Crazy, Undercover, Love

Crazy, Undercover, Love

Nikki Moore

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Contents

Nikki Moore

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

About HarperImpulse

Copyright

About the Publisher

Nikki Moore

I've adored writing and reading since forever and have always been a sucker for love stories so I'm delighted to join the fabulous HarperImpulse team!

I write short stories and fun, touching, sexy contemporary romance and really enjoy creating intriguing characters and telling their stories. A finalist in writing competitions since 2010, including Novelicious Undiscovered 2012, I'm a member of the fantastic Romantic Novelists’ Association.

I blog about three of my favourite things – Writing, Work and Wine – at www.nikkimooreauthor.wordpress.com and am passionate about supporting other writers as part of a friendly, talented and diverse community, so you'll often see other authors pop in!

You can find me at https://www.facebook.com/NikkiMooreAuthor (Author Page) or https://www.facebook.com/NikkiMooreWrites or on Twitter @NikkiMoore_Auth to chat about love, life, reading or writing … I'd love to hear from you.

This story is dedicated to;

My wonderful children for putting up with me disappearing into my writing room at odd times!

My friends and family for their unwavering support and belief that one day I would get a publishing deal.

The wonderful members of the Romantic Novelists' Association, the most friendly and professional organisation I've ever been a part of.

The fantastic HarperImpulse team – we've got the love!

And a special mention to my aunt, author Sue Moorcroft, who has been a constant source of support and inspiration to me. Without her clear constructive criticism, valuable advice and emotional cheerleading I'm sure it would have taken me much longer to achieve my dream.

Chapter One

DAY ONE

– Friday –

I should have said no; it would have been the smart – aka sane – thing to do.

But there was a time limit on the offer and Amy caught me in a moment of desperation after I’d woke to yet another thick batch of overdue bills and polite job rejections. The feeling tripped a yes straight off my tongue, and now I’ve realised that maybe this isn’t such a good idea, it’s too late. I’m dashing across the city, yanking my purple case along behind me on squeaky wheels. So I can’t back out now; I’m committed. More importantly the reason for agreeing to this crazy Plan B, on the basis that sensible Plan A isn’t working, stands. It’s probably my last chance to hang onto life as I know it. Sounds a bit dramatic, but there it is.

The bitter wind increases its howling across the West India Quays footbridge, tearing through my belted winter coat. ‘Bugger it!’ I shudder. As well as being freezing, the force of the gale is making staying upright a challenge. My favourite (yes, okay, impractical) stiletto ankle boots are battling for grip in the snowy slush.

I’m so bloody cold it’ll be a miracle if my ears are still attached to my head, in fact they’ve gone completely numb, and there’s also a familiar ache starting deep in my throat. Great. I don’t need to get ill on top of everything else. To finish off my bad mood, the Arctic draught is trying to pick my hair out of the stylish knot I spent ages on. It’s hardly going to look professional if I arrive looking like the loser in a pro-wrestling match or as if I’m stuck in the jungle on I’m a Celebrity …

Glancing at my watch, I speed up, heels rapping out a clank-clank-clank on the metal bridge. Being late will hardly impress, either. Unfortunately, fate is conspiring against me, because as I break into a jog the jolting combined with the wind finally frees my hair. A rain of kirby grips slide into my collar and down my back. Seriously? Come on! Stopping with a skid, I yank my thick red waves into a ponytail, using the emergency hair band from around my wrist.

Setting off again, I pray the anticipated snow will hold back for another few minutes. It’s not looking hopeful; the air has that weird ozone smell to it and the temperature’s dropped loads already, grey-white cauliflower-like clouds crowding in uncomfortably low like a suffocating blanket. Yep, I’m probably going to get snowed on and I can’t help feeling it’ll be fair enough; bad karma for being so sneaky. What I’m about to do makes me want to dig a giant hole in the ground and leap into it head first. But working as a temporary Personal Assistant for the CEO of my ex-employer is an opportunity too good to miss.

