Ruthless Boss, Dream Baby

‘There’s not much to see,’ Magenta complained, though her body reacted strangely to what was little more than a shot of a man’s back. What was so arousing about that? For some weird reason, her body disagreed.

Quinn was obviously in a hurry to get wherever he’d been going, Magenta registered, studying the grainy print to try and fathom out her reaction to it. And then she got a bolt of something totally inappropriate for a woman who by her own admission was hardly sexually experienced. Quinn’s height, the imposing width of his shoulders, the way he held himself—everything appealed to her. Quinn was different from most men in that he was taut, powerful and exuded confidence, as if he were ready for anything. He looked like the type of man who inspired confidence in others, too.

He wouldn’t even look at her, Magenta reassured herself, releasing a long, shivering breath. There were so many pretty girls in the world, quite a few of whom worked here at Steele Design. Why would a man like Quinn look at an old maid like her?

Theirs would be a match made in hell, she convinced herself, pushing the magazine back to Tess. Imagine adding a man like that to her workload!

‘What do you know about Quinn, Magenta? ‘ one of the younger girls asked her. ‘We know you did lots of research on him when you started to prepare this project to entice him to invest in Steele Design.’

‘I did,’ Magenta admitted. ‘But I was never able to find any proper photographs. I’m surprised Tess found this.’ She glanced again at the magazine. ‘I gather Quinn’s celebrity-averse. And no wonder, judging by the gossip you’ve heard about him. A man like that must prize his privacy above everything else. I do know he was orphaned at an early age, and that he dragged himself up by his bootstraps, but that’s about it. Oh, and he doesn’t suffer fools gladly.’

‘At all,’ Tess amended, shooting a warning glance around the circle of suddenly concerned faces.

‘Which is why you have to be on your mettle whether I’m here or not,’ Magenta stressed. Smoothing back her long, dark hair, she wound it into the casual chignon she customarily wore at the office, securing it with a silver clip. ‘And don’t forget that, unless Quinn sacks me, I’ll be back in the New Year when we’ll make our final presentation to him as a team.’

‘Sacks you?’ Tess pulled a face. ‘I haven’t read that he’s crazy.’

‘But he may not want a member of the old guard working for him, as my father calls us. Here are some documents I drew up—where we are with each campaign et cetera. Make sure he gets them, will you, Tess?’

‘Of course I will…’ But Tess still looked worried. ‘Do you have to go?’

‘I can’t risk screwing up Dad’s deal.’

‘Well, at least you don’t have to worry about the documents. I’ll see Quinn gets them.’

‘Thank you.’ Magenta turned to go. But she should have known Tess hadn’t finished with her yet.

‘And if you change your mind about the party…’

‘I only wish I could.’ The end-of-year party was important, but nowhere near as important as keeping Magenta’s team in work. The last thing she wanted was to alienate Quinn, or have him think she was trying to split the team’s loyalty. She hoped she had made a persuasive case for keeping all her colleagues on in the documents she’d given Tess. To add a little weight to that hope, she had drafted an outline for the next campaign, centred on products she knew Quinn wanted to push and which she hoped would keep his interest in the company going forward.

‘You can’t leave us,’ Tess stressed discreetly as Magenta prepared to go. ‘You’re the heart of the team.’

‘You’ll do just fine without me—and, anyway, I haven’t gone yet. Let’s see how it goes. Quinn isn’t a fool. Just keep doing what you’re doing, and he won’t be able to let any of you go.’

But Magenta started fretting before she left the room. The promise to her father counted highly with her, but it went against the grain to walk out on her friends. Her father had his money now and wanted nothing more to do with the company, whereas her colleagues were all desperate to keep their jobs. Maybe Tess was right; maybe she wouldn’t be able to stay away.

When Magenta got down to the car park it was full of recovery vehicles with red lights flashing and men in high-vis jackets.

Why was nothing ever straightforward? Magenta wondered, urging herself to remain calm as the mechanics explained to her that, as hers was a vintage car, they couldn’t repair it now but would have to order a tyre. They were going to recover the vehicle and keep it in the garage over Christmas and she could collect it some time in the New Year. No, they couldn’t be more specific than that, the mechanic in charge told her, scratching his head.

