The Tycoon's Very Personal Assistant

‘You’re not registered here.’ His emerald eyes shifted back to hers. ‘Mr Rocastle, who is the registered guest, has made a complaint against you. So, why don’t you tell me why I shouldn’t just kick you out in your proper panties?’

There it was again, the tell-tale lift in his voice. Kate went rigid. Was he making fun of her?

Andrew Rocastle had duped her, practically assaulted her and then humiliated her into the bargain. And now this guy thought it was funny. When had this become stomp-all-over-Kate day?

‘It’s not my fault Mr Rocastle didn’t put my name on the registration card when he checked us in this morning. I thought he’d booked us separate rooms,’ she ground out, angry all over again at Andrew’s underhanded attempt at a seduction. ‘And anyway, I don’t have to explain myself to you. None of this is any of your business. You’re a hotel manager, not my mother.’

Zack Boudreaux’s eyebrow winged up. For such a little thing, she sure had a big mouth. He didn’t consider himself arrogant, but women were usually a lot nicer to him. He’d certainly never encountered this level of hostility before.

In the normal course of events, he wouldn’t even know about this type of minor disturbance, let alone be asked to deal with it. But with The Phoenix’s manager on vacation for the day and his deputy on a training programme, the concierge had referred the matter up to Zack’s PA. He’d heard the commotion in the outer office and buzzed the woman in out of curiosity. Truth be told, after clearing his calendar for the rest of the week in preparation for his trip to California, he’d found himself with nothing to do for the first time in close to ten years and he was bored.

One thing was for sure, the minute this feisty little firecracker had waltzed into his office wrapped in her bathrobe and a very bad attitude, he hadn’t been bored any more.

He knew it was perverse, but for some weird reason he found her sassy comebacks entertaining. Imagining her in the corridor without the bathrobe was doing the rest.

‘I don’t manage this hotel,’ he said. ‘I own it, as well as two others in the South West.’

‘Bully for you,’ she shot back, but the statement lacked impact when he spotted the flicker of panic cross her face.

‘And anything that happens in my place is my business.’ His gaze remained steady on hers. ‘I make a point of it.’ He kept his voice firm. He hadn’t made a fortune at poker in his youth by showing his cards too early. He didn’t want to let her off the hook just yet. She had caused a disturbance and he was intrigued enough to want to know why.

‘Maybe you could make a point of getting my clothes back for me, then,’ she snapped.

Zack’s lips twitched as she glared at him. With her blonde hair haloing around her head in haphazard wisps, her full lips puckered in a defiant pout and her round turquoise eyes bright with temper, she looked cute and mad and sexy as hell. Kind of like a pixie with an anger-management problem.

His lips curved before he could stop them.

Her round baby-blues narrowed dangerously. ‘Excuse me, but do you think this is funny?’ The clear, precise English accent made his pulse spike.

Her voice should have reminded him of weak tea and pompous aristocrats—the two things he’d hated most during the years he’d spent in London as a teenager—but it had a smoky, seductive edge that made him think of rumpled bed sheets and warm fragrant flesh instead.

He cleared his throat, and stifled the grin. ‘Funny’s not the word I’d use,’ he said.

She tugged hard on the lapels of the thick robe, hastily covering the hint of red lace.

His eyes rose as he acknowledged the quick punch of lust. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get your clothes back,’ he said. ‘But first I want to know how you and Rocastle are connected and what he did to make you want to cause my hotel criminal damage.’

Kate jerked one stiff shoulder, feeling trapped but trying desperately for nonchalance. ‘I’m his PA, or at least I was.’ She raised her chin, struggling hard to keep the quiver of nerves out of her voice. ‘He wanted to take our association to another level. I didn’t. I told him so. End of story,’ she said, putting more pomp and circumstance into her accent than a Royal Jubilee.

Maybe if she told this nosy American Adonis that much he’d lose interest and let her leave. The smouldering look he’d given her a moment ago—as if he could see right through the towelling—had not been good for her heart rate. And it wasn’t doing a great deal for her peace of mind, either.

How could she possibly find the man attractive? He might look good enough to eat. But, from what she’d seen so far, he was an over-confident, insensitive jerk. Surely she’d dealt with enough of those today to give her indigestion. So he owned the hotel. So what? That hardly gave him the right to have a laugh at her expense.

‘I see,’ he said in the same wry monotone, as if she were sitting here in her underwear for his personal amusement. ‘And you told him this without your clothes on?’