Of course, it may all blow up in my face. Jess certainly believes it will, saying I’m making a massive mistake. She might be right, but I think it’s a risk worth taking. I’ve got to at least try: I owe myself that. So now I have one weekend in Barcelona to change things, whatever my best friend thinks, and if I don’t, at least the lump sum I’ll get will keep the rabid debtors at bay a while longer. In honesty, though, I really need the plan to work. It has to work.

Coming to the end of the bridge, I let out a panicked yelp as I step onto the concrete and slip on a patch of ice, regretting grabbing the handrail when my bare hand freezes to the slick metal. Peeling it off, I pick my way across a courtyard, cutting through a narrow concrete alleyway between a Japanese-themed bar and a towering hotel. The multicoloured lanterns and white fairy lights are still hanging in all the windows, even though Christmas was over a week ago. Of course leisure and retail are going to maximise the festive season and people’s celebrations; there’s more money in it for them. God, I’ve turned cynical. Sad, really, because I’ve always adored this time of year. But at the moment merriment and holidays are way down my list of priorities and for the first time I really didn’t enjoy Christmas, even though I was home with my family and friends. I think I understand Scrooge’s pre-ghosts-of-Christmas perspective now. Bah humbug.

I look for the car as I emerge onto the street, feeling sick and sweaty in spite of the chill in the air. Have I missed my ride? I’m only a couple of minutes late. Something cold kisses my cheek and I glance at the sky. Snow begins to eddy and swirl around me, getting in my eyes. No doubt I’ll end up with black Alice Cooper tracks down my face. I’m wearing cheap mascara – haven’t been able to afford the branded waterproof stuff in ages.

A wave of utter weariness drags me down. Perhaps this chance has slipped away. If so, standing here could make frostbite an unwelcome reality. How long to wait before I jack it in and head home? But then a swish black town car turns the corner and pulls in at the kerb with a quiet purr and I know this is it. It’s on. Time to meet the CEO.

Pasting on a shaky smile, I step towards the smart uniformed driver, holding back a laugh at the luxurious vehicle he’s stepped from. The formality reminds me of The Apprentice, when Lord Sugar emerges grumpy and grizzled from a flash car. I was a middle manager, so we were never kept in this style.

‘Can I help you?’ The man meets me at the back of the car, posture as rigid as his voice, whilst the wind whips grit and whirling snowflakes about us.

‘Good afternoon, I’m Charley Caswell.’

He peers down at me. ‘You are?’

‘I am.’ At least, I was last time I checked. ‘Would you like to see some ID?’

‘That would be helpful, thank you.’

Oh. I was joking. This is a bit weird.

Sliding a hand into my bag, I flip my passport open at the last page, placing my fingers strategically along the side to hide Wright, the second part of my double-barrelled surname.

He gives it a quick glance.

I stop breathing.

‘Thank you, Miss Caswell. Wait here a moment please?’

I nod, tucking the passport away and thrusting half-dead hands into my coat pockets. I should have swiped a pair of gloves from Jess on the way out of our flat. She’s used to me borrowing her stuff.

Focusing on the driver as he taps on the tinted rear car window, I watch the glass slide down but can’t hear his conversation with the passenger. The tension in his shoulders as exchanges rattle back and forth between them is obvious, though.

Gritting my teeth to stop them chattering, I scrunch my eyes against the awful weather. What’s taking so long? I can’t be busted so soon, surely? When registering with the latest batch of agencies, I only used the first part of my surname, the one I originally dropped when moving to the city, a change made back then to escape my upbringing. But for this weekend – at least initially – I needed to be safely hidden behind the name Charley Caswell, rather than marked out as Charlotte Wright.

The ex-employee.

The troublemaker.

‘I said, now!’

The order erupts from the window like something snarling with teeth and my eyes fly open. My stomach clenches in knots as the driver straightens, turning to fight his way back to me. Holding my breath, I wonder if I’m destined to go home with no prospects, no money and only numb toes and damp hair to show for my efforts.

