Buch lesen: «Undressed by the Boss»
Three ruthless billionaires, driven by desire…
Undressed by the Boss
Three sexy, sizzling romances from three
adored Mills & Boon authors!
Undressed by the Boss
SHEIKH BOSS,
HOT DESERT NIGHTS
SUSAN STEPHENS
THE BOSS’S
BEDROOM AGENDA
NICOLA MARSH
TAKEN BY
THE MAVERICK
MILLIONAIRE
ANNA CLEARY
MILLS & BOON
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SHEIKH BOSS,
HOT DESERT NIGHTS
SUSAN STEPHENS
About the Author
SUSAN STEPHENS was a professional singer before meeting her husband on the tiny Mediterranean island of Malta. In true Modern™ Romance style they met on Monday, became engaged on Friday, and were married three months after that. Almost thirty years and three children later, they are still in love. (Susan does not advise her children to return home one day with a similar story, as she may not take the news with the same fortitude as her own mother!)
Susan had written several non-fiction books when fate took a hand. At a charity costume ball there was an after-dinner auction. One of the lots, “Spend a Day with an Author”, had been donated by Mills & Boon author Penny Jordan. Susan’s husband bought this lot, and Penny was to become not just a great friend but a wonderful mentor, who encouraged Susan to write romance.
Susan loves her family, her pets, her friends and her writing. She enjoys entertaining, travel, and going to the theatre. She reads, cooks, and plays the piano to relax, and can occasionally be found throwing herself off mountains on a pair of skis or galloping through the countryside. Visit Susan’s website: www.susanstephens.net—she loves to hear from her readers all around the world!
Susan Stephens also writes for Modern™ Romance!
For all those who like their bad boys safely corralled between the pages of a book,
and for Bev, whose face lights up when I mention the word “sheikh”.
CHAPTER ONE
SHE had a backpack the size of the world. Hoisting it off the luggage carousel, she almost knocked out the eye of the woman standing next to her. Buckles and straps jangled from it, along with a rope, a waterproof bedsheet, and a pair of sand boots. She had her hair scraped back and a camouflage hat with a highly becoming neck-flap crammed on her head.
Hearing she was to travel to the interior of A’Qaban as part of her job as marketing executive to that country’s development agency, Casey had ditched the power suit and Jimmy Choos in favour of a safari suit and sandproof knickers. But this wasn’t an airstrip in the furthest reaches of A’Qaban, but A’Qaban International Airport, where the desert came in bijou-sized pieces, each grain of sand polished to a heady sheen by the world’s top designers.
As with any other project she undertook for the company, Casey had researched this one thoroughly. It had only been on the point of boarding the aircraft that she had been told her itinerary had been changed—and by none other than the recently crowned King, Sheikh Rafik al Bad-Boy himself. Apparently His Majesty had insisted on meeting all his key employees before ruling the country took his eye off the business.
Surprised to find an underling like herself under the spotlight, Casey had allowed herself a momentary glow, until it was pointed out to her that Raffa, as the Eton educated and Special Forces hardened Sheik preferred to be known, was well into weeding out the weak links in his organisation. So, here she was, dressed like a park ranger in the midst of Glitz Central, and with no office clothes to save the day.
She had a wardrobe full of smart business suits back home, but what was the point in kicking herself? She was here and she had to get on with it, Casey reflected, hoisting her backpack into a more comfortable position. The Sheikh of A’Qaban was known to test his employees to the limit and she should have had it covered. She might be at a disadvantage, but not for long. As soon as she cleared Customs it would be all about the shopping mall.
Could sexual heat pass through glass? Watching Casey Michaels cross the baggage hall, he thought it could. Even in that outfit she looked good … funny, but good.
How could she not look better than the uptight fashion victim he’d taken a look at in her file? He could see that was an old photo, way out of date now. She had blossomed since it had been taken—more flesh on her bones, and way more blonde hair falling down beneath her ugly hat. That, combined with the good-humoured curve of her lips, the direct, unflustered gaze and the determined stride, made for quite a package—even if that package was bundled up in the most unflattering of clothes.
Her clothes could change. He was wearing jeans and a top for this reconnaissance mission. Official robes were a costume he wore when appropriate—just as Casey would step into a different role when she put on a severely tailored business suit.
The thought of unlacing those office stays and discovering the real woman underneath was an image that pleased him perhaps more than it should have done. Thumbing his sharp black stubble, he weighed up the supple frame beneath the unflattering safari suit. Virginal innocence sang out loud and clear.
