have to go to waste, he accepted.

‘Are you hungry?’ he murmured.

‘I’m starving,’ she said with relief.

‘Then I’m going to feed you.’ As he spoke he activated the control that would take the elevator the rest of the way up. ‘I’m afraid it will only be a lunchtime snack,’ he warned, ‘since we don’t have time for the type of banquet I have in mind.’

Her eyes widened. She was off in her fantasy world, he realised. Her lips were swollen with arousal, as if he had kissed them for hours, and her blue eyes had turned black with just the tiniest rim of sapphire remaining. He turned away to give her a moment, ruffling his hair as he stared into the mirror.

‘Do you like sushi?’ he said then.

‘I love sushi.’

‘Sushi it is, then,’ he said, smiling at her infectious enthusiasm.

In Casey’s opinion everyone deserved at least one fairytale in their life. And this was hers, she thought as Raffa led her over the threshold of his fabulous apartment. She wasn’t a fairy princess, but a rather ordinary girl from the north of England who happened to have a talent for marketing—but look where that talent had brought her! She was standing at the side of the hottest man in town, in the middle of an interior designer’s dream.

‘What do you think?’ Raffa said, turning to her.

With the light flooding in from the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the harbour, she thought that he looked magnificent … that he looked like a true warrior king of the desert, with his powerful legs firmly planted in his golden lion kingdom …

Was everything made of gold?

‘Vulgar, isn’t it?’ he said.

She blinked, trying to take in the apartment and give him her honest opinion—but he was so distracting. ‘I think it’s lovely, actually,’ she admitted. What was a fairytale if it was all magnolia walls and plain furniture? This was luxury such as she had never seen before, luxury on an unprecedented scale, and she thought it absolutely perfect for her lion of the desert.

‘Just try to bear in mind this is a hotel room and not my home,’ Raffa told her dryly.

A hotel room? Right. They really did come from two different worlds. Hotel rooms in Casey’s world came with a bed, a chair and a Formica desk.

‘Describe what you see in one sentence,’ Raffa suggested.

‘Fabulousness pumped up on gold dust and dressed like a movie set fit for a king?’

‘Bravo!’ He laughed, strong even teeth a flash of brilliant white against his bronzed face.

With her heart thundering like an express train she took a look around to distract herself … Venetian glass, Italian leather, and a vast wall of windows overlooking the marina and the turquoise ocean far below. On the walls Fauvist paintings, flaunting colour. She crossed the room to take a closer look at them, remembering Fauvist was French for wild beast. Casey smiled. Someone here really had a sense of humour.

‘Do you like them?’ Raffa asked as she went to take a closer look at a Matisse.

‘I love them. They’re so vibrant …’ And she was trembling all over. Her enthusiasm could so easily get the better of her, Casey realised, reining it in. She was alone with Raffa in his apartment; this was not the time to get carried away.

‘I’m glad you like them. Which one is your favourite?’

The group of naked people, dancing free, hand in hand around a grassy mound …

‘The townscape …’

‘Ah, the view of Collioure …’

‘Yes, that’s the one,’ she lied.

Raffa’s darkly luminous stare had followed her gaze, and now he looked openly disbelieving. She had told a silly lie that only betrayed her lack of sexual confidence. Lucky for her that wasn’t a consideration for him when it came to deciding on the best candidate for the job.

Seated on facing sofas a safe distance apart, they settled down to enjoy the food the waiters brought them. The tempting platters of savoury and sweet delicacies were delicious, as was the freshly squeezed mango juice served with ice and fizzy water.

And Raffa was delicious too. Everything about him said he was a sensualist, a man of potent sexuality who would be completely without inhibition in the bedroom. Maybe he could help her … Maybe she should find out …

Maybe she should pull herself together, Casey’s sensible self advised.

‘I’m going to suggest something to you,’ Raffa said, breaking the spell. ‘And I’ll be angry if you refuse me.’

Casey’s mouth turned dry. She found it wasn’t quite that easy to pull herself together—especially when Raffa got up from the sofa and proceeded to come round the table towards her.

‘I know how difficult you can be about money …’

With her bubble well and truly burst, she frowned. ‘I’m not difficult.’

‘Stubborn, then?’ he suggested, clearing his throat to hide his laugh.

‘Absolutely not.’ She was as stubborn as a mule, but with one eye on the job she wasn’t about to admit to it.

‘Well, if you’re so compliant and easygoing, why don’t you sit down and relax while I tell you what I’ve got in mind?’

It took her a moment to realise the most dangerous thing in Raffa’s hand was his wallet. ‘You carry money?’

‘Of course I do. What century do you think this is?’

‘And what’s
that
for?’ She stared suspiciously at the credit card he was holding out to her.

‘Do you have a gown for the ball, Cinderella?’

