Out of Hours...His Feisty Assistant: The Tycoon's Very Personal Assistant / Caught on Camera with the CEO / Her Not-So-Secret Diary

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

The Tycoon’s Very Personal Assistant

About the Author

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

EPILOGUE

Caught on Camera with the CEO

About the Author

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

Her Not-So-Secret Diary

About the Author

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

EPILOGUE

Copyright

HEIDI RICE was born and bred and still lives in London, England. She has two boys who love to bicker, a wonderful husband who, luckily for everyone, has loads of patience, and a supportive and ever-growing British/French/Irish/American family. As much as Heidi adores ‘the Big Smoke’, she also loves America, and every two years or so she and her best friend leave hubby and kids behind and Thelma and Louise it across the States for a couple of weeks (although they always leave out the driving off a cliff bit). She’s been a film buff since her early teens, and a romance junkie for almost as long. She indulged her first love by being a film reviewer for ten years. Then she decided to spice up her life by writing romance. Discovering the fantastic sisterhood of romance writers (both published and unpublished) in Britain and America made it a wild and wonderful journey to her first Mills & Boon novel, and she’s looking forward to many more to come.

To Chessie Welker, my American dialogue coach, for telling me that rubbers went out in the fifties and rich guys don’t drink cheap beer!

CHAPTER ONE

‘I TOLD YOU I’m not a working girl.’ Kate Denton shifted on the stiff leather chair and shot the man sitting on the other side of the mahogany desk her don’t-mess-with-me look. Jet-lagged, shaken and as good as naked under the hotel robe she had on, Kate knew the look wasn’t one of her best.

He didn’t reply. The insistent tap of his pen against the desk blotter seemed deafening in the silence. Bright Vegas sunlight shone through the wall of glass to his right and cast his face into shadow, making it impossible to tell his reaction.

Oh, goody, Kate thought grimly. After the most humiliating experience of my entire life, I get interrogated by a hotel manager with a God complex.

Apprehension slithered around in Kate’s stomach like a hyperactive snake. Why on earth had she demanded to see the hotel manager in the first place? It had seemed like a good idea when the concierge had started making noises about calling the police, but once she’d been whisked up to the penthouse suite of offices and ushered in here, she’d started having serious doubts. The guy wasn’t behaving like any hotel manager she’d ever met.

She felt more intimidated now than before.

Obviously hotel managers had a much higher profile in the States. This guy’s workspace would have made the Oval Office look tacky. A lake of luxurious blue carpeting flowed to floor-to-ceiling windows, showcasing the hotel’s enviable position towering over the Las Vegas Strip. The view wasn’t the only thing giving Kate vertigo. The room was so big it accommodated a separate seating area with three deluxe leather sofas, and Kate had recognised the striking canvas on the far wall as that of a modern artist whose work now went for millions. She’d also noticed the guy had not one but three secretaries standing guard outside.

No wonder he had a God complex.

‘A working girl? You mean a hooker?’ His deep voice rumbled out at last, sending an annoying shiver of awareness up Kate’s spine. ‘I don’t recall saying I thought you were a hooker, honey.’

Kate heard the hint of amusement and her jaw tensed. ‘Who gave you permission to call me honey?’ she said, grateful for the crisp note of condescension in her voice.

‘I don’t need permission,’ he replied dryly, ‘when the lady in question was trying to break down a door in my hotel wearing nothing but a bra and thong.’

Kate swallowed. Okay, there was that.

‘It’s not a thong. I have proper knickers on,’ she blurted out, and then winced.

The memory of getting caught by the bell captain and bundled into a robe flooded back to her. Embarrassment scorched her cheeks. The fact she had something slightly more substantial than a thong covering her bottom suddenly didn’t seem all that relevant. That she’d mentioned it to him was mortifying. She’d yet to get a proper look at the guy and already he knew far too much about her underwear.

The metronome taps of his pen interrupted her thoughts. ‘Proper panties or not, you were causing a disturbance.’

The heat in Kate’s cheeks soared. What was this guy’s problem? She was the one who’d been manhandled. So she’d raised her voice and kicked the door a little, but wouldn’t anyone who got stranded in a hotel corridor practically naked?

‘I was trying to get back into the room.’

‘Yeah, but it wasn’t your room, was it?’ He leaned forward, propping his elbows on the desk, and the sunlight illuminated his features at last.

Kate’s heart pulsed hard. Hooded green eyes studied her out of a tanned face that was quite simply dazzling in its masculine beauty. Sharp black brows, chiselled cheeks and short dark hair that curled around his ears only added to the firepower. Even with his face carefully devoid of expression, the guy might as well have had a huge neon sign over his head flashing the word ‘irresistible’ at her.

From the way he was watching her, she wondered if he was waiting for her to swoon. She tightened the tie on the robe, absolutely determined not to start drooling.

