Overtime in the Boss's Bed. Nicola Marsh

the rest of her drink, she headed for the glass-enclosed balcony fifty storeys above Sydney. Maybe some fresh air might give her a little perspective. Yeah, right, and a miracle might drop from the heavens too.

      Leaving the jam-packed room, laden with expensive perfume and excessive testosterone, she stepped onto the balcony, grateful for its solitude, impressed by the view.

      No doubt about it—Kit’s mum knew how to throw top shindigs. Sydney came alive at night, shimmied and salsa-ed and samba-ed from dusk to dawn, and she loved it—loved every vibrant inch. As she watched a Manly ferry leave Circular Quay on a journey it made many times a day, the lights of the bustling city twinkling far beneath, the impact of leaving slammed into her hard, hurting despite the week she’d had to adjust.

      Sydney was her past, Melbourne her future.

      ‘Running away?’

      The deep voice washed over her, and she shivered despite the balmy summer evening as he stepped in front of her—so much more striking up close, so much more appealing, so much more everything.

      She couldn’t see the colour of his eyes, or read their expression out here in the shadows, but there was no mistaking the amusement lacing his smoother-than-velvet voice.

      He’d followed her out here, was trying to get a rise out of her, and while her first instinct was to tell him where to go, she swallowed it.

      She’d never been one to wallow, and while her life as she knew it had just been flushed down the toilet and discharged into Sydney Harbour, there was no time like the present to test her new male-immunity programme.

      ‘Just needed some fresh air. What’s your excuse?’

      ‘Too many people back there—’ he jerked his thumb towards the packed room ‘—and the only interesting ones are out here.’

      ‘Smooth.’

      ‘I like to think so.’

      ‘Also terribly lame.’

      He crooked his finger, and she inadvertently leaned forward.

      ‘Care to help me improve my technique?’

      ‘Nope. Not in the mood for meaningless small talk and pitiable one-liners.’

      He laughed. ‘How about a meaningful exchange?’

      ‘Not interested, mister.’

      She jabbed at his chest, realising her mistake a second too late as she connected with a hard wall of tempting male flesh.

      His mouth twitched as she removed her finger tout de suite, the initial electricity zap from touching him fading into a residual tingle.

      ‘Point taken.’

      He didn’t budge, didn’t move a muscle even as she belatedly realised a big, strong, he-man like him would see her reluctance as a challenge.

      ‘Doesn’t mean I’m going to back down, though.’

      She raised an eyebrow, surprised by his commanding tone. Who was this guy anyway?

      ‘Look, unless you have a dream job in Melbourne’s premier dance company to coerce me into listening to any more of your drivel, beat it.’

      Her feistiness didn’t deter him. He folded his arms, propped himself against the balcony railing, his expression intrigued.

      ‘You need a job?’

      ‘Oh, yeah.’

      Desperately. Dance companies in Sydney were out, so she’d booked a ticket to Melbourne, ready to audition her little tap shoes off in order to find a job—any job—and start rebuilding her life.

      ‘I’ve got a vacancy.’

      She screwed up her nose, her withering glare doing little to discourage him if his confident grin was any indication.

      ‘Let me guess. Cleaner? Cook? Shoe-shiner?’

      ‘Close. I’m after a Girl Friday.’

      ‘Too bad I’m a weekend kind of gal.’

      He leaned closer, heart-stoppingly closer, and as she submerged the urge to bury her face in that broad chest she took a steadying breath, only to be bombarded with an intoxicating blend of fresh limes, tequila and straw-berries. Fruity and tart, a heavenly cocktail mix, shaken and stirred, and served by one hell of a guy.

      ‘You always this brash?’

      ‘You always this forward with someone you don’t know?’

      ‘Easily rectified.’

      He held out his hand, leaving her no option but to take it, gritting her teeth against the insane surge of heat sizzling up her arm.

      ‘Callum Cartwright. CEO of Cartwright Corporation. In desperate need of a temp PA ’til I find a long-term replacement.’

      She slipped her hand from his, dropped it to her side, curled and uncurled her fingers several times to eradicate the residual tingling.

      ‘Starr Merriday. Dancer, not PA.’

      ‘Too bad.’

      He slid a card from his top pocket, handed it to her.

      ‘In case you change your mind.’

      With an annoyed huff, she shook her head. ‘You just don’t give up, do you?’

      ‘Not in my vocabulary.’

      She toyed with the card, flipping it between her thumb and index finger, dying to glance at it but not wanting to give him the satisfaction.

      ‘Let me guess. You’re one of those demanding, controlling, determined bosses who won’t take no for an answer.’

      An odd expression she couldn’t decipher creased his brow for a second before vanishing.

      ‘You don’t get to be the best by settling. For anything.’

      Excitement rippled through her—whether from his drive, his power or his proximity, she had no idea.

      ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

      ‘Sure I can’t tempt you?’

      She could play it safe, give him a boring brush-off. But she was through playing it safe. Look where safe had got her for the last few years.

      Uh-uh. Safe was for being the best at her job, staying loyal to one dance company for seven years, trusting her partner. And look where she’d landed anyway.

      Forget safe.

      ‘That depends.’ She leaned into his personal space, her reeling senses on overload. ‘What’s on offer?’

      This close, she could see his eyes were dark—deliciously dark and enigmatic—though she didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out the mystery behind them right now.

      He was turned on: pupils dilated, eyes wide, pheromones creating a sensual cocoon around them.

      The buzz she’d experienced when jabbing his chest had returned tenfold, multiplying and stultifying and defying her to take a risk.

      ‘You don’t want the job, so what do you want?’

      She wanted to push the boundaries, to flirt, to feel feminine and desirable and wanted—all sadly lacking in her last relationship.

      But was it worth inviting a potential one-night stand on her last night in Sydney?

      For one drawn-out, exciting, tension-fraught moment, with Callum Cartwright staring into her eyes, she was sorely tempted.

      CHAPTER TWO

      COURTING a potential business partner was the only reason Callum had attended another boring cocktail party tonight.

      He’d