‘Cinderella?’ Casey’s eyes narrowed.

Raffa clearly enjoyed baiting her. Holding up his hands in mock surrender, he said, ‘Let me put this another way. You surely don’t think I’m such a lousy employer I expect you to pay for the ballgown you’ll be forced to wear at the auction? Think of it as a uniform,’ he said, tongue in cheek. ‘It might sit better with your conscience that way. Unless, of course …’here he paused, eyes glowing with humour ‘ … you have a little something tucked away in your backpack I don’t know about?’

‘Like a catwalk creation?’ As she looked at him her lips threatened rebellion too.

‘Just so long as you don’t turn up in jeans and flip-flops.’

‘Or a safari suit?’ she suggested.

They held each other’s gaze like old friends who were accustomed to teasing each other.

‘You can show this anywhere,’ Raffa explained, holding out his gold card, ‘and buy anything you want. It will all be charged to my account, no questions asked.’

‘Except by me.’ It was Casey’s turn to bring the conversation to a halt. ‘I’m sure I can find something—’

‘Appropriate?’ Raffa cut across her. ‘I’m sure you can too. But I want you to have something special—something that makes you feel like a queen.’

‘And I need to wear something expensive for that?’

‘What you spend is up to you. I just want you to feel good.’

Any more argument and she’d sound churlish, Casey thought, staring at the plastic Raffa was holding out to her. ‘Thank you …’ She took the card and put it safely away.

‘Don’t stint yourself. Shoes, make-up, jewellery—whatever you need, buy.’

His driver arrived, and Raffa explained that he would take
Casey wherever she wanted to go. ‘I think you’re going to have fun,’ he said.

And Raffa sounded as if he meant every word. It made her doubly determined to land the job and repay every penny.

C
ASEY
thought she had prepared well enough for her entry into the ballroom, but she was wrong. It was full of the most sophisticated people she had ever seen, all dancing to the strains of a full orchestra, and everyone without exception was in evening dress. Some of the men wore orders over one shoulder, and medals, while the women were in a rainbow-hued selection of couture gowns.

Taking a really deep breath, she tried hanging on to the moment the personal shopper had exclaimed with genuine relief after a whole raft of failures, ‘This is the one!’

She hoped Raffa would approve of the gown. She had tried to strike a balance between modest and fashionable. Anything else in her favour was down to the team of women who had worked on her all day today, endlessly primping and plucking and polishing and buffing. This was their moment, Casey thought, preparing to walk down the steep flight of stairs.

Like every other man with blood running through their veins, he stopped midway through a conversation to stare at Casey, who was standing framed beneath an archway of flowers at the top of the stairs.

She had taken his advice and spoiled herself for once …

Taken his advice? She had gone so far beyond his advice he was transfixed. The diamonds must have come from Harry
Winston, and the gown she was wearing—flesh-coloured and form-fitting—defied description. Except to say that it was fabulous.

And so was she.

The gown, in floating silk chiffon, criss-crossed Casey’s breasts before falling in an elegant column to the floor, making her look like a Greek goddess. It exposed her peach-tinted shoulders, but in deference to the traditionalists amongst them she had covered herself with a wisp of beaded silk. Her hair was dressed up, in a way that suited her, with a few tendrils loose around her face, and she hardly needed the fresh flower in the soft blonde chignon to ornament the outfit when she was already the most fragrant woman in the room.

A woman, he noticed now, who had chosen to wear the most ridiculously high-heeled sandals he’d ever seen—which meant he had to get up there before there was an accident. Making his excuses to the ambassador, he headed straight for the loveliest woman in the room.

The most promising candidate, he corrected himself sternly as he strode quickly up the stairs.

The sight of Raffa sweeping up the stairs in regal robes held her spellbound. She should have known the ruler of A’Qaban would be wearing robes of state for such an important event. She should have known that if Raffa had looked good in Savile Row, and even better in jeans, he would look totally fabulous in flowing Arabian robes of night-blue silk.

‘May I escort you?’ he said, offering his arm. ‘Take it,’ he insisted firmly, ‘before you land in a heap at the feet of the people you’re expecting to cajole and charm tonight.’

‘Yes, Your Majesty …’ Aware that the eyes of the room were upon them, she dropped a low curtsey, and as she did so she registered a huge erotic charge. Playing dress-up with a king was far more exciting than any fantasy she’d ever managed to come up with.

* * *

He was pleased to see how greatly Casey had grown in confidence, but a little less pleased to realise they were both intensely aware of each other, even in a room full of people. He knew she could feel his interest, and he liked the fact that Casey’s gaze was no longer uncertain, but direct, intelligent, and challenging enough to hold his interest. Added to which, she walked like a queen at his side, and he found her company a source of constant stimulation as he introduced her round. But none of that was good for business—or for his vaunted self-control.