Pulling up her collar against a sudden squall of icy wind, Magenta thanked the men for turning out in such diabolical weather and insisted on giving each of them a crisp new note. Why shouldn’t someone enjoy their day?

Wrapping her arms around her body to keep warm, she watched as her car was loaded onto the transporter. She was just bending down to retrieve her bag and briefcase when a familiar roar made her jump, and a familiar boot stamping down by her feet made her scowl.

‘Don’t tell me,’ she managed as the biker lifted off his helmet. ‘You didn’t get me the first time around, so you’ve come back to finish me off with a heart attack? ‘

‘Your heart’s safe from me.’

Oh…

Was she supposed to feel quite so disappointed? Magenta’s brain raced as the biker lifted one ebony eyebrow, sending a tidal wave of hot, feral lust rushing through her veins. Removing one protective leather glove, the man stretched out his hand for her to shake.

‘You surely don’t expect me to shake your hand after you’ve frightened me half to death, not once but twice?’

He grinned. ‘You’re not that feeble, I’m sure. But my apologies, if I frightened you.’

The mock bow made her heart thunder into action. But what exactly did he find so funny?

‘Something tells me we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other,’ the biker said, closing one warm, strong hand around Magenta’s frozen fingers.

Yeah, right. In your dreams, she thought.

CHAPTER THREE

AS THE biker dismounted his machine and straightened up, Magenta felt her cheeks fire red. He was a lot taller than she had expected and had the type of shoulders that blotted out the light. She had to fight the desire to give him a comprehensive twice-over. She already knew he was an amazing-looking man and that tight black leathers were no respecters of female sensibilities. She dropped her gaze as a dangerous stare levelled on her face.

‘Lost your voice?’ The voice was low and amused, husky and compelling.

And leather didn’t conceal or contain, it stretched and moulded shapes lovingly…

‘Well? Have you?’ he prompted.

No, but she had been struck by one too many thunderbolts in a single day, Magenta concluded, whipping her head up to stare the man in the eyes. He curved a smile in response that threw her totally, a smile that made his eyes crinkle attractively at the corners.

‘I’m glad you think this is funny,’ she said, covering her growing feeling of awkwardness with a scowl. ‘I don’t care who you are, what you just did was dangerous.’ Now she sounded like his headmistress and felt old enough to hold the post.

That grin spread from his mouth to his eyes, making her wonder if he’d read that thought.

‘You look to me like you badly need a ride.’

Where had that thought come from?

She wished she had the guts to throw him the same grin he had given her earlier. But no, this was how she was, clumsy with men, which made her grumpy and defensive. She might be heavily into studying the sixties for the ad campaign, but it would never occur to her to embrace the concept of free love. And from what she’d seen to date nothing about love was free, Magenta reflected as the biker continued to study her with amused interest.

‘I thought I might come back and see if you still needed rescuing.’

‘Not then and not now.’

‘A man is programmed to play the white knight—it’s built into the genes.’

The only thing that was built into his jeans was a warning that she was out of her depth. ‘I can look after myself, thank you.’

‘And so you prove this by standing out here, freezing your butt off?’

Just the mention of her butt caused her body to heat. ‘I haven’t been standing outside all this time. And, anyway, I’m going home now.’

‘And how do you intend to do that?’

‘On the underground, or in a cab.’

‘You’ll be lucky.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Delays on the line; buses bulging at the seams. And there’s not a taxi to found. Not a free one, at least.’

She tried not to notice how beautiful the biker’s eyes were. They were aquamarine with steely grey rims around the iris, the whites very white and his lashes completely wasted on a man. While his tongue was firmly lodged in his cheek, Magenta suspected. ‘What are you? ‘ she demanded. ‘Some sort of information clerk for the city of London?

‘Just observant. Have you worked up the courage to take a ride with me yet? ‘

Unfortunately, he was right. She could stay here and freeze or she could take her chances with public transport. But hadn’t she been lectured on the dangers of taking life too seriously? Shouldn’t she at least consider the biker’s offer?

Absolutely not.

