Overtime in the Boss's Bed

Sympathy warred with mirth as she watched the waiter try to mop up the mess, the guy in the suit waving him away with a frown.

The cocktail-wearing recipient looked out of place, suited and buttoned-up in a roomful of semi-naked guys, and she grinned as he fiddled with the knot of his tie, straightening it, aiming for cool, despite having several mojitos and a magnum of champagne dumped on his Armani duds.

‘Yeah, he was definitely checking me out. Just one look and the guy does that. Back soon, hun. Off to mingle—find me a less clumsy one.’

Kit headed for the bar—and a tempting conglomeration of buffed waiters—while Starr found her gaze drawn back to the suit.

She’d been too busy ogling the waiters to notice the other guys in the room, but now she had…Slick guys in suits weren’t her thing, but there was something about this guy. The way he stood, tall, proud, indomitable, despite a cocktail-dousing, his class obvious, his imperious gaze scanning the crowd…clashing with hers.

Startled, she dropped her gaze, surprised by the lick of heat lapping her skin after their momentary eye-lock.

The smart thing to do would be to quickstep out of here. But considering the shambles her life was at the moment, she hadn’t done the smart thing in ages.

Curious to see if her inexplicable reaction to the stranger had been a result of a testosterone overdose from being in this room too long, she slowly raised her gaze to his. The moment of impact was just as cataclysmic as the first time.

He arched an eyebrow, his dark eyes filled with questions she had no hope of answering, the sardonic twist of his mouth tempting her to march right over there and set him straight.

She wasn’t interested.

His lips curved in a decadent smile, shattering that particular delusion.

Damn, she was a sucker.

The only reason she’d come tonight was to avoid mulling. She’d already done the pity party earlier that week, complete with crashing cymbals, tooting horns and a banner that had read ‘Fallen Starr’, reminding her of the utter mess she now faced, courtesy of one lousy decision.

She’d fallen for the wrong guy.

Never again.

So what the hell was she doing, standing here, en-couraging some serious eye contact flirtation with absolutely no intention of following through?

Sculling the rest of her drink, she headed for the glass-enclosed balcony fifty storeys above Sydney. Maybe some fresh air might give her a little perspective. Yeah, right, and a miracle might drop from the heavens too.

Leaving the jam-packed room, laden with expensive perfume and excessive testosterone, she stepped onto the balcony, grateful for its solitude, impressed by the view.

No doubt about it—Kit’s mum knew how to throw top shindigs. Sydney came alive at night, shimmied and salsa-ed and samba-ed from dusk to dawn, and she loved it—loved every vibrant inch. As she watched a Manly ferry leave Circular Quay on a journey it made many times a day, the lights of the bustling city twinkling far beneath, the impact of leaving slammed into her hard, hurting despite the week she’d had to adjust.

Sydney was her past, Melbourne her future.

‘Running away?’

The deep voice washed over her, and she shivered despite the balmy summer evening as he stepped in front of her—so much more striking up close, so much more appealing, so much more everything.

She couldn’t see the colour of his eyes, or read their expression out here in the shadows, but there was no mistaking the amusement lacing his smoother-than-velvet voice.

He’d followed her out here, was trying to get a rise out of her, and while her first instinct was to tell him where to go, she swallowed it.

She’d never been one to wallow, and while her life as she knew it had just been flushed down the toilet and discharged into Sydney Harbour, there was no time like the present to test her new male-immunity programme.

‘Just needed some fresh air. What’s your excuse?’

‘Too many people back there—’ he jerked his thumb towards the packed room ‘—and the only interesting ones are out here.’

‘Smooth.’

‘I like to think so.’

‘Also terribly lame.’

He crooked his finger, and she inadvertently leaned forward.

‘Care to help me improve my technique?’

‘Nope. Not in the mood for meaningless small talk and pitiable one-liners.’

He laughed. ‘How about a meaningful exchange?’

‘Not interested, mister.’

She jabbed at his chest, realising her mistake a second too late as she connected with a hard wall of tempting male flesh.

His mouth twitched as she removed her finger tout de suite, the initial electricity zap from touching him fading into a residual tingle.

‘Point taken.’

He didn’t budge, didn’t move a muscle even as she belatedly realised a big, strong, he-man like him would see her reluctance as a challenge.

‘Doesn’t mean I’m going to back down, though.’

She raised an eyebrow, surprised by his commanding tone. Who was this guy anyway?

‘Look, unless you have a dream job in Melbourne’s premier dance company to coerce me into listening to any more of your drivel, beat it.’

Her feistiness didn’t deter him. He folded his arms, propped himself against the balcony railing, his expression intrigued.

‘You need a job?’

‘Oh, yeah.’

Desperately. Dance companies in Sydney were out, so she’d booked a ticket to Melbourne, ready to audition her little tap shoes off in order to find a job—any job—and start rebuilding her life.

‘I’ve got a vacancy.’

She screwed up her nose, her withering glare doing little to discourage him if his confident grin was any indication.

‘Let me guess. Cleaner? Cook? Shoe-shiner?’

‘Close. I’m after a Girl Friday.’