LIBBY hung the boxed pleat skirt she had not previously worn because her mum, when asked for her opinion, had called it ‘middle-aged’—she was right—on the hanger and placed it next to the boxy Chanel-style jacket with big silver buttons she had finally teamed it with.
The outfit was not horrendous, it just had a sexy quotient of minus ten—the result was exactly what Libby had been aiming for.
These clothes were not the sort of items someone who intended to sleep with their boss wore, especially when the boss in question looked like Rafael Alejandro, a man who had gorgeous women in short skirts waiting for him to click his fingers before jumping to the desired height, or into his bed.
He could have any woman he wanted—she recalled the raw hunger in his eyes—and he wants me.
Every time the thought popped into her head—too often—Libby experienced a shameful spill of liquid heat low in her stomach. The jumbled mixture of confusing emotions that came with this shameful heat deepened her growing sense of dread.
Working on the principle that actions, or in this case clothes, spoke louder than words, Libby was hoping that her selection of outfit would save her the trouble of delivering the speech she had been practicing—the one that included a section on the law that was there to specifically protect employees from the lecherous attentions of the men who employed them.
Having a positive plan in place made her feel more secure until the voice in her head made another unwelcome contribution.
And what’s going to protect you from your own hormones, Libby?
And then the whole cycle of panic and doubt with a mingling of guilt began again.
The entire weekend had in fact been a total nightmare! Her mum was struggling to put a brave face on things but even a brave smile and make-up could not hide tear stains.
Her dad had spent most of the time locked in his study. He hadn’t washed or dressed and when he did emerge from behind the locked door he hardly said a word.
Ed might have been able to get through to him, if he’d been there Libby might have been tempted to offload her own problems on her level-headed brother, but Ed had spent most of the weekend at the hospital so she had been left to work things out for herself.
Some people reached for a bottle when they had a problem; Libby headed for the kitchen. She found being elbow deep in flour and the smell of baking therapeutic and soothing, but not this time. She had produced enough cookies and brownies to feed an army and still felt no more certain about what she was doing.
Was the offer genuine …? Did she want it to be?
Could she do it, bearing in mind that she would have to see the man, be polite to him, pretend that he hadn’t propositioned her in the most brazen way imaginable?
Pretend that she hadn’t considered it, not in a serious way, but wondered—she was only human—what would it be like to be touched by a man like that …?
Not that she had any intention of finding out, no—if this offer turned out to be legitimate she was going to make her position clear from the outset; if he laid a finger on her she would sue the pants off him!
An unfortunate analogy considering her tendency to mentally undress him.
She made her plans all the time conscious that her precautions might be unnecessary, that there was a very real possibility that she might turn up and find nobody at the Alejandro building knew who she was, but while there was even the slightest possibility she could save the family from financial ruin she had no choice but to at least find out, even at the risk of a moment or two of toe-curling embarrassment.
Unwilling to raise her family’s hopes until things were clearer, she had told them the paper was sending her to cover a trade conference in the City.
For someone who wanted to write fiction, she realised that her powers of invention needed a bit of work, though her brother and parents had too much on their minds to question someone who normally covered fêtes and supermarket openings being asked to report on a conference or, for that matter, a local paper wanting to devote space between the wedding announcements and details of farmers’ markets to international trade.
When she had arrived at the Alejandro building that morning Libby’s hands had been shaking with a combination of trepidation and excitement.
Now as she smoothed down the pencil skirt she had changed into they were shaking with anger.
She glanced in the full-length mirror and checked the pins that held her hair at her nape in a simple chignon. The voltage of her upbeat smile dimmed as she allowed the façade to slip and gave a snort of self-disgust. Why had she thought for even one minute that his offer was on the level?
‘I can do this,’ she growled between clenched teeth. ‘And it could have been worse,’ she reminded herself, mentally replacing the dark tailored trousers, matching waistcoat and plain white silk shirt she was now wearing with a saucy maid’s apron and short skirt.
The image pulled the corners of her mouth upwards as she vented a laugh that just stayed the safe side of hysteria as she struggled to see the funny side of the situation. A sense of humour, she reflected grimly, might be the only thing that was going to get her through today with her sanity intact.
A sense of humour was something that Melanie, from Human Resources, had not displayed when Libby had exclaimed, ‘You’ve got to be joking!’
Clearly a literally minded woman, she had looked mildly exasperated and consulted her clipboard before returning her frowning attention back to Libby. ‘I understood this was your size.’
Libby glanced at the label sewn into the shirt, then at the trousers. She was a size ten top and size eight bottom; so was the uniform she was holding.
‘It is my size. The size isn’t the problem.’ The problem was the thought of a pair of amber eyes sizing up her vital statistics so accurately.
In response to the older woman’s questioning look—at this stage she had still hoped that this was some mild screw-up—and not wanting to get anyone in trouble, she had explained, ‘I’m not actually part of a catering team. This is my first day as an intern …’
The woman had directed a puzzled look at Libby. ‘And…?’