Luckily for her, she was currently immune to the alpha male of the species.

‘It was my room, or at least it was supposed to be,’ she said, annoyed by the quake in her voice. She wrapped her arms round her waist, far too aware of the air-conditioned breeze chilling her bare legs.

His gaze swept over her and Kate felt the throb of response. All right, maybe not completely immune.

‘You’re not registered here.’ His emerald eyes shifted back to hers. ‘Mr Rocastle, who is the registered guest, has made a complaint against you. So, why don’t you tell me why I shouldn’t just kick you out in your proper panties?’

There it was again, the tell-tale lift in his voice. Kate went rigid. Was he making fun of her?

Andrew Rocastle had duped her, practically assaulted her and then humiliated her into the bargain. And now this guy thought it was funny. When had this become stomp-all-over-Kate day?

‘It’s not my fault Mr Rocastle didn’t put my name on the registration card when he checked us in this morning. I thought he’d booked us separate rooms,’ she ground out, angry all over again at Andrew’s underhanded attempt at a seduction. ‘And anyway, I don’t have to explain myself to you. None of this is any of your business. You’re a hotel manager, not my mother.’

Zack Boudreaux’s eyebrow winged up. For such a little thing, she sure had a big mouth. He didn’t consider himself arrogant, but women were usually a lot nicer to him. He’d certainly never encountered this level of hostility before.

In the normal course of events, he wouldn’t even know about this type of minor disturbance, let alone be asked to deal with it. But with The Phoenix’s manager on vacation for the day and his deputy on a training programme, the concierge had referred the matter up to Zack’s PA. He’d heard the commotion in the outer office and buzzed the woman in out of curiosity. Truth be told, after clearing his calendar for the rest of the week in preparation for his trip to California, he’d found himself with nothing to do for the first time in close to ten years and he was bored.

One thing was for sure, the minute this feisty little firecracker had waltzed into his office wrapped in her bathrobe and a very bad attitude, he hadn’t been bored any more.

He knew it was perverse, but for some weird reason he found her sassy comebacks entertaining. Imagining her in the corridor without the bathrobe was doing the rest.

‘I don’t manage this hotel,’ he said. ‘I own it, as well as two others in the South West.’

‘Bully for you,’ she shot back, but the statement lacked impact when he spotted the flicker of panic cross her face.

‘And anything that happens in my place is my business.’ His gaze remained steady on hers. ‘I make a point of it.’ He kept his voice firm. He hadn’t made a fortune at poker in his youth by showing his cards too early. He didn’t want to let her off the hook just yet. She had caused a disturbance and he was intrigued enough to want to know why.

‘Maybe you could make a point of getting my clothes back for me, then,’ she snapped.

Zack’s lips twitched as she glared at him. With her blonde hair haloing around her head in haphazard wisps, her full lips puckered in a defiant pout and her round turquoise eyes bright with temper, she looked cute and mad and sexy as hell. Kind of like a pixie with an anger-management problem.

His lips curved before he could stop them.

Her round baby-blues narrowed dangerously. ‘Excuse me, but do you think this is funny?’ The clear, precise English accent made his pulse spike.

Her voice should have reminded him of weak tea and pompous aristocrats—the two things he’d hated most during the years he’d spent in London as a teenager—but it had a smoky, seductive edge that made him think of rumpled bed sheets and warm fragrant flesh instead.

He cleared his throat, and stifled the grin. ‘Funny’s not the word I’d use,’ he said.

She tugged hard on the lapels of the thick robe, hastily covering the hint of red lace.

His eyes rose as he acknowledged the quick punch of lust. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get your clothes back,’ he said. ‘But first I want to know how you and Rocastle are connected and what he did to make you want to cause my hotel criminal damage.’

Kate jerked one stiff shoulder, feeling trapped but trying desperately for nonchalance. ‘I’m his PA, or at least I was.’ She raised her chin, struggling hard to keep the quiver of nerves out of her voice. ‘He wanted to take our association to another level. I didn’t. I told him so. End of story,’she said, putting more pomp and circumstance into her accent than a Royal Jubilee.

Maybe if she told this nosy American Adonis that much he’d lose interest and let her leave. The smouldering look he’d given her a moment ago—as if he could see right through the towelling—had not been good for her heart rate. And it wasn’t doing a great deal for her peace of mind, either.

How could she possibly find the man attractive? He might look good enough to eat. But, from what she’d seen so far, he was an over-confident, insensitive jerk. Surely she’d dealt with enough of those today to give her indigestion. So he owned the hotel. So what? That hardly gave him the right to have a laugh at her expense.

‘I see,’ he said in the same wry monotone, as if she were sitting here in her underwear for his personal amusement. ‘And you told him this without your clothes on?’