‘Shall we go?’ he asks, stamping his feet for warmth.

My cover isn’t blown. ‘Yes!’ Oops, probably a little too enthusiastic.

He doesn’t seem to notice, opening the boot and gesturing to my case. ‘May I?’

‘No. I mean, I can manage. But thank you.’ I grab it and shove it in before he can. I won’t be waited on. If my independence is one of the few things I have left, I’ll guard it like a precious possession.

‘Fine, Miss Caswell,’ a tiny glint of humour warms his eyes, ‘but are you going to at least let me open the door for you?’

‘It’s Charley,’ I flash him a grateful smile as he swings the door open, ‘and if you’re going to insist… Yes, thanks.’

Mr CEO is on the phone as I get in, so I take a moment to appreciate the cosy, immaculate interior of the car. Heavenly. Smooth, black leather seats, walnut finish on everything, TV screens in the back of the headrests in front of us. Nice. I sink back with a sigh of relief, then ruin it by fumbling around trying to click the metal tongue of the seatbelt into place. My fingers are burning and tingling as they start to thaw, so it makes the job that much harder.

Finally buckling myself in, I glance up. And my mouth drops open. My hands clench and lust strums my knickers.

Oh … wow! I did not count on this.

I had a vague idea Alex Demetrio wasn’t bad looking but I’ve never seen a proper picture. He’s got an aversion to being photographed and any pics successfully snapped would appear in Hello or Tatler – not my type of reading material. The only photo I’ve seen was in a corporate brochure and he was standing scowling in the middle of a crowd. All I could tell was he had the same dark colouring as his father, the previous CEO.

So it’s a complete shock he’s one of the most astoundingly gorgeous men I’ve ever shared oxygen with, Brad Pitt-beautiful. Frozen, I admire his short, ruffled black hair, slightly olive skin and strong, sculpted face with angelically defined cheekbones. I’ve worked with good-looking men before but this guy is magnetic.

Thank God he’s on his mobile speaking in a language I can’t quite place and therefore oblivious to my unprofessional, uncharacteristic gawking. Then his gaze swings to mine and he loses the thread of his conversation, frowning. Bugger. Has he caught me staring? Embarrassing. But he shakes his head, responds to something the caller says and turns to face the window.

I wish ignoring him was so easy, but the deep-blue eyes I caught a flash of were captivating, framed by enviously long, black lashes that might make him pretty if he wasn’t so … manly. Icing on the cake (and I love my cake) are the kissable Tom Hardy pillow lips. And there’s The Body. Wide shoulders, broad chest and long muscular legs sprawled out in front of him. He’s not just hot, he’s mega hot.

This big handsome guy, a man who looks like a film star or a model in an American underwear ad, is the CEO? Unbelievable. Just my luck. My heart clunks to the pit of my stomach, feeling like it catches some vital organs on the way down. After all the gossip Tony circulated about me, and given the reason I’m here, my boss for the weekend is the last man in existence I can be attracted to.

I study him covertly, trying to swallow moisture back into my mouth. Being immune to his appeal fails in spectacular fashion, as an unfamiliar burn of heat sweeps along the back of my neck, spreading down my chest. I just manage not to wipe damp hands along my trouser legs. What’s wrong with me? Although a redhead, I never blush; something I’ve always been thankful for.

Boy, am I in Trouble.

There’s no time to dwell on the thought because he ends his call, throwing his phone onto the seat between us.

‘So. Who the hell are you?’ He demands as the car pulls out into the insane London traffic.

Chapter Two

Teeth snapping shut, my shameless appreciation of his outrageous good looks nosedives. Is he for real? Why so rude? But I must keep him on side, can’t lose my cool, so I breathe in slowly, the scent of new leather making me feel slightly sick.

‘Well?’

‘Charley Caswell. Pleased to meet you.’ Forcing a brittle smile, I thrust a hand towards him. ‘The agency sent me to assist you over the next few days?’

