The Tycoon's Very Personal Assistant

Zack had expected her to get mad again. In fact he’d been looking forward to seeing her eyes spark with temper. But when he saw confusion and desperation on her face instead, her situation didn’t seem all that funny any more. Maybe there was more going on here than a lover’s spat.

Her boyfriend or boss or whatever he was sounded like a real piece of work. Maybe the girl was nuttier than a jar of peanut butter, but there was something cold and calculating about the way the guy had cleared out the suite and left his girlfriend in a strange city, in a strange hotel in nothing but her underwear.

She ducked her head and stared down at her lap. Her fingers clutched together, the knuckles whitening as she took an uneven breath. When her head came up, she didn’t look mad, she looked devastated. He noticed the rim of purple surrounding the deep blue of her irises. The hint of moisture in her eyes accentuated the unusual colour. She sniffed and straightened in her chair, but no tears fell. He felt an unfamiliar constriction in his chest that he recognised as admiration.

‘You want me to call the cops?’ he asked, figuring that was the logical next step.

She shook her head, thrust out her pointy little chin. ‘Could I ask you a favour?’

His chest loosened. Here it came. She was going to ask him for money. It didn’t surprise him. She was in a fix and from her accent and her flaky behaviour so far he figured she must be the rich, pampered daughter of some stuck-up Brit. He doubted she’d ever had to fend for herself in her entire life. Still, he felt oddly disappointed. ‘Fire away,’ he said.

‘Would you give me a job?’

‘A job?’ Was she serious?

‘Yes, I’ve done some bar-tending and waitressing and I’ve got lots of experience as a chambermaid.’

‘You’ve scrubbed johns? You’re kidding me?’ He could see the Queen of England doing it sooner than he could imagine her doing it.

‘No, I’m not,’ she said, sounding affronted.

‘Have you got a work visa?’ he asked, although he didn’t know why. He didn’t want her tending bar, or scrubbing johns—it just didn’t seem right somehow.

‘Yes, I have dual nationality. I was born in New York.’

‘Right.’ Dumb question. ‘Look, we could work something out for you if you want, but you don’t need a job. All you need do is get the cops to have a talk with your boyfriend and—’

‘He’s not my boyfriend,’ she interrupted.

‘Whatever he is, he can’t steal your stuff.’

‘I’m not going to go grovelling to the police or anyone else,’ she said. ‘They’re only clothes. As far as I’m concerned Andrew can keep them. And he paid for the plane ticket, so he can keep that too.’

‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’

Annoyance flashed, but she kept her gaze locked on his. ‘What’s that?’

‘You can’t tend bar in your underwear.’

She blinked, then looked away. The slight tremor in her shoulders made his chest constrict again.

He felt as if he’d just kicked a puppy.

Kate twisted her hands in her lap. ‘You may have a point there,’ she said, trying to sound flippant as she forced her gaze back to his. The fighting spirit seeped out of her, though, as she endured his long, steady stare. Did he still think her situation was funny—or, worse, pathetic?

She couldn’t get the police involved. Her pride wouldn’t allow it. She’d rather prance down The Strip stark naked than see Andrew again. But she didn’t have more than twenty pounds in her purse. When she’d arrived at work yesterday morning she hadn’t expected to be whisked off to Las Vegas on a ‘business trip’ by her boss. She didn’t have a job any more. Her one credit card was maxed out. None of her friends had the sort of money she’d need to get home. And she’d sooner amputate a limb than ask her father for help.

She’d been surviving on her own since she was seventeen years old. Kate squared her shoulders, tried to control the panic making her hands shake. She’d got herself into this predicament. She’d just have to get herself out again.

The knowledge she’d have to throw herself on the mercy of the man in front of her made her stomach hurt. She hated to be indebted to anyone. Especially someone like him. Someone so rich, self-assured and domineering. But her pride had taken so many hits already today, how much damage could one more do?

Kate curled her hands into fists. ‘I know it’s a bit cheeky, but if I start work tomorrow could you give me an advance on my salary?’

Zack could see the request had cost her. The colour had washed out of her already pale face and she sat so rigidly on the edge of her chair it was a miracle she didn’t topple off onto the floor. Even so, the urge to take that defeated look out of her eyes surprised him.

He wasn’t the kind of guy who rescued damsels in distress. Especially not damsels in distress with enough attitude to make Joan Rivers look like Snow White.

But try as he might, he couldn’t quite shake the desire to help her out.

Maybe it was that combination of guts and vulnerability. Or maybe it was just her honesty. She could have used her looks, could have resorted to the usual feminine wiles, but she hadn’t. He had to give her points for that.

‘The suite’s paid up till the day after tomorrow,’ he lied smoothly, knowing Rocastle would have got a refund on the booking. ‘I’ll get the concierge to let you in and we’ll send up some clothes.’

Surprise and relief flittered across her face, but then a wary look came into her eyes. Small white teeth raked over her bottom lip. ‘I’m not…’ Whatever she was going to say she stopped herself. ‘That’s very generous of you.’ She hesitated again, but only for a moment, before she stood up. ‘I’m sorry if I was rude earlier.’ She sighed, the little gush of breath making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. ‘It’s been a difficult day.’

‘No problem.’ He shrugged, feeling a slither of guilt for having baited her. ‘No harm done.’

She held out her hand. ‘My name’s Kate, by the way. Kate Denton.’

Kate. Sweet, simple and kind of plain. It didn’t suit her one bit he decided as he gripped her fingers.

‘Zack Boudreaux. Good to meet you, Kate,’ he said, surprised to realise it was true. He felt a slight jolt run through her before she pulled her hand out of his grasp. ‘What size are you?’ he asked, glancing down at her figure. It was impossible to tell beneath all that terry cloth.

‘I’m an American size eight.’

The tint of colour that hit her cheeks amused him. Good to know she wasn’t entirely indifferent to him.

‘I’ll start work first thing tomorrow,’ she continued, all businesslike.

He smiled.

‘I’ll probably be up at the crack of dawn anyway because of the jet lag,’ she said, rushing the words.

Yeah, he was definitely making her nervous. The thought pleased him. ‘The personnel manager will be in touch,’ he said, with no intention of following through.

No way was he giving her a job. He’d get the concierge to give her a couple hundred bucks, send her up some clothes and organise a plane ticket home. It was the least he could do for the entertainment value.

‘Don’t forget to take the cost of the clothes out of my salary,’ she said over her shoulder as she turned to go. His gaze drifted down her back as she walked to the door. Her bare feet sank into the carpet, making her seem almost childlike. But then he noticed the stiff set of her shoulders and the seductive sway of her hips through the shapeless knee-length garment.

She was quite something, he thought as the door clicked closed behind her. He was going to miss her. Which was dumb, considering he’d only just met her and during that time she hadn’t exactly been coming on to him.

He sat at his desk and picked up his pen to begin jotting a ‘to-do’ list for his trip to California at the end of the week.

Twenty minutes later Zack still sat at the desk, pen in hand, without having put a single solitary item on the list.

‘Hell!’ He ripped the sheet of paper off the jotter, balled it up and sent it flying into the trash. No wonder he couldn’t think—a certain blue-eyed pixie with blonde hair and an attitude problem kept popping into his head.

Why did Kate Denton fascinate him? She was pretty, but she was hardly his type. He liked his women sleek, sophisticated and most of all predictable. On the evidence of their brief encounter, Little Miss Proper Knickers was about as predictable as Lady Luck.