And he never mixed business with pleasure.
He turned his mind to the point of Casey’s visit. Could she inspire? Could she lead? Was she prepared to fight for her people? Those were the things that mattered to him. With the livelihoods of thousands of employees at stake, only the strongest executives would survive his cut.
But she intrigued him. He pulled back from his vantage point. It was time to move on if he wanted to keep an eye on Casey’s progress. Thanking each of his customs officials in turn by name for their hospitality, he left the viewing room. He felt super-wired—the way he always felt when the hunt was on. And there was nothing wrong with that. He needed a little craziness in his life, a little freshness.
In his life?
Business and pleasure?
A glint of humour was in his eyes as he joined the bustle in the arrivals hall. Some people recognised him; some stood gaping; some didn’t know him from Adam. The question was, would she recognise him?
His ever-present bodyguards knew to remain invisible. Taken out of context, he had been mistaken by some of his failed employees for just another traveler—which was how he liked it. He was looking for people who could bring something unique and special to A’Qaban, and so far he’d been disappointed. Plus, he liked mingling with his people. It allowed him to feel the pulse of the country and test the mood of his fellow countrymen—that and the acuity of his staff.
En garde, Casey Michaels!
She was being watched. She could feel it like a ripple down her spine. Someone was stalking her; someone far more powerful than the officials she’d encountered so far was watching her. The constant warning signal in her head was making it hard to concentrate.
Impossible, Casey accepted with a gasp as she collided with a door.
* * *
Ouch! He grimaced as he watched Casey regroup and recover herself before moving on with the crowd heading for Immigration. At least she hadn’t hurt herself, and the only thing stinging was her pride. Her cheeks had pinked up, but to her credit she showed no other outward sign of dismay. He moved ahead of her, always watching from an upper level. Casey worked for him, and therefore she was under his protection. This visit was a trial and as such it had to be fair. The other candidates had jumped through hoops and so would she, but he’d keep her safe as he’d kept them all safe—not that he’d watched any of the rest quite so avidly.
But that didn’t mean he was going to step over the boundary of care into the dangerous territory of personal interest. It was just that Casey seemed to need more care than most. Other than that he was showing her the same courtesy he had extended to all of his employees.
Oh, really?
Had he felt like this when he’d first encountered the other candidates he would have had some serious concerns about his sexual orientation by now. And he had none.
She had researched the vast steel and glass structure that was A’Qaban International Airport on-line, but nothing could have prepared her for the sheer scale of the place. The glamour of gleaming crystal, bronze and glass, together with the cleanliness and the faint scent of something spicy on the air, was both exciting and distracting.
So no more walking into doors, Casey warned herself firmly—though it was easy to be sidetracked when she was basking in the husky Arabian language, the sound of robes fluttering and the pad of sandalled feet. Just the walk up to Immigration was an exotic introduction to the mysterious east, as the countless portraits of A’Qaban’s leader were a heart-racing introduction to her boss.
There were images of the powerful young leader everywhere, and as Casey paused for a moment to take stock of one she realised it was the same official portrait they had back home, showing a magnificent figure clad in the traditional robes of a Bedouin warrior. She had never seen her boss in western clothes. She turned from that to inspect the royal standard, which was flying from a flagpole in the centre of the hall. A rich blue background hosted a silvery crescent moon, beneath which a rampant lion bared its teeth and roared a warning.
A shiver ran down Casey’s spine as she remembered the lion was Sheikh Rafik’s personal symbol. She had always thought it perfect for a man who had rowed for Eton, played rugby for Oxford, and boxed for the army during his time in the Special Forces, before stamping his authority on the business world as well as his country. Rafik al Rafar was the undisputed alpha lion of the Arabian Gulf—a man whose personal work ethic was famously merciless, and who expected nothing less of his team. A quiver of anticipation that had nothing to do with business ran through her at the prospect of meeting him.
Impressed by the efficiency of the airport staff, Casey was soon part of a fast-moving line in which she thought about her place in the Sheikh’s organisation. Her passion for his country had no doubt helped her rise. Rebuilding A’Qaban was the most exciting project she could imagine. Bordered by a turquoise sea and framed by granite mountains, the country boasted a capital city to rival any in the world, and Casey was determined to see it become a market leader in the global tourist industry.