His handshake is brisk and he withdraws as though I have a contagious disease. I ignore the tingle in my palm at his touch.

‘I know why you’re here,’ he replies, ‘I instructed the agency to hire someone. It’s just that you’re ah,’ a pause, ‘not what I was expecting.’

His gaze flickers over my chest, which I’ve always hated because my boobs are so big they make me feel like a low-grade porn star. Flushing, I button my suit jacket, trying to put aside the unwelcome excitement choking my oxygen supply.

Stop it. I should be offended by the quick glance, not flattered.

Be professional. I have to convince him I’m a sane human being, earn a little of his trust.

Rerunning his last remark, not what I was expecting I connect it with his downward glance. Is the problem I’m not a man? Not okay. But confrontation isn’t what I came here for. ‘I appreciate my first name may have caused some confusion, but I assure you I’ve lots of experience as a PA.’ It’s not exactly a lie. I was a PA for a year and a half during my climb up the corporate ladder. I’m sure the skills will come back to me.

‘I haven’t got any problem with your experience, after all you’ve been vetted by the agency.’ He jerks open one of his jacket buttons and shifts his long legs restlessly. ‘But I’ve had … issues with female staff in the past. My executive assistant has a burst appendix and is in hospital recovering and apparently no one could step in at such short notice. Or they’re still on leave.’ He looks less than impressed.

‘Well, we’re barely into the New Year, and people do have a right to take holiday don’t they?’ I shouldn’t say it but I feel sorry for the employees he has such high expectations of. ‘And if you’re limiting the number of people who can assist you to men,’ I know by the flickering pulse in his jaw I’m right, ‘you are narrowing your field a bit.’ I won’t argue outright about his blatant sexism, but I can’t let it pass unnoticed.

‘Maybe,’ he agrees stiffly, looking at me with narrowed eyes. ‘I suppose I just expected more. A sense of duty perhaps.’

Sidestepping his remark: ‘So, what issues are you referring to about women anyway?’ Carrying out my plan is going to be a teensy bit problematic if my gender means he won’t even listen to me.

‘Some people can separate work from their personal lives, respect professional boundaries,’ he says coolly, ‘but unfortunately others don’t have that ability.’

‘You’re joking?’ I laugh. Is he suggesting men do and women don’t, or that he’s so attractive every female who works for him will try it on? Okay, he’s hot, but a large proportion of the female population demand equality and respect, and he’s hardly giving off those vibes.

‘No, I’m not.’ He frowns. ‘I was trying to be the opposite of funny.’

‘Okay.’ I bite the inside of my mouth. Talk about taking yourself too seriously.

‘What are you smiling at?’ he barks.

Blanking my face and voice, ‘Nothing, sir. Absolutely nothing. I apologise, I didn’t realise I was.’

‘Don’t be silly. You don’t have to apologise for smiling.’

I ache to exclaim I don’t, Sah? in a surprised, mock southern drawl, with a splayed hand to my chest whilst fluttering my eyelashes, but hold back.

‘And don’t call me sir. I hate it.’

He should try sounding less stern then. ‘Yes s – I mean, Mr Demetrio.’

‘Alex.’

‘Yes, Alex.’ I want to ask if he’s sure letting me use his first name is appropriate given his need to maintain boundaries, but it’d probably be pushing it.

A horrible thought chokes me. Is the point about boundaries something he tells all female staff or is it just directed at me? Does he know who I am? A trickle of cold sweat runs down my spine, the droplet trickling into the waistband of my trousers.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asks, broad body swaying with the movement of the car. ‘You look like you’ve been told your grandma’s been run over by a bus.’

‘N–nothing.’ I shake my head. Paranoia is setting in. Studying his face for any hint of a hidden agenda, I clock only bewilderment and annoyance shining in his eyes and curling his mouth. ‘But let me assure you I’ve no problem keeping my work and personal lives separate. I’m more than capable of being professional.’

