Hired for the Boss's Bed (2 of 2 free samples)

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COPYRIGHT
Hired for the Boss's Bed by Robyn Grady. Copyright 2007 by Robyn Grady.
All Rights Reserved. Sharing not permitted.

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CHAPTER ONE (CONT'D)

Tugging each onyx cufflink in turn, he accompanied her to the guest chair adjacent his desk. Cheeks burning, Serena slowly folded down as David Miles—top gun, millionaire, hunk—sauntered around the bend of a long curved teak desk.

He ran a finger and thumb down an already perfectly aligned crimson tie, which complemented a crisp white shirt. ‘You must be wondering why I asked to see you?’

Did she see thunderclouds brewing behind those sooty lashes? Serena smothered a sigh. No use beating around the bush. If Mr Miles wanted to sack her, she might as well know now.

Heartbeat thudding in her ears, she watched him sit and draw in a high-backed chair. ‘Is it bad?’

A muscle leapt in the square line of his jaw as he collected a pen and tipped it like a see-saw between middle finger and thumb. ‘The news, Serena, is partly bad. But partly very good.’

She eased out a breath. Not fatal then. Her hand loosened its vice-like grip on the chair’s armrest. ‘As long as I’m not queuing for a new job next week, that’s good enough for me.’

She couldn’t be sure, but that twitch of his lip might have been a smile.

He sat back, his coal-black hair a little spiky, as if he’d shovelled a hand through it just before she’d arrived. ‘You’ve heard we’ve won the Hits account?’

She perked up. ‘The new music video programme? Sure. Everyone’s saying it’ll be the biggest thing to grace the tube since Idol.’

‘You’d also know I hired Jezz McQade to plan and run the campaign.’

Yes, she knew, and had consequently read some industry pieces about this lady’s vast achievements. ‘Jezz McQade is the best. Any woman who can go from lead singer in an eighties rock band to a brilliant track record in advertising qualifies as a legend in my book. This year she’s been working in the States, supervising top-name music-clips.’

Apparently pleased with her reply, he nodded, then laid both palms flat on the leather-bound day pad to push to his feet. ‘As I said, there’s some bad news. Jezz flew into the country from LA last night. This morning she slipped on some wet bathroom tiles.’

Serena cringed. Oh, God. ‘Is she all right?’

‘Broke her leg, the tibia, quite badly, I’m afraid. I received a call from Emergency. She hopes to be back on board—not without the help of painkillers and crutches—in seven, possibly eight weeks.’

How awful. But why tell her? Did Jezz McQade need a gofer?

Mr Miles crossed his arms over his broad deep chest and paced to where a run of silver award plaques, mounted on the far wall, shimmered in the artificial light. ‘I have several senior people who might fill Jezz’s shoes till she’s back on her feet again. One in particular would climb over dead bodies to head this account.’

A name sprang to mind. ‘Rachel Bragg.’

In large organizations, personality clashes and petty jealousies were bound to occur. A human relations manager on the ninth floor was employed to sort differences out. But Rachel...

Serena shuddered.

Suffice to say, she was a first-class witch. And Serena wasn’t the only one who thought so.

Legs braced apart, David Miles concentrated on his words. ‘Rachel is zealous about her position here. However, I’m more than aware of her shortfalls. She’s an excellent account executive, but not the easiest person to handle.’

Excellent account executive? Oh, yeah. She’d heard that before. From Rachel.

David cocked his head and actually smiled. The expression touched his eyes and made them shine like prisms of blue light reflecting over water. ‘You know, you really do have expressive features, Ms Stevens. Hope you don’t play poker.’

She smiled. ‘“Expressive features.” My high-school drama teacher used to say that. Can’t count the number of times I had to demonstrate to my classmates elation, resentment, and, my absolute favourite, silly-buggers.’ She pulled a face that included hooking her fingers in the sides of her mouth. When he laughed, she threw up her hands. ‘Hey, at least I was good at something.’

An icy shaft fell through her middle.

Blabbermouth! Why stop there? Why not show him your junior-year photo, bottle-lense glasses and all?

But David Miles didn’t bat an eye at her gaffe. Rather, he slid both hands into the pockets of his dark trousers, which had been tailored by a genius, and strolled over to the window. Eyes narrowed on the view, he picked up the thread of their previous conversation.

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