‘I was about to take a shower. I didn’t know he’d booked us into the same suite.’ Tears of frustration stung Kate’s eyes, his careless comment bringing the whole sordid experience back in vivid colour. She blinked furiously, determined not to cry.

How could she have been so stupid?

If only she’d figured out Andrew’s real reason for employing her sooner she might have been able to salvage a tiny bit of her pride. But she’d been so eager to impress him, to prove she was worthy of the opportunity he was offering her, she’d made a total fool of herself. That she had been idiotic enough to trust Andrew hurt more than anything else, even more than finding herself in the corridor in her bra and knickers when she’d informed Andrew exactly where he could shove his proposition.

She swallowed past the boulder in her throat. ‘I still don’t see how this is any of your business.’ Her fingers clutched the robe, now wrapped so tightly around her she could barely breathe. ‘Are you going to press charges or not?’

The two-second wait for his reply felt like two decades. She was sure he knew it.

He dropped his pen on the desk and steepled his fingers. ‘I guess not,’ he said at last.

Relief coursed through her. ‘Thank you,’ she said, trying to sound as if she meant it. At least he hadn’t made her beg. ‘I’ll be off, then.’ She stood up.

‘Hold it, we’re not through yet,’ he said.

To her dismay, he stood up too and walked round the desk towards her.

Lord, he was tall. Long and lean with a very impressive pair of shoulders filling out his pricey linen shirt. She was a perfectly respectable five feet four herself but had to tilt her head back as he approached. She curled her toes into the soft carpeting and fought the desire to drop into the chair. She wasn’t about to give him even more of a height advantage.

‘I don’t see what else there is to discuss,’ she said, despising the tremble in her voice.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said, slowly. ‘How about—?’ He broke off as the phone rang. ‘Stay put,’ he said, pointing at her as if she were a trained beagle. He leaned across the desk and grabbed the phone. ‘Boudreaux,’ he barked into the receiver.

Kate bristled but did as she was told. Infuriatingly enough, it occurred to her she would need Mr Sex God’s permission to get back into Andrew’s room to get her clothes.

‘Uh-huh.’ He nodded, obviously engrossed by whatever was being said on the other end of the line. ‘Did he say where he was going?’ He listened some more, his gaze fixing on her face. His eyes hardened and his beautifully sculpted lips flattened into a thin line. ‘What about ID?’ he said into the phone, sounding annoyed. He raked his hand through his hair and cursed under his breath. The short dark waves fell back into place perfectly. He must have spent a small fortune on that haircut, Kate thought resentfully.

‘Sure. No, don’t bother. I’ll figure it out.’ He slapped the phone back in its cradle, nodded at her chair. ‘You better sit down.’

Irritation edged his voice but there was a touch of warmth in those remarkable eyes that hadn’t been there before. The knot of anxiety in Kate’s stomach tightened. She sat in the chair, heard the leather creak as she pressed her knees together. What now?

Leaning on the corner of the desk, he crossed his long legs at the ankle. He was so close, Kate could smell the intimate scent of soap and man. She concentrated on the perfect crease in his trousers, trying to ignore the way the expensive fabric stretched across powerful thigh muscles.

‘Rocastle’s checked out,’ he said above her.

Kate’s chin jerked up. The knowledge she’d never have to see the contemptible worm again had her breath gushing out in an audible puff. Maybe now she could start putting this whole humiliating business behind her. ‘If you could give me a key to the room, I’ll get dressed and leave, too,’ she said.

She’d expected him to look overjoyed at the prospect of her departure. He didn’t, he looked pained. ‘It’s not going to be that easy.’ He crossed his arms over his chest, making the rolled up sleeves of his shirt tighten across his biceps. ‘He took your luggage.’

‘What? All of it?’

He rocked back and nodded. ‘Everything but your ID.’

‘But why?’ Kate’s mouth hung open.

He uncrossed his arms and braced his hands on the desk behind him, tilting his upper body forwards. ‘Rocastle said to tell you you’re fired and he’s taking your stuff and cashing your ticket home to cover his expenses.’

‘But…’ Panic clawed up the back of her throat. She gulped it down.

How could Andrew do this? He must know he was leaving her stranded.

‘But he can’t do that. Those are my things.’Indignation seared her insides, but beneath it was the bitter sting of fear. Surely this couldn’t be happening. ‘How will I get back to London?’

Zack had expected her to get mad again. In fact he’d been looking forward to seeing her eyes spark with temper. But when he saw confusion and desperation on her face instead, her situation didn’t seem all that funny any more. Maybe there was more going on here than a lover’s spat.

Her boyfriend or boss or whatever he was sounded like a real piece of work. Maybe the girl was nuttier than a jar of peanut butter, but there was something cold and calculating about the way the guy had cleared out the suite and left his girlfriend in a strange city, in a strange hotel in nothing but her underwear.