‘Good.’ He runs a tanned hand through his hair, leaving it ruffled in messy spikes that make fireflies circle in my stomach. ‘Keep it that way.’

‘No problem.’ Crossing my arms and legs, I turn to stare out the window, wishing I could leap out of it. Gorgeous or not, the man needs a major attitude adjustment. Plus his behaviour has reinforced why I’m off men; my career and putting my life back together are what matter, not a pretty face and a hard set of muscles.

During the next few minutes of suffocating silence I gaze at passengers in passing cars, smiling slightly as I take in a piece of leftover mistletoe stuck up hopefully in a rear windscreen. Alex alternates between fiddling with his phone and staring out of his window.

‘Miss Caswell, I should apologise,’ he mutters, glancing at me from the corner of his eye.

I look over at him. If he’s trying to say sorry it’s a poor attempt, ‘And are you?’

‘Am I what?’ He looks half confused, half cross.

‘Apologising?’

‘Yes, I am.’ He lets out an exasperated laugh, a shade of tension dropping from his expression. ‘I’m sorry.’

Scrutinising his face to gauge his sincerity turns out to be a dangerous move, because my breath catches in my throat, my heart beating so hard I can detect every pulsing rush of blood.

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.

My brain and body are definitely not on the same page. My head says stay away! in massive, neon, flashing letters whilst a warning klaxon sounds, but my rebellious sex drive is suggesting it’s right and natural to slide along the seat towards him and–

Stop! Check yourself Charley. This isn’t like you. Angling myself so the door handle digs into my left kidney, I use the discomfort to refocus, fixing on one of Alex’s defined cheekbones to avoid getting lost in his deep-blue eyes. ‘Apology accepted,’ I reply at last. He seems genuine enough. ‘However, I’d ask you not to judge me by other people’s actions. You don’t know me.’ Do you?

‘You’re right.’ He sits straighter, eyebrows folding together. ‘And I know it must sound like I’m making a generalisation, but I have my reasons—’

‘I’m sure you do, but you don’t have to explain them to me.’ I interrupt. Better to keep my distance.

‘Thank you.’

I nod rather than get caught in further conversation but am aware of him studying me as I turn to the tinted car window. The dual carriageway and metal barriers slide by outside but I don’t see them, too distracted by irritation and confusion. At him. At myself.

Yeah, I’ve got to keep my distance.

However, it doesn’t take much for my attention to boomerang back to Alex. When he pulls out a computer tablet and starts flicking things across the screen with a long-tanned finger, my gaze lands on his muscular thighs, superbly shown off by expensively tailored trousers. The idea of being flung over his shoulder and carried off to his cave and ravished pops into my head. It doesn’t make sense at all; I can’t stand male chauvinists. Which is surely what he is if he thinks no woman can make it in the corporate world without surrendering to romance. I mean, what about men? They’re just as guilty as getting involved in workplace relationships.

Added to which, growing up with three older brothers who delighted in winding me up at every opportunity means I hate chauvinist behaviour. In my teens they always taunted me about kitchen sinks and ironing boards and how real women should have dinner on the table when their husbands got home. I lost count of the number of times they provoked me into losing my temper or embarrassed me in front of my latest crush.

Now we’re all adults I’ve forgiven them their comments. They only made them to get a reaction. Still, I learnt from the older generation in my home village that some men really do view women like that. Outdated attitudes I was keen to escape. So it’s easygoing, supportive guys I date, not alpha males who have liquid testosterone running through their veins. Men like Alex.

No, it can’t be genuine attraction. It’s a hormonal thing, I’ve been sex-starved for too long. Perhaps it’s time to change that. Just not with Mr Standoffish.

Stamping hard on the brakes, the driver gives a muffled curse as the car skids to a stop with a squeal of tyres. I’m wrenched out of my thoughts and, despite my seatbelt, fly sideways with a lurch, ending half-sprawled across Alex’s lap, my boobs against his shoulder and my hand on his upper thigh.

It’s very hard, and very hot.