Out of Hours...Her Ruthless Boss: Ruthless Boss, Hired Wife / Unworldly Secretary, Untamed Greek / Her Ruthless Italian Boss

A densely forested mountain rose majestically in the centre of the tiny island, framed by a curve of smooth, white sand, the clear azure sea stretching to an endless horizon.

A few buildings nestled against the mountain—cottages in pastel colours with shutters open to the tropical breeze.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she murmured.

‘Sint Rimbert is the jewel of the Caribbean,’ the pilot stated. ‘Untouched by crass tourism…and it will remain that way.’There was a warning in his voice and Cormac smiled easily.

‘Absolutely. And the Hassells are more than generous to even consider sharing this piece of paradise with anyone.’

The pilot nodded in agreement and said no more as he began his descent to the island.

The landing strip was a bare brown line of dirt, barely noticeable in its stunning surroundings.

As they stepped off the plane, the air enfolded her in a balmy caress, heavy with the sweet scent of frangipani. The sky above them was a soft, hazy blue, fleecy clouds scudding across its surface.

Lizzie breathed in the warm tropical air, felt it fill her lungs with a fizz of excitement and hope. As long as she could keep her cool—with Cormac as much as with everyone else—she’d be okay.

She could even enjoy this. Maybe.

She wanted to. She wanted to have a weekend to remember.

She might never get the chance again.

A man—short, balding and in his sixties—strode forward. ‘Mr Douglas! We are so pleased! So pleased!’ He stuck out his hand for Cormac to shake and Lizzie’s heart constricted. This had to be Jan Hassell, the man they were deceiving.

Stop it, she commanded herself. She was in too deep now; it was too late to feel guilty.

Hassell turned to her, beaming as he pumped her hand. ‘And this must be your wife…’ He paused, forehead wrinkling, and Cormac interjected smoothly.

‘Elizabeth. But I call her Lizzie.’ He spoke the name as if it were an endearment, smiling at her, his gaze a teasing caress.

Refusing to be baited or belittled, Lizzie smiled back, laced her slick fingers with Cormac’s. ‘Please call me Lizzie, as well,’ she murmured, shooting Cormac a coy smile. ‘Everyone does, although Cormac likes to think it’s his pet name for me.’

Jan clapped his hand in delight. ‘But you are so in love! You will have to tell me all about it. My wife, Hilda, will want to know how it all came about.’

More people to deceive. Lizzie hushed the whisper of her conscience. ‘Oh, that’s girl talk,’ she said with a little laugh. ‘Hilda and I will have to chat…I’ll tell her all of Cormac’s secrets.’ She smiled and Jan beamed. ‘I’m sure you two have a story, as well!’

‘Oh, we do,’ Jan assured her with a wink. ‘Now, you must be tired. Your things have been brought to my car…Come, follow me.’

He turned and headed towards a four-by-four parked near some scrub.

Cormac put his arm around her shoulders—heavy, warm, a warning. ‘Come on, sweetheart,’ he said easily, but his hand squeezed her shoulder. He murmured in a low voice, ‘Don’t lay it on with a trowel, Chandler. It’s a bit nauseating.’

‘I can believe that,’ she replied in an angry undertone. ‘Acting like you’re in love has to be completely foreign to you! Do you love anything but your precious designs?’ Smiling again, she laid her head against his shoulder, felt the tension in his muscles, in her own.

Every petty victory cost her something, as well.

Their luggage stowed in the back, Jan opened the rear door for them to enter.

Lizzie clambered in, hoping that Cormac would sit in the front with Jan.

He did not. He climbed in next to her, his large, muscular thigh pressed against hers, his arm around her shoulders once more, drawing her tightly to his side. She could smell his scent—the tang of soap and cedar and something indefinitely masculine, as well.

Jan beamed at them approvingly before taking the driver’s seat. As the Jeep left the airstrip, he told them a bit about the island.

‘As you know, Cormac, from our discussion, Sint Rimbert is a small island. There is only one village and a population of less than six hundred. We have a flying doctor, two shops and a post office. That is all.’ Jan spoke proudly and Lizzie guessed he was glad he’d held out against tawdry tourism for so long.

‘Taking the decision to build a resort was difficult,’ he continued as he drove the Jeep along a tarmac road, the thick foliage so close to the car that Lizzie could have reached out and grasped a fern or palm. She saw coconut and banana trees and even the curious, wizened face of a green monkey perched among the branches.

‘It is very important to us that the resort won’t disturb the local population,’ Jan said, ‘or the environment any more than necessary. This is not simply a money-making operation for us.’

‘Of course not,’ Cormac agreed. ‘And I am grateful that you have preserved this paradise for us. It would be my pleasure—as well as my duty—to continue to preserve it for those fortunate enough to visit.’ His voice was smooth and assured without being sycophantic.

He knew how to deal with someone like Jan, Lizzie thought with a tinge of reluctant admiration. How to manipulate him—just as he was manipulating her.

The thought was unwelcome for it held the bitter gall of truth. Her emotions and senses might be quivering with awakened awareness, but Cormac Douglas felt nothing for her. She was a prop, simply to be used. Only to be used.

And she’d better not forget it.

Jan turned the Jeep into a private drive, large wooden gates open to the road.

Lizzie’s eyes widened at the luxurious surroundings. The road wound through the thick tropical forest before it gave way to landscaped gardens bursting with colour and scent.

Jan drove the Jeep over a little wooden bridge, a still, glassy pond covered in lily pads below.

The road curved close to the sea before revealing a large circular drive and a low rambling villa that seemed to stretch endlessly into the distance, a maze of white stucco and terracotta roof tiles.

‘Onze Parel,’ he said fondly as he stopped the Jeep and gazed fondly at his home. ‘Our Pearl. My great-grandfather named it, and truly it has been a pearl beyond price.’

‘Your family has been on this island for a hundred years?’ Lizzie queried, feeling both curious and a need to say something.

‘Yes. It was sparsely populated before that, mostly with convicts and pirates. Then my great-grandfather received part of the island from Queen Wilhelmina of the Netherlands, as payment for services in the Boer War. He improved the harbour so that ships could land safely—part of the reason Sint Rimbert has been so scarcely populated—and built a plantation.’ He smiled sadly. ‘It was a sugar plantation, built inland, but the house burned down in the nineteen seventies and the plantation dwindled. We built this villa soon after.’

Lizzie nodded. She was fascinated by the history, yet she also wondered if the building of the resort had more financial motivation than Jan Hassell had let on.

‘Come,’ he said, ‘and Hilda will show you to your rooms. You will want to rest before dinner.’

Cormac climbed out of the Jeep, holding his hand out for Lizzie to grasp as she stepped down. She took it as a matter of course and wasn’t prepared for the jolt of sensation that shot up her arm and down to her toes when Cormac’s cool, dry fingers encased her own.

He glanced at her, eyes dark, sardonic. Knowing.

He knew too damn much.

She dropped his hand and strode towards the villa.

Wide wooden doors opened to a tiled foyer and lounge, decorated more for comfort and practicality than to impress. Still, it impressed Lizzie. The windows were open, the wooden shutters thrown wide to an open-air corridor that led to the bedrooms. Only metres away Lizzie could see a strip of white sand and the jewel-toned sea.

‘Welcome, welcome.’ Jan’s wife, Hilda, entered the room. Like Jan, she was short and plump, her white hair elegantly coiffed. She wore loose, flowing trousers and a white silk blouse and she looked cool and comfortable and happy for them to be in her home.