A’Qaban also had a priceless jewel—one that was largely undiscovered. In Casey’s opinion its interior was the country’s crowning glory. It was a wilderness largely untouched by man, other than the wandering Bedouin tribesmen, whom Sheikh Rafik al Rafar protected. Casey envisaged tours that respected the Bedouins’ freedom to travel whilst celebrating their culture with carefully monitored wildlife safaris, ecological and educational trips, even archaeological digs to pique the interest of the world.
Her lips pressed down briefly with disappointment when she remembered that she would be in the desert right now if the Sheikh hadn’t changed his mind about her destination. There could be no other reason for her being dressed like an extra from the set of Indiana Jones and attracting more sideways glances than a stray camel. But if that was the only disappointment she had to cope with today …
Buoyed up with anticipation, she was just about to check her passport when her old friend intuition came knocking again. There was someone watching her. She had the strongest sense that a hunt was on and that she was the prey. But that was clearly the result of watching too many movies recently. The stack of DVDs back home fleshed out her non-existent personal life, and in the absence of romantic action kept her company at night.
As the line moved smoothly forward Casey took the sensation shimmering down her spine as a reminder to keep her wits about her. Her colleagues had warned her that Rafik al Rafar didn’t play by the rules—a prospect that had excited her at the time, because she liked a challenge. But now she was here, in the middle of this trial by disorientation, she wasn’t feeling quite so confident.
She shook off the feeling. She was determined to enjoy every moment of this trip—even the terminal building, which was decked out like the lobby of a six-star hotel. There were fountains to soothe the senses and cool the air, along with an abundance of lush green plants, and even indoor palm trees stretching their spiny fingers towards the twinkling glass ceiling.
It was just Casey Michaels who was feeling a little out of sorts, Casey accepted as she fought the feeling of being a very small speck of travelling dust in a busy, purposeful world. She was under no misapprehension. She was a piece on the Sheikh’s chessboard, and if she didn’t play the right move at the right time she would be swept out of the game.
A group of A’Qabani women distracted Casey as they fluttered past on silent feet, like so many graceful butterflies. As she smiled, kohl-lined eyes smiled back.
The A’Qabanis seemed such a friendly people. They made her wish she could understand the secret language the women seemed to be transmitting from behind their silken veils. Their language hinted at a hidden world, and it was a world she longed to know more about. But, like the desert interior, that world would have to wait.
Casey passed through Immigration without incident, and at Customs was surprised to be waved on. It seemed strange to her that she, the most disreputable-looking person in the line, hadn’t attracted so much as a challenge. But, heigh-ho, was she complaining? She had no desire to flaunt her stock of big knickers and sensible vests to a line of customs officials dressed in the immaculate robes and headdresses of A’Qaban.
Focusing on the exit signs, Casey quickened her pace. She didn’t expect anyone to be waiting for her so her plan was to call a cab and ask to be taken to the nearest hotel. Once there, she would freshen up and contact the office.
She had barely made it halfway across the concourse when the crowd she was part of peeled away; moments after that she was surrounded by fearsome-looking guards. They wore a uniform of black tunics and baggy trousers, and they all had lethal daggers tucked into their belts. She turned full circle, but there was no escape.
The blood drained from Casey’s face as dark, expressionless eyes confronted her. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before, and it was easily the most frightening experience of her life. What terrible sin had she unwittingly committed?
She didn’t have to wait long to find out. The circle parted almost immediately to admit one man. A hunk in jeans.
Snug-fitting blue jeans, desert boots and a form-fitting top, to be precise. And that was before she took in the ruffled inky hair, sharp gaze, deep tan, sensual mouth and … an earring?
Casey’s mind went into freefall. For a moment she couldn’t think straight. The man was tall—threateningly so—and built like a kick boxer fresh from the ring. Swallowing deep, she called on all her powers of quick recovery. This was not the moment to be wrong-footed by the Sheikh.
‘You move faster than I thought, Casey Michaels.’
Sheikh Rafik al Rafar’s brown-black eyes were stunning, she registered shakily, stumbling into an awkward curtsey. ‘Your Majesty—’
‘Leave your toadying at the door and call me Raffa.’
Raffa …
Raffa was not only the best-looking man she had seen in a long time—if ever—he had a voice that was honey-warm and barely accented, which strummed her senses in a way she had never experienced before. ‘Raffa.’
‘Ahlan wa sahlan, Casey Michaels …’
There was just the faintest touch of mockery in his voice. Could the bad-boy Sheikh tune in to her thoughts? She stared up into eyes that told a story Casey wasn’t sure she was old enough to read, and her heart-rate soared when the ruler of A’Qaban touched his hand to his heart, his lips, and finally to his forehead.