She turned her back, only to find herself checking the road for black ice. The mystery biker might be the most infuriating, the most arrogant, overbearing and impossible man she’d ever met, but the thought of finding him mashed up in a gutter made her heart race with fear for him. ‘Take care—it’s slippery,’ she mumbled and, putting her head down, she marched towards the exit.

Wheeling his bike in front of her, he stopped dead.

‘What are you doing?’ Magenta demanded.

‘I don’t take no for an answer.’ His eyes glinted with laughter.

‘I can see that. Does everything amuse you?’ she demanded, stepping round his bike.

‘You make me smile.’

She kept on walking, but as she dragged her jacket a little closer it occurred to Magenta that she was perhaps being a little ungracious. ‘If you’re looking for someone…’

The biker’s eyes glinted.

‘I’m just trying to say, if I can help you in any way…’

‘Get on the bike.’

No! Yes. What should she do? She had been fascinated by the beacon of freedom women lit in the sixties and talked a good battle when it came to championing the cause—but did she ever seize the moment and take action? Or did she always play it safe?

Too damn safe. ‘Helmet?’

The biker produced a spare and then patted the seat behind him.

‘You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you? ‘ she commented as she buckled it on.

‘Sure of you. You can’t resist a challenge, can you?’

‘And how do you know that?’

He shrugged.

‘The helmet seems like it might fit—’

‘Then climb on board.’

The husky voice suggested a chastity belt might be a useful piece of kit too.

‘Before I change my mind…’ He revved the engine.

‘Are you always so forceful? ‘

‘Yes.’

The master of the one word answer drowned out the demented timpanist in charge of her heart by taking the revs up to danger level. And now she took a proper look at his monster machine she wasn’t even sure she could climb on board, as the biker put it. Did her legs even stretch that wide?

‘Chicken?’ The smile was masculine and mocking.

‘I am not.’ She played for time. ‘That’s a Royal Enfield, isn’t it?’

‘You know motorbikes?’

Her attention flew to a very sexy mouth. ‘I know the brand, thanks to my research into the sixties,’ she said primly. She might have known someone as cool as the biker wouldn’t ride a pimped-up, over-hyped modern machine. The Enfield was a serious motorbike for serious riders. Big and black, it was vibrating insistently between his leather-clad thighs.

And would soon be vibrating between hers.

No way was she climbing on board.

And she was getting home…how?

Call a cab, the sensible side of her brain suggested. There had to be an empty cab somewhere in the whole of London.

‘You are chicken,’ the biker insisted, slanting an amused glance Magenta’s way.

She laughed dismissively, longing for a way out. But she’d done ‘sensible’ all her life, and look where that had got her.

‘Well?’

‘Forbidden fruit’ sprang to mind when she looked at him—fruit that was so close, so ripe and so dangerously delicious, she could practically taste it on her tongue. ‘How do I know I’ll be safe with you?’

‘You don’t.’

Her pulse raced. But then, she reasoned, it was only a lift home—why the fuss? ‘Shouldn’t you know my address before we set off?’

‘So, tell me.’

She found herself doing so even as she wondered how his strong white teeth would feel if he used them to lightly nip her skin.

‘It’s time to get on the bike,’ he prompted. ‘I’ve no intention of running out of fuel while I wait for you to make up your mind.’

‘Could you take my briefcase and stow it for me, please? ‘

‘My pleasure, ma’am.’ He held out his hand.

‘I suppose I should thank you,’ she added belatedly.

‘I suppose you should,’ he agreed.

‘If you’re sure it’s not out of your way?’

‘I’m sure.’

This man would be equally certain about every decision he made. He’d be just as decisive when he left her standing here freezing her butt off, as he’d so elegantly put it, on the basis of her extreme cowardice.

‘Would you like some help?’ he said, looking on in bemusement as she started hopping into position.

All she had to do was throw one leg across his seat. How hard could that be? ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

After one final heave and a lot of unladylike wriggling, she was finally in position—which meant close up to the biker. She tried to shuffle back a bit to maintain the proprieties, but the moment he kicked the stand away, released the brake and gunned the engine she launched herself at him, wrapping her arms as tightly as she could around his waist.

