Christmas with her Boss

She couldn’t hire a private jet. Helicopters needed airspace too. How long would it take a boat to get to New Zealand so he could fly from there? A week at least. No.

And hotels…They’d been booked out for months for this holiday weekend. When she’d settled his account this morning the manager already sounded tired in anticipation.

‘It’s great he’s booked out early. I have people queuing. There’s not a room to be had in the whole city. I have people offering bribes…’

‘Are you intending to tell me?’

His eyes had narrowed—he knew by now that the problem was serious. To her surprise, though, there was a gleam of suppressed amusement in his dark eyes, as if he guessed the mess her thoughts were in.

‘There’s been a snap strike by air traffic controllers,’ she said, feeling ill. ‘The conciliation meeting ended twenty minutes ago, with no result. All airlines are grounded indefinitely.’

She could see the airport from this office. Meg snatched a fleeting glance outside. This was the penthouse suite of the most luxurious office block in Melbourne. The view was almost all the way to Tasmania, and normally there were planes between here and the sea.

Now the sky was empty, and her boss’s gaze had followed hers.

‘No planes,’ he said slowly.

‘Nothing that needs airspace until after Christmas. There’s no guarantee even then. This is…’

‘Absurd,’ he snapped. ‘A private jet…’

‘Requires airspace.’ She managed to meet his gaze full on. He liked direct answers; hated being messed around. She’d worked with him for three years now and she knew enough not to quail before that steely gaze. Sometimes this man demanded more than was humanly possible. When that happened she told him and he simply moved on.

He wasn’t moving on yet.

‘Organise me a car to Sydney. I’ll fly from there.’

‘The strike’s Australia-wide.’

‘That’s impossible. I need to be in New York for Christmas.’

Why? There was enough space in her muddled thoughts to wonder what—or who—was waiting for him at home.

The gossip magazines said this man was a loner. He’d been an only child, and his parents were wealthy to the point of obscenity, long divorced and enmeshed in society living. As far as Meg knew, he never saw them. There’d been an actress on his arm last time he’d been in London but the tabloids had reported her broken heart at least three months ago. And it hadn’t been very broken, Meg thought wryly. She knew how much the woman had received during their short relationship—‘Send this to Sarah…Settle Sarah’s hotel bill…’ and now Sarah had already moved on to the next high-status partner.

So who was waiting in New York?

‘I can’t get you to New York,’ she said, trying to stay calm. To tell it like it was.

‘You’ve tried everything?’

‘Yes, sir.’

He stared at her for a long moment and she could see his cool brain assessing the situation. He trusted her—he’d trusted her from the moment he’d hired her—and she could tell by his expression that already he was in Melbourne for Christmas and making the best of it.

‘I can work here,’ he said, angry but seemingly resigned. Frequent flyers knew that sometimes factors moved out of their control, and she wouldn’t be fired for this. ‘I’ll need to make some fast arrangements, though. We can use the time to sort the Berswood deal. That’s urgent enough.’

Deep breath. Just say it.

‘Mr McMaster, the Australian corporate world closes down at five this afternoon,’ she said, meeting his gaze square on. ‘This entire building will be shutting down. There’ll be no air conditioning, no servicing; the place will be locked. The business district will be deserted. You pay me to be in charge of this office and I’ve already let the staff leave. And you can’t sort the Berswood contract. There’ll be no one at Berswood to sort it with.’

She was meeting her boss’s gaze, tilting her chin, trying to sound calmly confident instead of defiant and scared.

She was definitely scared.

McMaster’s gaze was almost blank, but she knew there was nothing blank about what he was thinking. This man sorted multi-million business deals in the time it took her to apply lipstick. Not that she had time to apply lipstick when he was around.

‘Very well,’ he conceded. ‘You and I can work from my hotel suite.’

You and I can work from my hotel suite…

Her face must have changed again. He got it. He always knew.

‘There’s a problem there, too?’

‘Sir, there’s no rooms.’

‘If I have to change hotels I will,’ he snapped, but she shook her head. This was why she’d be fired. It was something she should have foreseen. At the first rumour she should have booked, but she’d missed the rumours.

She’d been frantic in the Christmas lead up, and she’d done her shopping in one crazy rush last night. The shops had been open all night. McMaster had let her go at eleven and she’d shopped until three. Then she’d fallen into an exhausted sleep—and been woken to a demand for clean shirts. She’d sorted it and been back in the office at seven, but her normally incisive scheduling had let her down. She’d missed listening to the morning news.

Fallback position…What was that?

There wasn’t one.

‘There really are no rooms,’ she said, as calmly as she could. ‘The country’s full of trapped people. You left your hotel before seven this morning. Most people book out later. By eight the rumours had started and people simply refused to leave. If I’d figured this out this morning…I didn’t and I’m sorry. There’s a major Hollywood blockbuster being filmed on location just out of Melbourne. All the cast were due to fly out tonight. They’ve block-booked every luxury hotel in Melbourne and they’re prepared to pay whatever it takes. The cheap places are overwhelmed by groups who can’t get home. People are camping at the airport. There really is nothing.’

She hesitated, hating to throw it back to him, knowing she had no choice. ‘Sir…Do you have friends? Your parents…There must be people you know?’

There was a moment’s loaded silence. Then, ‘You’re telling me to contact my parents’ friends?’ The anger in his voice frightened her.

‘No, I…’

‘There is no way I will contact any friend of my parents—or anyone else. You’re suggesting I ask for charity?’

‘Of course not, but…’

‘To impose myself on someone else’s Christmas…I will not.’

‘Sir…’

‘So, taking away the personal option, where,’ he said in a voice that dripped ice, ‘do you suggest I stay?’

‘I don’t know,’ she whispered.

‘You’re paid to know,’ he snapped, his face dark with fury. He glanced at his watch. ‘You have fifteen minutes. I’ll get documents faxed from Berswood to give me work to do over the weekend. Meanwhile, find me something. Somewhere I can work in peace. Now.’

He turned and slammed back into his office and, for the first time in her entire life, Meg felt like having hysterics. Serious hysterics.