‘Ahlan wa sahlan beek, Your—er, Raffa.’ She lowered her eyes, thanking her lucky stars that on joining a company owned by an Arab Sheikh she had learned the basics of his language. When she raised her head again it was to find the observant gaze licking over her with interest. Had she managed to buy herself a second chance?
‘Come,’ he said.
Come where? she wondered anxiously. Just so long as it wasn’t the next flight home.
He took her to an office containing a desk and two uncomfortable-looking chairs, which was a relief. She walked in, while Raffa shut the door on the guards.
‘What do you have in your backpack, Casey?’ he asked, turning around.
For a moment she was completely thrown.
‘Your backpack?’ he prompted.
She put it down on the floor, leaning it against the utilitarian desk.
‘Open it.’
Her cheeks fired up. Nature had granted Sheikh Rafik al Rafar a fierce, stubble-shaded face full of heart-stopping force and resolve. This was not your usual polished royal, but a hard man of the desert; there was no court of appeal here.
She opened the pack and straightened up. This was business, Casey reminded herself in an attempt to rebuild her flagging confidence. Business she could deal with; men were the problem. In business men were normal human beings, like anyone else, but when they stepped out of that box and became yang to her yin, that was something else. Plus, men as good-looking as this one never noticed her, let alone spoke to her. She’d had no practice dealing with someone so …
She was staring at Raffa’s lips, Casey realised, jerking alert as he spoke.
‘Just show me what you’ve got, Casey.’
CHAPTER TWO
‘SHOW you what I’ve got?’ Casey gulped as her mind reviewed the contents of her backpack. Raffa would hardly be impressed by her selection of giant-sized white cotton knickers.
‘Take a seat, if you prefer,’ he suggested, easing away from the wall.
And have him tower over her? ‘I prefer to stand, if you don’t mind.’
‘As you wish.’
Oh, she did wish. And that was half the trouble. He only had to shrug to draw her attention to the width of his shoulders. She shrank back as he prowled closer.
‘I just want to see how well you have prepared for the desert.’
His gaze was potent; his presence electrifying. He was toying with her, measuring her, pushing her to the limit in ways she had never been pushed before—and her body was really letting her down. This might be business, but she was acutely aware of Raffa and the hard masculine form beneath his casual clothes, and it was almost impossible not to think of the enormous bulge in the front of his jeans as a third presence in the room. Not that she should be thinking about it at all, of course.
And now tears were threatening. Casey Michaels—businesswoman printed through her like a stick of rock—was in serious danger of meltdown. Because if landing this job rested on her female attributes she might as well go home right now.
* * *
He had never done this before. He took it for granted that any executive working for him knew what they were doing. He had never plucked an employee hot from their flight and brought them to a private office to interrogate them before, and he had no excuse now. Except to say Casey Michaels intrigued him. He dreaded her turning out to be a vacuous blonde. He’d encountered his fair share over the years, and there was no place for them in his business.
As she pulled out the first object he realised with some amusement that she was anything but. The photo in Casey’s personnel file was as misleading as his own official portrait. In fact, if she got the job, Casey’s first task would be to put the presentation of company profiles out to tender.
She believed she had packed everything necessary, but had she? So much hung on this, Casey reflected tensely, pulling out her plastic sheet for collecting drinking water.
Raffa’s lips pressed down with approval.
She held up her mirror, for signalling if she became lost …
The mirror garnered another nod.
Scissors, string and a fire stone for lighting tinder.
‘Scissors?’
‘Along with my Swiss army knife, my folding spade, and my water canister. They were packed in the hold in a waterproof zip-bag, which I have here—’ She produced it.
Raffa indicated with a wave of his hand that she should continue.
A box of water-purifying tablets, six tubes of salt tablets, and an industrial-sized tub of insect repellent, along with a first-aid kit.
‘And a map?’ he pressed.
‘Of course …’ She produced the map, safely contained in a plastic cover to prevent it getting wet or ripped. ‘And a compass.’
She was rewarded by the smallest tug of Raffa’s lips.
‘And the bulge?’
She dearly wanted to look at his bulge, but managed not to. ‘My spare clothes.’
‘A business suit?’
Not unless it was a grow-your-own-business suit, stowed in a water canister … ‘Unfortunately, no.’
‘Well, fortunately …’ The word was laced with ironic emphasis ‘ … we have shops here.’