A waist without an ounce of fat on it, Magenta registered, but an awful lot of muscle, and if there was a way to ride pillion behind the biker without allowing her body to mould with his—thankfully, it had escaped her.

By the time they joined the heavy London traffic, she was pretty familiar with the biker’s back and the way his thick hair escaped the helmet to caress the collar on his jacket. She was so familiar she had even started shivering…with cold, Magenta told herself firmly. Having consigned her safety to the hands of a man she hardly knew, that was more than enough risk to take in one day.

He really knew how to handle a bike and wove in and out of the congested streets of London like a man who really knew what he was doing, while Magenta was increasingly conscious of the insistent vibrations beneath her. It was almost a disappointment when they rolled up outside her neatly manicured town house. Dismounting the bike shakily, she removed her helmet and shook out her long, black hair.

‘That’s quite a transformation, lady,’ the biker commented as he lifted off his helmet to stare at her.

‘You think so?’ Magenta laughed as she retrieved her clip as it fell to the ground. She couldn’t remember feeling so carefree in a long time. Her hair had been blown to blazes, like the rest of her—and it felt great. She felt great. ‘Thanks.’

‘My pleasure.’ His face creased in the now-familiar grin.

Did she imagine the curtains in nearby houses were twitching? For once she didn’t care what anyone thought. So she had ridden home on the bike of a tough-looking guy, ditching the power suit and the high-heeled shoes along the way. Short of stripping naked and leaping on top of him in the middle of the street, she was committing no crime.

‘Coffee?’ she said, still in the throws of enthusiasm. It seemed only polite. And when would an opportunity like this come round again?

The man’s laser gaze was every bit as astonishing as she remembered; she was sure he was going to say, ‘why not?’ But what he actually said was, ‘I should get back.’

‘Of course…’ What was she thinking?

Where overtures towards good-looking guys were concerned, she was somewhat out of practice, Magenta conceded. But, as this wasn’t an overture—not even close—but merely a polite invitation to enjoy a hot drink before making a return journey in the cold, she had nothing to worry about, did she? ‘Genuine Blue Mountain coffee.’

‘You make it hard to refuse,’ he admitted, slanting a smoky grey-green stare her way.

Impossible, hopefully. Having tasted danger, she wanted more. ‘So?’ she pressed. Pulling out the house keys, she dangled them in front of him.

‘I have to get back.’

Of course he did. ‘Another time,’ she said brightly, swallowing down her disappointment. ‘You’ve done more than enough for me already. Goodness knows how far you’ve come out of your way.’

‘Not far.’

Tess would be furious with her; she didn’t even know his name. But she couldn’t hold him here while she cross-questioned him without inviting further humiliation. ‘It’s been good meeting you.’

‘And you.’ He grinned.

By the time she had lifted her hand to wave him off, he’d gone.

CHAPTER FOUR

WHY did her house seem so quiet and empty, when it never had before?

Because of the biker, Magenta concluded. With his larger than life personality, he didn’t even need to speak to command attention; he just had to be.

Having changed her clothes, and kicked off her shoes with relief, she picked the mail up and headed for the kitchen. The phone stopped her dead. She picked it up.

‘Magenta Steele?’ The voice was crisp, deep and very masculine. ‘Gray Quinn here.’

Magenta’s heart rolled over. ‘Gray…’

‘Most people call me Quinn.’ There was a hint of a smile in the voice, but not enough to reassure. ‘I’m in the office tying up some loose ends. I’d like to see you for a discussion on your position going forward with the company first thing tomorrow morning.’

‘But my father said—’

‘Your father doesn’t head up Steele Design now. I do. Nine o’clock okay with you? ‘

‘Of course…’ A chill ran through her. Quinn might be a sexy charmer, according to office gossip, but she’d just encountered the Genghis Khan side of him.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Magenta—nine o’clock sharp.’

And it wasn’t a suggestion but an order, Magenta gathered as the line cut.

Coffee was needed. The temptation to go straight back to the office to gauge the effect Quinn was having on everyone else was almost impossible to resist. She was worried about her colleagues and felt uncomfortable leaving them.

