Grandma’s Mills & Boon novels…Natalie lives in New Zealand, with her husband and ® four gorgeous-but-exhausting children. Swing by her website any time—she’d love to hear from you at www.natalie-anderson.com
For Jo, the world’s best webmistress—thank you.
You always pre-plan your activities You find putting things in order satisfying You think that rational analysis is the best approach in all situations You constantly monitor progress It’s essential for you to try things with your own hands Objective feedback is always helpful You enjoy an active and fast-paced environment You have good control over your desires and temptations You find it difficult to switch off from your job You believe justice is more important than mercy You enjoy the challenge of competition You rely on reason rather than intuition You make your decisions spontaneously You like to have the last word Intense emotions strongly influence you You find it difficult to talk about your feelings
LUCY stared at the list of statements and wondered what it would tell about her if she answered ‘yes’ to all of them. Maybe she should alternate yes and no. Or maybe she should do some pretty mathematical pattern. Good grief. She was applying to be a hospitality temp. Why did she have to do a personality-type test? As if there weren’t enough forms to fill in? All the health and safety caveats, background checks, proof of qualifications…You’d think she was applying for a job with MI5. Not some tin-pot agency that supplied catering staff at short notice.
It was money she was short of. And this was her third agency of the day. She’d have been to more if there weren’t so many forms to fill in. Now it was four-thirty and she’d be pushed to get all the paperwork done in time to complete an interview before closing.
She fidgeted with the clipboard and pen and the receptionist gave her a sharp glance. Lucy offered her a conspiratorial smile but froze it as she hit the woman’s frigid response. ‘I know the forms take a while to complete. I’ll be doing some filing out back. Ring the bell when you’re done and one of the consultants will come to interview you.’ No smile, instead a look of condescension fluttered across the dragon’s features as she walked out of the room.
Lucy nodded and quelled the urge to poke her tongue out after her. She looked back at the list and decided to try to get herself identified as a Type A personality—those aggressively ambitious, achieving, arrogant and frankly anal people who ran their lives according to deadline and tangible barometers of success. Lucy lived in a category of her own: Type F, for fun, flippancy, frivolity and freedom—not to mention occasional foolishness. She hummed softly as she started ticking various yes and no boxes, her smile returning full force as she worked through. It was so much fun pretending.
She heard a soft cough and looked up to see Mr Type A incarnate standing in front of her. She hadn’t heard the door. Tall, dark suit, white shirt. Neatly trimmed brown hair. Cold eyes, staring at her, frown firmly fixed on the crisp-cut angles of his face.
Shame. Looks like that shouldn’t be marred by bad temper. Her hackles rose. And it wasn’t just because of the golden eyes sending her that dagger-like look. His aura stamped his impression on his surroundings and on her—height and breadth of a champion. This was a man who knew what he wanted and was used to getting it. He had the unmistakable air of ‘Authority’.
The bane of Lucy’s life.
Eyes narrowing, she stared right back at him. Defiant as ever in the face of someone so obviously establishment. But that didn’t stop the kick of attraction roaring into life. She refused to allow anyone to have control over her, but for a split second she thought about what he’d be like in the driver’s seat—just for an hour, just her body. He looked as if he’d know what to do.
She couldn’t stop her little smirk.
His brows lifted and the look he was drilling into her underwent a subtle change. No less intense, still not friendly—but the sparks had a different quality. He looked again at the empty seat at Reception and back at her. What, he expected her to fill him in?
She bet he could do some filling. Good grief, was she really looking at a guy in a suit as if he were some hot dish? She swallowed and dragged her mind back to the situation. She’d never have picked him to be job-hunting. He didn’t look like any bartender or waiter she knew and she knew a few.
She finally felt compelled to answer his unspoken question. ‘The receptionist is filing out back but the forms are there on the desk. They take ages to fill in.’
His brows went another notch higher as he picked up an enrolment pack like the one Lucy was balancing on her knee.
‘Start with the personality test. It’s a cinch.’
He sat in the chair across from hers and flicked through the papers. The frown was back. His silence irked her. What happened to solidarity amongst temporary workers? Banter between bartenders was part of the deal. He skimmed over the list of yes/no statements that comprised the personality type form. And then he did speak. Sharp, quick, cutting.
‘Let me guess. You’d be a “yes” for “you are inclined to rely more on improvisation than on careful planning”. And a “no” for “it is in your nature to assume responsibility”.’ He waited for her response, his eyes issuing a hard challenge.
Her hackles were up again instantly. ‘And I’m betting that you’re a “yes” for “your desk is usually neat and orderly”.’
His tight smile flared to a grin. She fancied she’d scored a hit, but then he sent the curveball. ‘Maybe I should have made it clear that I’m not looking for work. I’m looking for a temp to work for me.’
‘Oh.’ Of course. What an idiot. Temps did not dress in made-to-measure suits and walk around with the assured confidence of a bona fide Greek god. But she rallied immediately. Spot the opportunity. Strike before they know what’s hit them. ‘What do you need?’
‘Bar manager.’ His eyes narrowed.
‘Look no further.’
‘You know the perfect candidate?’
‘I am the perfect candidate.’
She saw his attention slide over her ancient jeans and skimpy singlet top and was fully aware that she was hardly looking perfect. And that he was thinking the same thing.
‘You don’t even know what the job is.’ He mocked her.
‘You just told me. Bar manager. I can manage a bar.’
A wolfish smile appeared. ‘You can manage a strip club?’
Her jaw dropped. Now that she hadn’t anticipated. He looked way too square for anything remotely grey—more your black and white kind of guy. Right, wrong, official, unofficial, permissible, forbidden. His world would be one of order—totally opposite to her freewheeling one of complete chaos.
He leant forward. ‘No. Not a strip club. I’m looking for someone with experience. Someone who can handle responsibility.’
‘I can handle responsibility.’
‘You just said you were a “no” to responsibility.’
‘No, you said that. I neither confirmed nor denied.’
Their eyes met. Squaring off like a couple of cowboys in a spaghetti western.
‘Give me your CV.’
‘Give me details of the job.’
OK, so he held all the cards, but she could bluff. Better than anyone.
The silence was steady as they waited each other out. She lifted her chin a little and saw him focus on her mouth as she did so.