A flood of heat rushed to Casey’s face. ‘If I’d known I was coming to the city I would have packed differently.’ She froze. Judging by the expression on Raffa’s face, no one ever interrupted him. Which raised another problem. Reining herself in she could do. Changing her personality completely in the short time available was going to prove a little more difficult.
Raffa’s powerful shoulders eased in a shrug. ‘I wanted you here,’ he said, as if that were the only explanation necessary. But it was not the end of her frustration. Raffa was just so aggravatingly nonchalant, while she was …
So out of her depth in his presence?
It wasn’t her business sense letting her down now, but the tension crackling between them.
‘You can pack everything away,’ Raffa said, providing her with a welcome distraction. ‘I’m satisfied you are as prepared as you could be for the desert …’
Inwardly, she cheered. Thank goodness he hadn’t asked her to dig any deeper and reveal the six sets of sensible underwear, the rape alarm, and the condoms her ever-practical if misguided mother had insisted she must pack.
He brooded as he watched Casey pack away her belongings. Her qualifications were good on paper, her work ethic unquestioned, but he needed more than that. The person who would eventually lead his marketing team must show total commitment to A’Qaban, and be a questing, innovative, initiative-seizing individual, capable of working solo and producing results without requiring constant monitoring or supervision.
His gaze swept over Casey again. Her outfit was outlandish, almost comical, but somehow she managed to pull it off. The combination of naivety and absolute determination gave her an unaffected charm—though he suspected she could be stubborn, given half a chance.
He’d take that as a plus, he decided, though she would have to be prepared to travel as and when required, and adapt to changing itineraries if necessary. She would also have to cope with the interior. He’d had the last candidate airlifted out when they couldn’t hack it, and until he was sure of Casey she was staying in the city.
The question was, could she cope with anything more rigorous than a sanitised desert kingdom? He was quite keen to find out, and found himself silently urging her on.
Come on, Casey Michaels, show me what you’ve got…
She was tired from the travelling and shaken up by the speed of events. And by Rafik al Rafar.
By him mostly.
She held him entirely responsible.
She could even identify, with a nose well trained at the perfume counter of countless department stores, each ingredient in his exotic cologne: vanilla—an aphrodisiac, sandalwood—a sultry spice, and—
‘Shall we go?’ he prompted. ‘Casey?’ Dipping his head, he gave her a disturbingly direct stare. ‘I’m going to take you to your hotel to drop your bag,’ he said, ‘and then—’
Her face flamed red with embarrassment. She was twenty-five years old and didn’t possess a single atom of know-how when it came to men.
‘Then I’ll buy you a suit,’ he said, rather disappointingly.
‘You don’t need to. I—’
‘Never accept gifts from men?’ He raised one sweeping brow.
‘I’ve got money with me.’
He shrugged. ‘If you prefer to pay, that’s okay with me.’
She was still staring into his eyes like an obedient puppy, Casey realized—something it was all too easy to do.
Holding the door, Raffa was waiting for her. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
Raffa paused just in front of the main exit doors leading from the concourse. His guards, anticipating this, stopped instantly and stood to attention.
‘Welcome to A’Qaban,’ he said to Casey. ‘My country is your country for the next few days.’
Heat was sweeping over her in waves. It had nothing to do with the brilliant sunshine. She felt so grubby and travel-stained compared to Raffa, who was coolness personified. His gaze was measured as he looked at her, and faintly amused. She felt under a scrutiny from which she suspected there would be no let-up while she was in A’Qaban. It was impossible not to feel honoured by the pledge he’d just made her, and also impossible not to feel very much threatened on the personal front. It was as if her very womanhood was on the line. It shouldn’t matter to her if that was found wanting just so long as she landed this job—but it did matter; it mattered far more than it should have done.
He gestured towards the limousine that had pulled up at the curb. ‘Let me take your backpack for you.’
‘That’s very kind of you.’
‘I don’t do kind.’
Blunt words that for some reason made her quiver all over.
Raffa’s fierce fighting men had formed a private corridor in order for them to make the short transit from the airport doors to the royal vehicle. It had blacked out windows—a hermetically sealed chamber lined in softest kidskin, where she would be shut off from the world.
Panicking, she held back. Overheating, she dragged off her unbecoming hat.
‘You should wait until you are under cover,’ Raffa warned as she shook out her hair. ‘The sun is deceptively strong. While you are in A’Qaban you must take every opportunity to avoid the heat.’ But the heat was all in his eyes.