She ducked her head and stared down at her lap. Her fingers clutched together, the knuckles whitening as she took an uneven breath. When her head came up, she didn’t look mad, she looked devastated. He noticed the rim of purple surrounding the deep blue of her irises. The hint of moisture in her eyes accentuated the unusual colour. She sniffed and straightened in her chair, but no tears fell. He felt an unfamiliar constriction in his chest that he recognised as admiration.

‘You want me to call the cops?’ he asked, figuring that was the logical next step.

She shook her head, thrust out her pointy little chin. ‘Could I ask you a favour?’

His chest loosened. Here it came. She was going to ask him for money. It didn’t surprise him. She was in a fix and from her accent and her flaky behaviour so far he figured she must be the rich, pampered daughter of some stuck-up Brit. He doubted she’d ever had to fend for herself in her entire life. Still, he felt oddly disappointed. ‘Fire away,’ he said.

‘Would you give me a job?’

‘A job?’ Was she serious?

‘Yes, I’ve done some bar-tending and waitressing and I’ve got lots of experience as a chambermaid.’

‘You’ve scrubbed johns? You’re kidding me?’ He could see the Queen of England doing it sooner than he could imagine her doing it.

‘No, I’m not,’ she said, sounding affronted.

‘Have you got a work visa?’ he asked, although he didn’t know why. He didn’t want her tending bar, or scrubbing johns—it just didn’t seem right somehow.

‘Yes, I have dual nationality. I was born in New York.’

‘Right.’ Dumb question. ‘Look, we could work something out for you if you want, but you don’t need a job. All you need do is get the cops to have a talk with your boyfriend and—’

‘He’s not my boyfriend,’ she interrupted.

‘Whatever he is, he can’t steal your stuff.’

‘I’m not going to go grovelling to the police or anyone else,’ she said. ‘They’re only clothes. As far as I’m concerned Andrew can keep them. And he paid for the plane ticket, so he can keep that too.’

‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’

Annoyance flashed, but she kept her gaze locked on his. ‘What’s that?’

‘You can’t tend bar in your underwear.’

She blinked, then looked away. The slight tremor in her shoulders made his chest constrict again.

He felt as if he’d just kicked a puppy.

Kate twisted her hands in her lap. ‘You may have a point there,’ she said, trying to sound flippant as she forced her gaze back to his. The fighting spirit seeped out of her, though, as she endured his long, steady stare. Did he still think her situation was funny—or, worse, pathetic?

She couldn’t get the police involved. Her pride wouldn’t allow it. She’d rather prance down The Strip stark naked than see Andrew again. But she didn’t have more than twenty pounds in her purse. When she’d arrived at work yesterday morning she hadn’t expected to be whisked off to Las Vegas on a ‘business trip’ by her boss. She didn’t have a job any more. Her one credit card was maxed out. None of her friends had the sort of money she’d need to get home. And she’d sooner amputate a limb than ask her father for help.

She’d been surviving on her own since she was seventeen years old. Kate squared her shoulders, tried to control the panic making her hands shake. She’d got herself into this predicament. She’d just have to get herself out again.

The knowledge she’d have to throw herself on the mercy of the man in front of her made her stomach hurt. She hated to be indebted to anyone. Especially someone like him. Someone so rich, self-assured and domineering. But her pride had taken so many hits already today, how much damage could one more do?

Kate curled her hands into fists. ‘I know it’s a bit cheeky, but if I start work tomorrow could you give me an advance on my salary?’

Zack could see the request had cost her. The colour had washed out of her already pale face and she sat so rigidly on the edge of her chair it was a miracle she didn’t topple off onto the floor. Even so, the urge to take that defeated look out of her eyes surprised him.

He wasn’t the kind of guy who rescued damsels in distress. Especially not damsels in distress with enough attitude to make Joan Rivers look like Snow White.

But try as he might, he couldn’t quite shake the desire to help her out.

Maybe it was that combination of guts and vulnerability. Or maybe it was just her honesty. She could have used her looks, could have resorted to the usual feminine wiles, but she hadn’t. He had to give her points for that.

‘The suite’s paid up till the day after tomorrow,’ he lied smoothly, knowing Rocastle would have got a refund on the booking. ‘I’ll get the concierge to let you in and we’ll send up some clothes.’

Surprise and relief flittered across her face, but then a wary look came into her eyes. Small white teeth raked over her bottom lip. ‘I’m not…’ Whatever she was going to say she stopped herself. ‘That’s very generous of you.’ She hesitated again, but only for a moment, before she stood up. ‘I’m sorry if I was rude earlier.’ She sighed, the little gush of breath making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. ‘It’s been a difficult day.’