Plus she had work she could do better at the office, she persuaded herself, and if she got through enough of it her team could have more time off for Christmas shopping. She would get Tess to ring her when the coast was clear.

Now the decision was made, she was all fired up. Forget taking a subtle approach where Quinn was concerned; if she waited until he was bedded in, as her father had suggested, it might be too late to save her friends’ jobs. Abandoning the idea of coffee, she ran upstairs to take a shower and freshen up.

Now new doubts set in. Even if Tess rung her when Quinn left the office, there was still the possibility he might return and find her there. The thought of meeting him filled Magenta with excitement, but it also filled her with the type of self-doubt that had always plagued her where men were concerned. She would need a lot more than a freshen-up before she ran into Quinn—a full-body overhaul was called for.

Guided by the horribly honest mirrors in her bathroom, it soon became apparent that she was up against the clock in more ways than one. She would just have to make whatever repairs she could in the short time available.

Collecting up the sixties products she had been hoarding to fuel her imagination for the campaign, she rested the plastic crate on top of the linen basket and started rummaging inside. A queen-sized razor; not a bad place to start.

And what was this? Myriad sparkles of dewy fragrance will embrace your body in a haze of desire at just the touch of a button…

A love potion? Well, she could certainly do with some of that.

But after her shower, she decided, stepping beneath the steaming spray.

She had a whole range of retro products in the shower too. She had definitely been infected by the sixties bug. Magenta smiled wryly as she soaped down and thought about Quinn. What would he be like?

That was the only excuse her imagination needed to go crazy. There was only one thing that could make this self-indulgent shower any better, and that was sharing it with Quinn—not that she would; not in the real world. She was better off sticking to work and researching the sixties.

‘Soap-on-a-rope, come here to me,’ Magenta crooned, capturing the hippopotamus-shaped soap currently swinging on a cord from her shower head.

She glanced through the open door towards her bed, realising how tired she was. The temptation was to just fall into bed after her shower and dream about Quinn, put a face to that grainy back-view in the magazine… Perhaps she’d wake up to discover she had a really big share-holding in the business—power and some cards to play.

But that wasn’t going to happen…

Turning her face up to the spray, Magenta knew she would have to take a more conventional route by producing some of her best work and by working her thermal socks off.

Turning the shower off, she grabbed a couple of towels and returned to the bedroom, where a spear of inspiration struck. Why not go the whole hog and dress in sixties clothes? Quite a few of her colleagues had already adopted the fashions and the look, so why not join them?

They always banded together at this time of year and had such fun—decorating the office, sneaking out for warm, full-fat mince pies with thick globs of cream on top—and this year the sixties vibe was adding a special frisson to the holiday celebrations.

She was drying her hair absent-mindedly with a towel as she started flicking through her wardrobe. Like everyone else in the creative team, she had been scouring the vintage shops for examples of sixties clothing, and had struck gold with a form-fitting cream wool dress. Sliding it off the hanger, she laid it on the bed.

Suppliers had rushed to offer samples of their retro products when Magenta had let it be known that she would be running a high-profile campaign, so she had plenty of accessories to choose from. Fortunately, it hadn’t been all mini-skirts and hot-pants in the sixties. There had been the hippies in their flowing, get-em-off-quick clothes, the shock-frock dolly-birds in mini-skirts, as well as a more elegant side to the era. This was where Magenta felt comfortable—though it was the underwear she was supposed to wear beneath these stylish clothes that made her laugh. Break out of your little-girl body when you’re feeling in a big-girl mood, ran the legend on one pack of matching bra and girdle.

Well, she wasn’t a little girl, but she was definitely in a biggirl mood, Magenta decided, conjuring up a vision of Quinn as she broke the seal on the packaging.

It was almost impossible not to think about the new owner of the business, Magenta realised, opening the towel she had wrapped around her body to give her twenty-eight-year-old figure a critical review. She was sitting on the bed facing the dressing-table mirror and she sat up straight immediately. Would he like real women with real bellies, or would his tastes run to something younger and slimmer? Not that she could do much about it in the short time at her disposal. And why worry when her naked body was in zero danger of becoming an issue between them?