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

‘So you’ve said.’ Lizzie realised she should probably say thank-you, as he’d spent a rather indecent amount of money on her, but somehow she couldn’t get herself to form the words. She hadn’t wanted the clothes, and he was too overbearing and obnoxious for her to feel any proper gratitude.

The boxes were loaded, the driver waiting, and still, Cormac paused. ‘That silver evening dress,’ he finally said, his voice gruff. ‘Wear that the last night.’

Lizzie opened her mouth to reply, her mind blank. Nothing came out.

‘See you at the airport.’ Without waiting for a response, he turned away and began walking down the street.

Lizzie watched him go, saw the rain dampen his coat and his hair, and wondered yet again just what kind of man he was…and what she was letting herself in for this weekend.

Lizzie was breathless and flushed when she finally checked in and made her way to the first-class lounge at the airport.

Cormac, the lady at the register had informed her, had checked in half an hour earlier.

Lizzie gritted her teeth. If she hadn’t had all those ridiculous bags, filled with clothes she couldn’t possibly need, she might have made better time.

‘You’re late.’ Cormac looked up from his sheaf of papers, frowning, as Lizzie made her way into the lounge.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said stiffly. ‘I’m not used to travelling with so much luggage.’

Cormac turned back to his papers. ‘I doubt you’re used to travelling at all,’ he replied, and Lizzie opened her mouth to retort something stinging, but closed it without even framing a response.

What could she say? It was true, and she could hardly argue with her boss anyway. Still, she wished he wasn’t right. She wished he didn’t know it.

She sank into the seat across from him, conscious of the outfit she wore—slim-fitting black trousers and a cranberry silk blouse, unbuttoned at the throat. She’d pulled her hair back with a clip and fine wisps fell about her flushed face. So much for looking smart.

Cormac lifted his eyes, let his gaze travel slowly over her, from her tousled hair to the pair of black leather pumps that pinched her feet. Lizzie tried not to squirm.

‘You should have had your hair cut,’ he remarked, and then turned back to his work.

Stung, Lizzie replied, ‘If you wanted me to have a complete makeover, you should have given me a bit more warning. As it is, I have no idea why the Hassells will be analysing your secretary!’

He continued to scan the papers as he replied, ‘I think I’ve already explained to you what kind of impression I—we—need to make.’

‘And you’re afraid a bad hair day is going to make or break the deal?’ Lizzie jibed, only to fall silent at Cormac’s icy look.

‘Nothing will break this deal,’ he said in a tone that was ominous in its finality. ‘Nothing.’

‘Perhaps you could tell me a little bit more about what to expect, then,’ Lizzie said after a moment. The freezing look in Cormac’s eyes thawed only slightly and she tried for a conversational tone. ‘Will there be other guests?’

‘Later,’ he replied, and she knew she was dismissed.

Sinking back into her seat, she gazed around the lounge, the deep leather armchairs seating a variety of well-heeled travellers. Even in her shiny new outfit, Lizzie felt like an outsider. A misfit. She’d never even been on an aeroplane before.

She turned her attention back to Cormac, sneaked a peep at him from beneath her lashes. He was deeply absorbed in his work, his eyes downcast, his own lashes, thick and dark, sweeping and softening the harsh planes of his face.

He was a harsh man, Lizzie thought, and felt, for the first time, a rush of curiosity about what—or who—had made him the way he was.

Ruthless, ambitious, unfeeling. Cold. The tabloids had used every damning word, delighting in Cormac’s reviled reputation. The women—starlets and socialites alike—flocked to him, to the bad boy they mistakenly thought they could tame.

Now Lizzie wondered why. Why are you the way you are?

Everyone had a past, a story. She thought of her own—her parents’ death ten years ago, Dani’s dependence. The life she’d made for herself, caring for Dani, providing her younger sister with every opportunity and affection.

She’d rung Dani to explain about the weekend, only to have her sister blithely assure her that Lizzie could do whatever she wanted, Dani was already busy with her own life.

Lizzie knew it was ridiculous to feel hurt. Rejected. Yet she did. She was glad Dani was so happy at university. She was thrilled.

She knew she was.

It just didn’t feel that way right now.

Cormac looked up. ‘They’re boarding first class.’

He stood up, putting his papers back in his attaché case. Lizzie saw a glimpse of sketches, strong pencil lines that didn’t look like the usual architectural blueprints, but they were slipped out of sight before she could guess what they were.

Clutching her handbag, she followed Cormac into the queue. They’d already been assigned seats and the airline attendants were cloyingly deferential as they led Cormac to two sumptuous reclining seats in soft grey leather.

Lizzie followed behind, feeling out of place and yet helplessly giddy at the blatant luxury. The feelings intensified when they sat down and an attendant offered them champagne and a crystal bowl full of strawberries.

Lizzie took the flute awkwardly, rotated the fragile crystal stem between her slick fingers. ‘Some service.’

‘First class,’ Cormac dismissed, and pushed his glass away, untouched.

Lizzie took a cautious sip. She hadn’t had champagne in years, not since before her parents had died, and then only a sip or two on Hogmanay or birthdays. Now the bubbles tickled her throat and her nose, made her feel a bit dizzy.

Or was it just the total unreality of the situation, sitting in first class, sipping champagne with Cormac Douglas?

Cormac was staring broodingly out of the window, the bare, brown fields and leafless trees stark against a slate-grey sky. Lizzie put her champagne flute down and glanced around at the other first-class passengers settling themselves.

A polished woman in designer denim shot her a look of pure envy and, startled, Lizzie realised the woman must think she and Cormac were a couple.

Lovers.

She glanced back at her boss, still lost in his own thoughts. His face was in profile and she could see the strong, clean line of his jaw. She was close enough even to see the glint of gold stubble on his chin, the way his close-cropped brown hair was streaked by the sun.

She turned away abruptly.

Soon the rest of the passengers were settled and the plane began to taxi towards the runway. Lizzie leaned back in her seat, her nerves beginning a sudden, frantic flutter in her middle.

Cormac saw her fingers curl around the armrest and raised one eyebrow. ‘Are you nervous?’

‘A bit,’ she admitted unwillingly. ‘I’ve never flown before.’

‘But you had a passport.’

‘I went to Paris by train once.’ As an escort for Dani’s fifth form field trip, but she let Cormac think what he liked.

Apparently he didn’t think much for he raised his eyebrows and murmured, ‘I see.’