Then it had dawned on Libby. ‘You expect me to serve drinks?’
‘Oh, nothing alcoholic,’ Melanie from HR had replied as though the type of beverage were Libby’s problem. ‘This is a working brunch and very informal, just a thank you from Mr Alejandro to the team that have been working out the details for the first Alejandro trade summit.’
Somehow Libby had stood there, heard the woman blather on proudly about how this event was set to become a yearly international event—as if she cared—and not screamed or broken the furniture.
She was discovering new depths of self-control!
Libby could have stormed out of the building right there and then; she had wanted to, it was only the knowledge that this was exactly what the sadistic, twisted rat wanted her to do that had prevented her.
Genuine! Rafael Alejandro was about as genuine as the smile she had glued on her face.
Aware that the other woman was waiting for a response instead she had forced herself to say, ‘I didn’t realise.’ That makes me a total gullible idiot.
But she’d have the last laugh, Libby thought, managing not a laugh but a very creditable hoarse croak as she lifted her chin to a defiant angle and approached the door of the changing room.
Rafael had obviously expected her to throw some sort of spoiled-princess-afraid-to-get-her-hands-dirty hissy fit … and confirm his view that she was some spoilt airhead. The wretched man was used to pulling strings and having people dance—well, not this time, boss, she thought grimly.
This was no longer about saving the firm—that had obviously always been some sort of twisted joke—this was about pride and she would be the best damned waiter he had ever seen.
If she walked it would be at his invitation and not before.
When Libby got to the big top-floor room people had already begun to arrive, singly and in groups. Some were already helping themselves to the food in the silver-topped servers.
Rafael was not there as yet, her racing heart slowed in reaction to the reprieve.
The person in charge, a silver-haired man wearing a black suit, appeared at her elbow; he did not comment on her lateness as he explained that her brief was to make sure the coffee supply did not run out.
‘Offer top-ups, but do not be intrusive.’
And she had been afraid that she would not be up to the job!
As she went about her task Libby kept an eye on the door. She was so jumpy that she messed up the simple task she had been given and slopped half a pot of coffee over the pristine white cloth that covered the tables arranged buffet style along one wall.
Blushing and apologising profusely, she grabbed a napkin from a stack and began to dab at the spreading stain, stepping back with a grimace as the liquid dripped onto her shoes.
The brief hush that fell was not, as she first thought, because everyone was staring at her making a simple task look like brain surgery, but because Rafael had appeared in time to witness her humiliation.
As her eyes brushed those of the tall dynamic figure framed in the doorway her shaking hand sent a half-filled cup flying.
Libby gave a cry. The sound was closely followed by an even louder smashing noise of breaking crockery and the jeering laughter of some smug junior exec whom she had given the brush-off to earlier.
If all eyes had not been on her they were now. Libby stood frozen to the spot with horror while she felt the tide of hot mortification spread across every inch of her skin.
Any hotter and she’d add to the mess on the floor. ‘If you could just step back.’
She responded to the calm invitation and watched as the soiled linen was removed and replaced. Within seconds all trace of the mess had been removed and the low buzz of conversation had started up.
‘Relax, accidents happen.’
Not to me, not today! Libby bit back the wail and smiled in genuine gratitude at the grey-haired figure who had orchestrated the mop-up operation.
‘I’m so sorry.’
He smiled at her, nodded at someone over her shoulder and moved away.
Libby closed her eyes. She knew before she turned who she would see standing there, and her instincts had not failed her.
A serene smile painted on her face to cover the humiliation burning through her veins, she turned to face the tall, imposing figure of Rafael Alejandro. He must have enjoyed seeing her make a total fool of herself.
‘Coffee, sir?’ she said, aiming the question at a point over his shoulder.
Rafael arched a dark brow and turned to the younger man beside him whose presence Libby had not until this point even registered. Her attention had all been focused on the man she had intended to impress with her efficiency.
Well that went well, Libby.
‘What did you think, Callum—should we risk it?’ Despite the gentle jibe Rafael had not taken any pleasure from witnessing her public embarrassment. On the contrary he had been impressed by the way she had lifted her chin when the smirking idiot had laughed, after she had flinched. It was at that point that Rafael had had to restrain an uncharacteristic impulse to rush protectively to her side.
Through a miasma of misery Libby heard the other man laugh, but not unkindly. ‘I’d love a top-up,’ he said, adding, ‘We’ve all been there.’
Libby flashed him a smile of gratitude and thought, Except Rafael, as she tried and failed to imagine the elegant Spaniard messing anything up except other people’s lives.
The other man grinned, unwittingly echoing Libby’s thoughts as he added drily, ‘Not Rafael, of course.’
Irritation moved at the back of Rafael’s eyes. ‘Rumours of my infallibility have been grossly exaggerated. I’ll take a coffee.’
As she filled the cup he held out Libby’s hand shook. Rafael’s eyes travelled from her small trembling hand to her stiff frozen features and he felt like a total bastard.
The opinion was shared by the voice of his troubled conscience.