‘I was about to take a shower. I didn’t know he’d booked us into the same suite.’ Tears of frustration stung Kate’s eyes, his careless comment bringing the whole sordid experience back in vivid colour. She blinked furiously, determined not to cry.

How could she have been so stupid?

If only she’d figured out Andrew’s real reason for employing her sooner she might have been able to salvage a tiny bit of her pride. But she’d been so eager to impress him, to prove she was worthy of the opportunity he was offering her, she’d made a total fool of herself. That she had been idiotic enough to trust Andrew hurt more than anything else, even more than finding herself in the corridor in her bra and knickers when she’d informed Andrew exactly where he could shove his proposition.

She swallowed past the boulder in her throat. ‘I still don’t see how this is any of your business.’ Her fingers clutched the robe, now wrapped so tightly around her she could barely breathe. ‘Are you going to press charges or not?’

The two-second wait for his reply felt like two decades. She was sure he knew it.

He dropped his pen on the desk and steepled his fingers. ‘I guess not,’ he said at last.

Relief coursed through her. ‘Thank you,’ she said, trying to sound as if she meant it. At least he hadn’t made her beg. ‘I’ll be off, then.’ She stood up.

‘Hold it, we’re not through yet,’ he said.

To her dismay, he stood up too and walked round the desk towards her.

Lord, he was tall. Long and lean with a very impressive pair of shoulders filling out his pricey linen shirt. She was a perfectly respectable five feet four herself but had to tilt her head back as he approached. She curled her toes into the soft carpeting and fought the desire to drop into the chair. She wasn’t about to give him even more of a height advantage.

‘I don’t see what else there is to discuss,’ she said, despising the tremble in her voice.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said, slowly. ‘How about—?’ He broke off as the phone rang. ‘Stay put,’ he said, pointing at her as if she were a trained beagle. He leaned across the desk and grabbed the phone. ‘Boudreaux,’ he barked into the receiver.

Kate bristled but did as she was told. Infuriatingly enough, it occurred to her she would need Mr Sex God’s permission to get back into Andrew’s room to get her clothes.

‘Uh-huh.’ He nodded, obviously engrossed by whatever was being said on the other end of the line. ‘Did he say where he was going?’ He listened some more, his gaze fixing on her face. His eyes hardened and his beautifully sculpted lips flattened into a thin line. ‘What about ID?’ he said into the phone, sounding annoyed. He raked his hand through his hair and cursed under his breath. The short dark waves fell back into place perfectly. He must have spent a small fortune on that haircut, Kate thought resentfully.

‘Sure. No, don’t bother. I’ll figure it out.’ He slapped the phone back in its cradle, nodded at her chair. ‘You better sit down.’

Irritation edged his voice but there was a touch of warmth in those remarkable eyes that hadn’t been there before. The knot of anxiety in Kate’s stomach tightened. She sat in the chair, heard the leather creak as she pressed her knees together. What now?

Leaning on the corner of the desk, he crossed his long legs at the ankle. He was so close, Kate could smell the intimate scent of soap and man. She concentrated on the perfect crease in his trousers, trying to ignore the way the expensive fabric stretched across powerful thigh muscles.

‘Rocastle’s checked out,’ he said above her.

Kate’s chin jerked up. The knowledge she’d never have to see the contemptible worm again had her breath gushing out in an audible puff. Maybe now she could start putting this whole humiliating business behind her. ‘If you could give me a key to the room, I’ll get dressed and leave, too,’ she said.

She’d expected him to look overjoyed at the prospect of her departure. He didn’t, he looked pained. ‘It’s not going to be that easy.’ He crossed his arms over his chest, making the rolled up sleeves of his shirt tighten across his biceps. ‘He took your luggage.’

‘What? All of it?’

He rocked back and nodded. ‘Everything but your ID.’

‘But why?’ Kate’s mouth hung open.

He uncrossed his arms and braced his hands on the desk behind him, tilting his upper body forwards. ‘Rocastle said to tell you you’re fired and he’s taking your stuff and cashing your ticket home to cover his expenses.’

‘But…’ Panic clawed up the back of her throat. She gulped it down.

How could Andrew do this? He must know he was leaving her stranded.

‘But he can’t do that. Those are my things.’ Indignation seared her insides, but beneath it was the bitter sting of fear. Surely this couldn’t be happening. ‘How will I get back to London?’