Bedded By The Boss. Yvonne Lindsay
jolted to her feet. She’d been so transfixed by him she’d forgotten she was lounging in his personal throne.
His dark pupils tracked her with laser-beam intensity. “What made you think you could enter my office and handle my effects without permission?”
She struggled to regain her professional demeanor. “I consider keeping your desk organized to be one of my responsibilities.”
He lowered his head slightly, scrutinizing her. “How do I know you weren’t placing a bug there?”
“A bug?”
“To record my conversations.”
Indignation stung her. “Are you saying anything worth recording?”
She immediately regretted her childish pique.
Elan stared at her. His brow furrowed as he digested her insolence. But his reply was measured, calm.
“To my business rivals, yes.” He strode across the room and maneuvered around her. He quickly crouched down and reached a hand under the seat of the chair.
Sara found her eyes resting on his neck, on the strip of tan skin between the starched collar of his white shirt and the close-cropped black hair at the base of his skull. His small, delicate ear was at odds with the massive, powerful build of his body.
He knelt on the floor and reached an arm under his desk. The roping muscles of his back, visible even though the dark fabric of his suit, captured her attention. It took a few seconds before she realized he was feeling the underside of the desk, searching for electronic devices.
Anger at his suspicion pricked her. She’d never been accused of criminal activity before, and distrust didn’t sit well with her. She’d worked at one job or another since age fourteen, and the admiration and satisfaction of her boss had always been something she could count on.
Elan leaned further under the desk. His suit jacket lifted, revealing the curve of his rear. Good Lord, the man was built like a decathlete.
She took a step backward, trying to regain control as a sudden swell of heat made her body uncomfortable inside the stiff fabric of her suit.
He backed slowly out from under the desk while she tried to look anywhere except at his well-muscled backside. Elan avoided looking at her, too, as he pulled himself awkwardly back up to his feet.
“Still think I’m a mole?” She cocked her head, daring him to extend his accusation.
He ran a hand through his thick hair. “Your previous job was with an electronics firm, no?”
“Yes, Bates Electronics. I worked there for two years. They have no relationship to the oil industry that I know of and no reason to engage in industrial espionage. I am not a spy.”
“Couldn’t you have alerted building maintenance to the fact that my chair creaks?”
“Sure, but by the time I’d called them, explained the problem and demonstrated the squeak, I could have fixed it myself. There’s nothing highly specialized about spraying lubricant.”
He looked at her. The word lubricant hung in the air between them. An innocent word, related to the greasing of cogs, the oiling of hinges, the wetting of pistons. Images which sent Sara’s mind spinning in all sorts of forbidden directions.
She remembered his warnings against showing any prurient interest in him. The thought triggered a rash impulse to test Elan’s sense of humor by asking if she could be fired for saying the word lubricant in his presence.
Mercifully she held her tongue. She dug her fingernails into her palms, tried to control the craziness goading her. Why on earth would she want to provoke and irritate her new boss?
She had an almost irresistible urge to see what lay behind the highly polished granite facade Elan Al Mansur presented to the world.
He drew himself up, took off his suit jacket and hung it over the back of his chair. Unhooked his gold cuff links, dropped them on the desk and rolled up his sleeves. His forearms were muscled, brown and dusted with black hair.
The thought of those forearms closing around her waist, holding her tight, swept through her mind like a gale-force wind.
She stepped backward and smoothed the front of her suit with a hand, trying to brush away the bizarre physical sensation assailing her.
Elan pushed his shirtsleeves up above his elbows as he settled into his chair. Sara suspected her face was blazing as she struggled to keep her eyes off his arms. An arm, for crying out loud! What on earth was wrong with her?
The watch on that arm probably cost more than her mother’s last round of chemo treatments. It was gold, the white face covered with dials. Probably a Rolex. She suspected nothing but the best was good enough for Elan Al Mansur.
“You have no work to do, Sara?” He looked up from his papers, fixing her with a slit-eyed stare. She jumped inwardly.
“I wasn’t sure if you needed anything.”
“If I want something, I’ll let you know.” One broad finger rested on the page, marking his place. “In the meantime, I’ll expect you to provide your own entertainment.”
He’d been aware of her eyes on him, studying him, appraising him. Enjoying him. Humiliation clenched her gut. She turned swiftly away as she felt a renewed blush darken her cheeks.
“Would you like me to change the water in that vase of roses?” From one of his legions of tormented admirers, no doubt.
He looked at her for a moment.
“No.” He glanced back to his papers. “Perhaps you could take them home? I don’t like flowers.”
“I can’t take them home, I ride a bike to work. But I’ll put them on my desk. They’ll brighten the place up a bit. Thanks.”
She paused to bury her face in the yellow blooms. The soothing scent of rose petals filled her senses, relaxed her.
“They’re lovely.”
“Not to me. They’ll be dead in a day or two. I don’t wish to watch them die.”
“I’ll enjoy their swan song. If you don’t need anything else, I’ll take off for the day.”
He glanced quickly at his expensive watch. “Fine.” He went back to shuffling a concertina of papers between his powerful fingers. She lifted the vase and moved toward the door, opened it with her hip.
“Good night.” She turned to him.
Lowered in concentration, his face was hidden from her until he raised it. “You ride a bike to work?”
“Yes.” She paused, waiting for his disapproval.
“I see.” He looked at her for a moment, stony features unreadable. Then he turned back to his papers, opened his pen, and etched a dramatic signature into the crisp white document on his desk.
Sara slipped out through the door with a silent sigh of relief and heard it close softly behind her.
Elan placed the signed papers in his out-box and rose slowly from his chair. He stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window that looked over the parking lot toward the desert and the distant mountain range beyond.
The sun hung low in the sky, glinting off geometric rows of cars baking in the late-afternoon sun. Many employees had already left. The rest were striding across the parking lot, climbing into their cars and driving out through the gates in an orderly fashion like so many instinctive ants.
A lone figure broke from the orderly procession of cars, darting among them, zigzagging across the parking lot on a bicycle.
Sara.
He narrowed his eyes, straining to get a better look at her. She’d changed out of her beige suit. Of course, who would ride a bicycle in a tight skirt? Well, not tight, but fitted, hugging